Chapter Text
The permanently snow-covered peaks of the Galena mountains were a recurring sight in his dreams as of late. Which was a strange thought to begin with. Elven blood ran in his veins; sleep and dreams were an unfamiliar concept to his kind. At first, he dismissed the dreams as simple nostalgia for his old homeland. Old memories being relived during his trance.
Yet it wasn’t the dark, obsidian black towers of his underground home that found their way into his semi-conscious mind, night after night. It was the surrounding area of the mountains themselves. The frozen, barren surface lands beneath the gloomy shape of the mountain range. Vaasa to the West, Damara to the South, and Impiltur to the South.
It had been two centuries, and he had not spent much time in the Cold Lands after reaching the surface. The wounds were still too fresh, and he had wished to travel far, far away from the horror and tragedy. Thus, he felt at a loss of where to go. The frozen wastes of his dreamscape were unfamiliar.
He had but one major clue, the shadowy, titanic shape of a humanoid towering over him, bright stars in place of its eyes. He felt stripped under their unnatural, burning gaze, but they seemed as if they were demanding his attention. Beckoned him to come closer.
Veldrin had learned to not ignore omens, whether auspicious or malicious. He seemed to have been equipped to deal with both, and he honestly preferred facing issues head on rather than letting them fester.
Tossing and turning, he rose early, tangled in the soft, high-quality blankets. Once again too agitated after the usual calm state of an elven trance. The drow stretched, and went to the bathroom, where a large jug of cold water stood close to the sink. He splashed some of the liquid on his face, while mulling over the potential plans for the day.
The past three days in Lyrabar had proven rather fruitless. Most of the gossip revolved around the increasing flood of refugees, and the fearmongering was growing increasingly widespread. More so with the apparent upcoming nuptials of the Damaran long-lost heir, newly crowned queen Milena Dragonsbane, and the son of one of the most powerful Impiltan families, Evald Torva. Milena needed troops, the recent civil war having depleted much of her forces. Damarans were fatigued, low on resources and manpower. An alliance with Impiltur would rectify much of that.
The locals seemed split on the topic. Some condemned the Vaasan aggression. Their northern neighbor’s steady, decades long conquering ambitions were seen as a threat that needed to be put down once and for all. Many however refused to sacrifice their goods, let alone their lives for a war not directly aimed at them. Vaasa and Damara used to be a unified country, a long time ago, so they should be left to solve their issues between themselves, some urged. Impiltur had always been the most stable of the region’s nations, less affected by its neighbors’ quarrel and tragedies. And so, it went on and on. All very interesting, but unhelpful to his goals.
No titans were seen rampaging across the continent. The paladin figured he could go check out the local wizard academies and their libraries. Sorcerous Sundries had proven quite helpful back in Baldur’s Gate. Maybe some other magical library with its wide selection of books would solve their current conundrum. Besides, Zillix would most definitely insist on visiting them regardless. Stocking on some scrolls and potions always seemed like a useful endeavor. One could never have enough of those. And who knew when one of them could come in handy.
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It was just as Raphael had feared. A dirty hovel, and even dirtier wretches greeted him once the old woman brought him to the supposed entrance of the mysterious organization’s lair. The area seemed unremarkable, the filth and poverty identical to what one could find in any of the surrounding streets. The only difference the weakened devil could discern were the simple necklaces the local thugs wore, made from a single punctured bronze coin on a string.
The hag ditched him almost immediately after making the introductions, so he was escorted all by his lonesome into the depths of the shoddy building, his sole companion one of the designated guards, if one could call a barely armed vagabond such. Long, winding tunnels led to a shockingly large central area made up of several levels. It reminded him of a busy, upside-down beehive. The stench of human sweat and who knows what else was revolting to his refined nose.
His escort, Uldis, or Uvis or something along those lines, pointed to one makeshift wooden stall at the far end of the first level. To Raphael it mostly resembled a bunch of hastily hammered together planks with little regard for logic or visual appeal. Two women were seemingly unloading a large chest, while a skinny teen of undetermined gender gawked awkwardly from behind what was probably supposed to be a counter. Numerous wooden barrels and chests were piled up behind the little stall. The entire operation seemed rather chaotic and messy, as everything he had encountered so far in this building.
“Talk to Masha. She will get you the basics, fix you up. Once you are done, food is served at the level below us, in the kitchens. It’s not much, but it’s edible and warm. Most of the time,” said his scraggy companion. “I must get back to the main door, but someone else here will point you to Kira. She oversees the newcomers.” Without waiting for Raphael’s reply or acknowledgement, the man simply left.
