A Genuine Phenomenon

The apprentices crowd cautiously about the back of the cave, looking between each other, then to the huddled Masters.  The group is waiting for the priestesses that are supposed to meet them here.  Master Do'Urden is closer to the cave entrance, the dim moonlight setting a strange silver aura about him.  Masters Zaurett and Mizzrym wait closer to the pack, the former trying to calm a strangely frantic Vizaeth.  He's quite good at it, for someone who usually comes off so cold and uncaring.

Rhylfein sinks back against the wall, slowly passing his gaze over their small arcane theory class.  Few, if any students elect to take the advanced version of the class, but it's expected of Rhylfein, Viconia, and Veryan.  Viconia stands closest to the cave entrance of the usual trio.  The scale-shaped studs on her robes are iridescent in the dim light, making Rhylfein suspect they're real deep dragon scales.  Veryan is squinting–his eyes more sensitive than anyone else's–and he stands furthest in the cave.

Vizaeth inhales sharply, and Master Zaurett reaffirms his consoling words with a touch more firmness.  Master Mizzrym smirks just out of Vizaeth's view, and Rhylfein wants to knock his teeth out.  He doesn't need to find it funny that any of his students find the surface terrifying.  They've all been raised on tales of its horrors–even him.

Maybe he's bitter Vizaeth is dressed more like Master Zaurett today.  He's definitely wearing dark blue, and though it's faded a little, Vizaeth has put streaks of black hair chalk at the ends of his hair, making his braided bun look striped like Zaurett's.

Lord Dyrr and Zaurett hate each other, Rhylfein's been told time and time again about the "psychopomp spawn" lurking about Sorcere.  Rhylfein's not sure how true that is, Lord Dyrr's bold claim that Master Zaurett is the bastard spawn of some death god, but Zaurett is quite tall and quite youthful for a man nearly Baenre's age.

"Signal," Do'Urden announces from the cave entrance.  Mizzrym lights up and ushers the class into a circle around him.

"Best behavior boys–and Viconia," he advises.  "We're going to be moving across some distance.  I assure you the path is extremely safe.  Step lightly, and Master Zaurett, if you could keep Apprentice Thaezyr's simpering to a minimum."

"Go eat a deathcap" Zaurett retorts.

With Do'Urden leading, the class drifts out of the cave and into the moonlit night.  Rhylfein hangs back near Vizaeth, a look passing between him and Viconia as she heads towards the front.

It's her shout that lets Rhylfein know they're close.  Well, her shout and Mizzrym shouting after her to not run ahead.  Viconia doesn't hear him, she's too busy shrieking with joy.  As they step into the clearing, Rhylfein sees why.

Two priestesses and a priest wait in the clearing.  Viconia is hugging the priestess dressed in all black.  Her robes are leather-reinforced and accented in gold, face obscured by a black drop veil held up by a spoked crown.  Two curved knives are sheathed at the back of her belt.  Rhylfein doesn't recognize those distinct Despana features until he is close enough to see through the veil, but the blue eyes and playful smile are proof enough for him.

The other priestess is all silver curls and smiles, dimples set into the cheeks of her heart-shaped face as she hugs Master Do’Urden tightly.  They have a similar look to them, beautiful in a mischievous way, like the fox that trails at Do’Urden’s heels.  A sister or daughter, Rhylfein supposes.  Her robes hug her slender figure, all silver taffeta embroidered to look like an insect's wings, covered by a warm brown vest that dips a bit too low at the neckline to really be useful.  A spider pendant, silver, moonstone-studded, and circumscribed, hangs like a centerpiece between the lines of leather and silk.  Vizaeth only glares at her for a moment–clearly they’ve met–before his eyes settle on the priest.