Well, that suited him fine. The vagrant hardly dazzled him with his intellect or verbosity. Tentatively, he approached the two women. The teen seemed like the least likely option of being in charge.
“Lovely meeting you all. It has been recommended to me to seek the assistance of one called Masha? I find myself in rather unfortunate circumstances, and any aid would be welcome.”
One of the women stopped sorting through the chest’s contents and looked him over. She was a stout matron in her forties, wearing a simple white and dark blue dress, the colors diluted by age.
“You look like you have been trampled by a horde of stampeding oxen,” she said, forgoing any sort of a greeting. “Well, don’t just stand there and gape. Come here, let me have a look at you.” She motioned for him to approach.
Behind the wall of barrels stood a worn-down bench and a stool, with a few candles illuminating the tiny area. Gingerly, Raphael sat down on the bench, uncertain about its capacity to support the weight of a full-grown man, even a frail one. The wood creaked under him but seemed to hold for the moment.
“Shirt off,” she commanded, and begrudgingly he obeyed. She examined his scarred body, touching and prodding the bruises and slowly healing wounds. Raphael grimaced through the experience, hissing at particularly painful jabs.
The woman nodded to herself. “Cheer up lad, you will live. Let me quicken the healing process,” she said, a soothing glow of healing magic briefly engulfing her hands as she moved them over his discolored skin. The instant relief was incomparable, and Raphael breathed deeply, in and out, the various aches pleasantly absent or at least subdued.
Masha clasped her hands with a dramatic clap. “Can’t do more, my healing magic isn’t that strong but let me give you some potions and ointments. With time, you will be right as rain.” The woman rummaged through one of the nearby heavy chests, fishing out several flasks of varying colors and sizes from its depths. “Now don’t go around forgetting to take your medicine. So many of you believe you can tough it out, but I say bollocks. Men,” she sighed dramatically, and handed the numerous vials over to him.
Helplessly, he tried to hold all of them, hoping they wouldn’t slip and break. The matron then threw a shoddy backpack on his lap, while the other woman, a half-elf on closer inspection, held out what appeared to be a change of clothes.
He stared at the sorry bundle of shabby cloth with distaste but relented and after carefully storing the medicine in the backpack, he snatched the rags for himself. The increased number of layers would at last keep him warm.
Whatever passed for kitchens in this dilapidated pit should be his next stop, and then he supposed he would pay a visit to the Kira woman. Cozying up to whoever oversaw this mess seemed like it could have some merit. If he played it right, he would hopefully get some useful contacts and then climb his way up into more prestigious circles.
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Zillix clutched her bounty close to her chest. Despite having ample space in her backpack, she refused to part from the tome, her whole demeanor almost giddy. A rare sight, where the kobold was concerned. It made Veldrin smile.
“Do we have to go everywhere together? Maybe next time we could split? I could have scouted around or trained, instead of sleeping in a bookshop. We have lost half the day already and yet we barely did anything,” complained Leandreth. She then hastily tucked away some of her loose, pale pink hair back under her hood.
The kobold scoffed audibly. “This is a genuine Draconomicon. Do you comprehend what a priceless find this was? Clearly not, if you see the bookstore visit as wasted time. Here, you can learn the biology and life cycle of various draconic species, not to mention all the other dragon related lore contained within these pages. It would do you good to learn more about such majestic creatures. They are the pinnacle of mortal life. Magic and elements, contained in flesh.”
“Sure, dragons are great. I would rather actually see one than read a thousand pages on how they lay eggs though. But… since we are running around shopping, we could go get some herbs then? My stock is quite diminished. And then seeing if there is a blacksmith or an arms vendor? I would love to see if they have any decent bows or scimitars,” said the hexblood, hope creeping into her voice.
Veldrin hummed thoughtfully. Having the option to craft more healing potions and antidotes seemed optimal. “There was a shopping street not far from here, if I remember correctly. Might as well go check it out.”
His armor shone like liquid gold, the sun’s rays reflected against the polished surface, in contrast to his silver-grey skin and snow-white hair. The people around them would stare at him and his company, and then hastily avoid them. It saddened his heart, to once again be the social pariah. Coupled with seeing so much suffering and poverty, caused by the war to the north, his thoughts were melancholic indeed. Maybe he could disguise himself so as not to frighten the locals with his appearance and hand out some balms. Use his healing abilities to ease these people’s suffering, despite their disgust and fear when faced with a drow like himself.
Just as he expected, the street he led them to had various signs proudly declaring what their shop’s specialty was. An alchemist, a bakery, a weaponsmith, another bookshop, and many others. And one of them was blessedly an herbalist, tucked away between a general store and a wine merchant’s abode.
The herbalist shop was neat and clearly well supplied. Herbs were carefully sorted into shelves across the store, and many hung from the ceiling as well. A pleasant aroma permeated the air. The merchant who greeted them was a young-looking dwarf with curly black hair and a short, well-kept beard.
“Welcome to the Mortar and Pestle. We have all a group of adventurers could need and more still. If despite our seemingly endless reserves you find yourself wanting, we also do special orders. In case you are seeking something truly rare and exotic,” the dwarf greeted them cautiously, eyeing the unusual trio. “Hrydar Stoneheart is my name, and I am at your disposal.”
Both women perked up, and while Leandreth went on a tour of the shop, carefully sniffing at and examining the goods, Zillix pulled out a detailed list and began interrogating the dwarven vendor about the availability of the written down items.
Veldrin stood next to the counter and gently tapped his fingers against the wood absentmindedly, while waiting for the girls to get everything they needed. He could not tell apart balsam from wispweed.
The dwarf, Hrydar, interrupted his thoughts with an awkward cough. “Pardon me for possibly overstepping, good sir, but you seem like someone that can handle himself, where thugs and ruffians are concerned.”
The paladin nodded, caught off-guard by the unexpected conversation, but urging the man to continue.
“You see, there have been some break ins and thievery these past few weeks. All the shops on this street had the displeasure already, some more than once. The city guard is overwhelmed as is, and they have been no help at all so far. It used to be only small amounts, here and there, but the ruffians grow more and more brazen. If this continues, we will lose our livelihood. I was wondering if I could hire you and your band to perhaps guard the street for a few nights, and hopefully catch the culprits? Scare them off at least? Pardon me for saying so, but you and your friends seem rather formidable. The right kind of intimidating, if you know what I mean.”
Before Veldrin could answer, Lea materialized next to the shopkeeper. “Of course! We would love to heroically defend you and your store from any and all evildoers,” she proclaimed. Then she grew hesitant, almost shy, and turned to Veldrin, seeking his approval.
The drow mulled it over. Playing guards for a bunch of merchants was not something he had planned on. Especially ones that viewed him as some sort of a drow boogeyman. But seeing as both his wards could use some adventuring life’s experience, it would not be completely out of question. And he could not completely fault the man for thinking that way. The drow had their reputation for a reason.
“What’s the pay?” asked Zillix, always pragmatic.
“Seeing as you would be guarding the entire street, us vendors would pool some money together, and give you a discount on our goods as well? We can figure out the details together. The sooner you could start, the better. By Moradin’s hammer, if you could start tonight, we would even throw in something extra.”
“That’s a bit sudden, but I don’t see why not. We would love to help some honest people catch a thief. And sure, tonight is good. The sooner we start, the sooner we can rid you of your little problem,” the drow agreed.
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Trying to keep the utterly revolting slop they called food down and not vomit, Raphael was glad to finally find himself in front of what was a genuine door. He was almost impressed they had managed to get one in this beggar’s den. According to the local vagrants, this was where Kira could be found.
The brunette knocked, wanting to preserve at least some decorum, despite his surroundings. Barging in uninvited like certain nosy adventurers seemed utterly barbaric.
“Enter!” Barked a rough voice, surprisingly deep for a woman.
Beyond the door laid a barebone office. A large, worn table stood in the middle, with several notes and parchments spread in a disorganized manner over its surface. Two bookcases with various items stood on the left side, and a barely recognizable bear’s pelt laid on the ground, its fur matted and the layer of dirt covering it so prominent, it was difficult to guess what the color originally used to be.
Behind the table, sitting on a cracked leather chair was a fierce looking middle-aged woman with shoulder-length red hair and one hazel eye. She could have been almost called lovely, in her own way, if the left side of her face wasn’t marred by deep scars, a hollow socket where her second eye should have been.
Well, well, well. This one seemed more interesting than the pathetic legion of spineless rats he had encountered so far. This one had a bite.
“Fresh meat, huh? Then tell me, what can you do? We can find something to do for anyone. If they can prove at least nominally useful at what they do, all the better,” said the red head, her single eye scrutinizing him.