Rhylfein has known one male drow afforded magic by Lolth: Veryan, and even then his magic is very unlike that of a normal priestess.  He suspects, for many reasons, this male no longer prays to the Dark Mother for spells–if he ever did.  His white hair is braided in small strands, tied off with threads of blue, indigo, and purple.  He pulls it back from his face, pinning it loosely.  His black robes are unarmored, and though practical, seem ill-suited for a fight.  The part that draws Rhylfein’s eye–and likely Vizaeth’s–is his left arm.  More accurately, his lack thereof.  The long, wide sleeve hangs loose at his side, its bright blue lining perfectly visible.  With the burn scars on his left cheek and ear, Rhylfein can guess what happened to his arm.

Mizzrym lets out a growl under his breath at the sight of the priest, who smirks.

“We’re not running too far behind schedule, are we?” he asks, and Mizzrym’s face curls into a sneer.

“Punctual as ever, Master Bondalek,” Zaurett praises before Mizzrym can make a snide remark.  “My thanks to all of you for taking the time to help with this lesson.”

“I’m always happy to help young wizards find their feet,” Viconia’s sister replies, a smile beaming from under that veil.  “I do want to caution, Masters, that my husband is keeping an eye out for surface dwellers and other dangers.  He’s lurking somewhere in the woods, couldn’t tell you where.”

“A heretic is stalking the woods around us?” Mizzrym mutters under his breath.  “I feel safer already.”

Heretic?  Rhylfein glances at the trio of clerics.  He can concede the male and the silver priestess are clearly not Lolth’s children, but with Viconia’s sister, he can hardly guess.  Veryan wears drop veils like that–Veryan presently is wearing a drop veil like that.  Perhaps there are specificities and details here, lost on someone whose childhood was not so encompassed by faith and fealty.

“Veryan,” Rhylfein whispers to his friend.  “Is Viconia’s sister an apostate?”

Veryan shrugs.  “The male priest is, but it’s hard to tell if she’s an apostate or just a heretic,” he admits.  “Some of the sects of the Masked Lord are generations old.”

“Wait, they’re not priests of Lolth?” Vizaeth cuts in, a worried tinge to his voice.  Veryan shakes his head.

“The male is an apostate; he’s following a different god now.  I’d hazard he’s a wild priest, from the colors,” Veryan notes, gesturing.  “Viconia’s sister is a Masked Priestess, a high-ranking one from the veil.  The third–”

“Master Do’Urden’s sister,” Vizaeth interrupts with a growl.

“She’s a Sword Dancer,” Veryan finished, gesturing to the curved longsword at her hip.  “I’m not supposed to say much about this, but they’re priestesses of the Dark Maiden.  She’s probably an apostate too, if she’s Master Do’Urden’s sister.”

Vizaeth pulls a face, but doesn’t say anything further.

“Not everyone has to follow the Dark Mother,” Veryan notes.  The reminder is strange, coming from someone blessed by Lolth, but there is wisdom to it.

Vizaeth opens his mouth to argue, but Master Zaurett claps his hands together before he can say anything.

“Now that we have everything set up, we’ll be splitting into groups of three for this lesson,” he says in a clear, strident voice.  “Master Mizzrym and Mistress Despana will take the North, Masters Do’Urden and Bondalek will take the South, and Mistress Do’Urden here will join me to the West.  I want everyone to stick to their groups and not wander far.  These woods are clear but not safe.  I’m going to assign everyone by name to their group.  These were predetermined and agreed upon by the Masters, so I do not want to hear a single complaint…”

Rhylfein tunes out the rest of Zaurett’s lecture, only really tuning in to hear him say “Apprentice Dyrr, you’ll be with me.” and then return to looking over the clerics.  Now that he looks at him, he isn’t sure the priest–Bondalek, as Zaurett keeps calling him–actually has a weapon on him.  Rhylfein doesn’t see a mace or blade.  There isn’t even a shield on him.

“I wonder what happened to his arm,” Vizaeth whispers, making Rhylfein jump.  Vizaeth’s face flashes apologetic–briefly, but the comment hangs in the air regardless.