“You are in luck, for I am a man of many talents. I can read, I can write, I know history both mundane and arcane, not to mention my magical talents…” he tried listing at least some of his very impressive skills, when the woman interrupted him, rather rudely.
“Magic? You a wizard?” She inquired gruffly.
“Something of the sort. I can shape and mold the weave to my heart’s desire, yes.”
“Consider yourself lucky then, the Vulture King is always on the lookout for magic types.”
Vulture King, she said? The name did not ring any bells. Very likely he was the crook in charge of all of this. If the man was so easily impressed by magic, or desperate enough to have arcane users within his ranks, Raphael could use that to his advantage.
Kira continued, oblivious to his inner monologue: “Running this place, making sure everyone is clothed and fed isn’t easy. While the others beg in the streets, or cook, or heal, the most important cog in our operation are the ones in charge of procuring resources. Seeing as you are new, I would send you out with one of the groups working in less guarded areas. Wouldn’t want to get the city watch on our asses by sending a rookie to a noble’s mansion.”
Common thievery. How… dull. He kept the sneer out of his face, and asked: “And what exactly would be my role?”
“You can be the lookout for starters. And if anything goes sideways, use your fancy magic tricks to get the boys and yourself back. Preferably with the loot and limbs intact. If you prove useful, we could sure use a wizard for the bigger jobs, later down the line. Those pigs gorge themselves on their abundance, while the rest of us rot. You and the rest of the band can help level the scales a bit.”
The former devil did not bother debating the natural way of things with the woman in front of him; how the strong and powerful naturally reigned over the weak. For as long as he needed her and the rest of these peasants, he could play nice.
“Today, you can rest. There are bunk beds close to the kitchens. Ask around for a free spot. Tomorrow, you better be ready to head out, however. We will get you some gear, and I’ll introduce you to Boslin. He knows those streets better than anyone and sneaking and stealing are that man’s lifeblood.”
“Delightful. I will eagerly return to you on the morrow then. If that is all?”
She waved him away, no longer finding him worth her attention.
Raphael left brusquely, in search of the promised bed. A common thug. He was reduced to a common thug. The insults just kept coming. He could not wait to finally get a chance to release some of his pent-up frustration and ire on whatever fool stood in his way. But for now, he had to keep playing nice. A tiger among mice, even if temporarily subdued.
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The thugs he was supposed to accompany were certainly colorful in personality, if not in appearance. A bunch of vulgar, loudmouthed hooligans of various races in non-descript clothes, hoods covering their faces. The halfling, Boslin, had been pointed out as the man in charge, while the other two were a human man and a tiefling woman respectively. Raphael did not bother learning or remembering their names. They were inconsequential. So far, the sole boon of being forced to talk to these miscreants was learning what year it was, at last.
1524 DR. A whole thirty-two years after the Cult of the Absolute was vanquished, and he, Raphael, had been struck down in his own home. Thirty-two years of torture. Of being stripped down to gaping flesh and bone. For an ageless creature like him, thirty-two years were nothing. And yet, while he writhed in agony, they felt like an eternity. And they had reduced him and his powers to almost nothing, when it had taken millennia to be where he was before his fall.
He felt restless. Throughout the previous night he tossed and turned. What if his change was permanent? Another day had passed and he still seemed and felt impossibly human. He had no way to reach his contacts, and even if he did, he could not negotiate anything with the way he was currently. At best, they would mock him, at worst, they would kill him in revenge or take him prisoner. A plaything to their whims. He nearly hyperventilated, panic squeezing his throat tight.
The night was dark, the moon in its first quarter illuminating the shadowy alleys dimly. Their little group reached the target street without much trouble, only a few drunks and street beggars inhabiting the deserted streets at this hour, and those hardly paid them any mind. In a detached manner, Raphael figured that some of the bums were very likely a part of their own network, the so-called Lords of Nothing, and would hardly raise alarm at their approach.
Through the darkened glass vitrines, displayed goods could be seen, and the rogues quietly surveyed the numerous stores and their doors. At last, they stopped in front of what seemed like a weapons trader’s shop, if the sign could be believed. A bold choice, in the brunette’s opinion. A weapon merchant was more likely to know how to handle himself in combat, if it ever came to that. His choice would have been the clothing shop. Luxury clothes were not cheap, and usually not guarded by hardy individuals.