“He has burns on his face,” Rhylfein notes.

“You think it was the same?”

“We could ask.”

“I’m not asking an apostate anything.”

“An ancient artifact exploded in his hand,” a calm woman’s voice cuts in behind them.  Vizaeth stiffens, and Rhylfein glances back to see the silver priestess standing over them.  “While a red dragon was breathing fire on it,” she adds, a smile on her face as if their surprise were amusing.

“Why did a red dragon need to breathe fire on it?” Rhylfein asks.

“To destroy it,” the priestess shrugs.  “Some artifacts are very finicky on how you destroy them.”

Rhylfein nods and glances at Vizaeth, who curls in on himself in the priestess’ presence.  She notices–a quick swipe of her rum red eyes proves as much–but says nothing, turning to greet the other apprentices that Zaurett has shooed her way.  They’re all staring, slack-jawed and dumbstruck.  They’ve all seen beautiful drow before, but so rarely has a beautiful drow deigned to smile at them, let alone speak in their direction.  The way she tosses her curls and drifts off after gathering each name feels so intentional.

"Harlot," Vizaeth mutters under his breath.

"She's toying with them," Rhylfein notes, "like Master Do'Urden does with the other masters."

"It's different," Vizaeth argues quietly.

"I don't think so," Rhylfein shrugs.  Vizaeth pulls a face but doesn't argue further.

“Thaezyr,” Zaurett’s skeletal mage hand taps Vizaeth's shoulder, making the apprentice jolt.  “Come see, quickly!”

Vizaeth hurries to the tree Zaurett is standing by.  Zaurett starts going on about something, gesturing into the far distance.  Rhylfein follows his vague gestures, sighting what looks like bobbing lanterns amid the trees.  They’re beautiful, but Rhylfein can gather from Zaurett's excitement that one should avoid them.

As Zaurett's small lecture goes on, Vizaeth's face lights up.  Rhylfein can't help but smile at his fellow apprentice’s delight, no matter how subtly it comes to his face.  Some apprentices are an open book when their curiosity is piqued or fascination overwhelms them, but Vizaeth has always suppressed any overt emotions.  Maybe he reads interest as weakness, recognizes how easily it can distract.

Either way, as Rhylfein turns back to his group, he sights Mizzrym’s withering glare locked onto Vizaeth and Zaurett.  With how obsessed Vizaeth is with Mizzrym, it's no surprise a lapse in that obsession is making the master seethe.  He's always struck Rhylfein as the possessive type, one of those sorts that can't stand the thought of someone else being as important, let alone more important.  He clearly thinks little of Zaurett, and Do’Urden’s aloofness chafes against his fragile ego.

“I think I forgot to get your name.”

Rhylfein turns to the Silver Priestess, who smiles sweetly once more.  There's less falseness to the smile this time, not because she means a single inch of it, though.  This smile lacks the charm and the lure.  Rhylfein imagines this is respect for the priestess, an afforded courtesy.

“Rhylfein Dyrr.”

The priestess’ smile curls a little more and she nods, then drifts back through the throng of sycophants that has formed around her.

Rhylfein narrows his eyes, but waits for Vizaeth to return from his lecture.

True necromancers are a proper phenomenon no matter where you go in Faerun.  In Menzoberranzan’s history, there have only been seven, and Davin Zaurett has met just three of the other six.  Menzoberranzan's lucky eighth has been walking Sorcere’s halls for almost fifty years now, and Davin watches as closely as he can.

His name is Vizaeth, but it wasn't always, just as his face wasn't always his.  Davin has seen many skin-thieves in his time, none have chosen so perfectly.  The old Vizaeth Thaezyr was a transmuter through and through.  His necromancy skills were paltry failures; the boy had no interest in death or its secrets.  The new Vizaeth, though, he is a necromancer, so potent Davin can taste death on his tongue when the boy casts.