The halfling took out his thieves’ tools and began fiddling with the lock, while the other two waited, close behind. The former devil leaned against the wall a few steps away from the trio. Scarcely a moment later, a click interrupted the silence of the night, and Boslin opened the door, smugly motioning for his companions to follow. Raphael crossed his arms over his chest and gazed upward, at the endless, starry sky.
Something shuffled with a soft sound in the space above him. He frowned. Perhaps a cat was on the roof? Almost immediately he was proven wrong, as color burst in a small area near him, centered on the door and the thieves. All three of them, in addition to the door, were now outlined in violet light. The tiefling woman swore, and pulled out one of her many knives, eyes searching for their hidden assailants.
“You are under arrest. Please do not resist. I would prefer if things did not have to turn violent,” said a masculine, melodic voice. Something about it seemed familiar, and a strange feeling of dread made Raphael uncomfortable.
“Show yourself and I will gut you like a pig, coward!” Shouted the human thief, eyes helplessly scanning the darkness.
Boslin seemed more levelheaded, as the halfling smoothly stashed his tools into his pockets and made a run for it without delay.
Gently, with magical feathers swirling around them, a yellow-scaled kobold and a heavily armored drow warrior descended through the air, down to the stone covered ground. An arrow flew from the roof and hit Boslin in the shoulder, creeping, thorny vines bursting from the wound, until he was engulfed and effectively immobilized.
“Permission to use lethal force?” Asked the robed kobold.
The drow shook his head. “Knock them out. There is no need to kill them I believe. We might even get some information out of them.”
Raphael’s head began to pound. He stood there, frozen on the spot, eyes glued to the drow man. The man’s aristocratic features were clearly visible. His pale, snow-white hair was braided, presumably to not get in the way while the warrior fought. A heavy shield was clasped in his left hand, while he wielded a brightly blazing mace in his right one. In the dark of the night, he made for almost an angelic figure.
The tiefling attacked the kobold in a rush, a swirl of knives. Her slashes bounced harmlessly against a barely visible barrier surrounding the reptilian creature. A ray of greenish, necrotic energy hit the fiendish looking woman square in the chest in retaliation.
“Zillix!”
“Yes, yes. I will gently bump her with my staff next time.”
A tiefling descended from the rooftop. Or no, not a tiefling. There was something decidedly fey-like about the young woman. Hexblood perhaps? Despite them being so rare. Raphael was proud that his sharp mind could still function at such a high speed despite the circumstances.
He could not tear his eyes away from the shining warrior. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. Out of all the places on Toril, out of all the times. How could the two of them possibly meet? Fate, or Gods, or devils were cruel indeed, their sense of humor twisted even beyond his dark imagination. Raphael half-expected the shadow of his father to appear and spit in his face, just for good measure.
The combat continued, but he paid it no mind. Since he did not attack and neither was he running, the paladin and his entourage did not target him for the time being. Fury spiked so strongly in his blood, he felt almost sick. The drow was smiling, chatting with the fey and the reptile as they worked on knocking out the thugs with little trouble.
The bane of his existence. Strutting around, safe and happy, without a care in the world. Thirty. Two. Years.
“VELDRIN!” Raphael roared and lunged, in his overwhelming rage not bothering or perhaps forgetting to reach out to his magic, no matter how diminished it was.
Said dark elf froze, and turned toward him, clearly taken off guard by hearing his name yelled out loud. Owing fully to the bewilderment he had caused, Raphael barreled right into Veldrin's face and punched him with every bit of strength his weak, mortal body possessed.
The drow flinched away, more so from the shock rather than the force. For a second, then two, brilliant crimson eyes met Raphael’s own brown ones, the former devil fuming all the while. Then a heavy blow to the back of his knees sent him stumbling to the ground.
“Can we use lethal force, now?” Hissed Zillix in frustration.
“Veldrin! What is going on? Are you alright?” Leandreth cried, frantic, as she tied the tiefling woman’s hands with a rope.
The paladin rubbed his eyes, and looked again at Raphael, aghast.
“Raphael…?”
“Yes, you contemptuous vermin!” The brunette growled and attempted to charge at Veldrin one more time.
Utterly baffled, the drow unleashed a spell, and Raphael’s eyes closed, his body slumping as the magically induced sleep took a hold of him. Veldrin managed to catch his falling form before he hit the ground.
The three of them then stood in perfect silence, the drow, the hexblood, and the kobold, exchanging stunned glances, while the thugs wiggled against the ropes tied around their hands and feet. Raphael was dead to the world, laying heavily in Veldrin’s arms, expression peaceful.