It's a damn shame about the Weave Rot, a bigger shame a novice girl got Lidnolu in the throat.  She could've fixed the tangle in a few days, and Vizaeth's Weave would be flowing as smooth as Lethe.  Not that Baenre and his moon-blessed apprentice haven't done wonderfully so far, but it has been a month, and Vizaeth’s Weave remains dangerously tangled.

“Are there any surface materials for necromancy spells?” Vizaeth asks as his hunt for a spiderweb proves fruitless.

“None we can safely gather,” Zaurett answers.  “Though, we could find a simulacrum, if that interests you.”

Vizaeth perks up.

“To create undead, what do we need?” Zaurett prompts.  An easy request, and Vizaeth stands up tall as he answers.

“Two clay pots, one full of grave dirt and one full of brackish water, and at least three pieces of onyx,” he reports.

“Excellently recalled,” Zaurett nods, making Vizaeth beam unwisely.  “Do you remember what makes a given type of dirt grave dirt?”

“The decomposition of most living things produces a high concentration of phosphates,” Vizaeth recalls.  “It’s that high concentration that we’re drawing energy from.”

“Precisely, so if the ground is particularly boggy, with a lot of dead plant matter…” Zaurett flicks his hand out towards the valley nearby, and a will-o-wisp floats up from the mud.  Vizaeth gasps excitedly.

“It’s close enough to count?” he concludes, beaming wide when Zaurett nods.

“Your analytical skills have improved,” he adds.  Vizaeth beams, then wisely bows his head and stands up straight.

“Only under your experienced guidance, Master Zaurett,” he insists.

“I'm always happy to help a young necromancer find their footing,” Zaurett smiles.

Someone knocks a tree nearby twice, gently, and Zaurett turns.  The drow waiting patiently in the shadows is short and lean, the licks of a burn scar visible beneath a bauta-style black mask.  A long strawberry-blonde braid coils over his shoulder, stark against his pitch leathers.  Behind him lingers Viconia Despana, fidgeting.  In Zaurett's peripheral, Vizaeth’s upper lip curls.

“Nym said to inform you Master Do’Urden had to send a student back,” the drow reports.  “Master Bondalek joined him, but Nym thinks he may feel safer if there are other Menzoberranyr with him.  Could you spare a student or two?”

“Apprentice Xorlarrin?” Zaurett guessed, giving Viconia a brief glance.  The drow nods.  “Thank you, Kavan.  I’ll make sure Mistress Do’Urden can handle this group and return with two.  Shall I also escort Apprentice Despana?”

“Is that alright, Nia?” Kavan asks.  Viconia shakes her head.

“I want to check on Veryan now,” she insists, a tinge of undrowlike worry to her voice.  “That wild priest is an asshole, father said as much.”

“You don't know him,” Kavan sounds like he's smiling under his mask.  “And your father is as pompous and judgemental as Mizzrym.  I should be looking after the other groups, Nia.  Just go with Master Zaurett.”

Viconia pouts, and Zaurett wants to laugh.  Malavon Despana has certainly spoiled his children, as is his right for reaching such heights as archmage.  They're not quite rotten, but Viconia has her moments of truly bratty behavior.  She hops down into the clearing though.  Clearly, the brattiness doesn't keep her from complying.

“We will talk again soon, Nia,” Kavan promises before slipping back into the forest.

“Nia?” Vizaeth sneers.

“My family calls me that,” Viconia shrugs.  “Why do you care?”

“I don't,” Vizaeth rolls his eyes.

Zaurett sighs and beckons over Maya Do'Urden.  He has little patience for Vizaeth's vendetta or Viconia's attitude.  Perhaps he should ask the Sword Dancer to go in his stead.  She practically glides to him, smiling as only a priestess of the Dark Maiden can smile.  Vizaeth notices her after only a moment, and his shoulders tense, as if the sight of her makes his skin crawl.

“I need to return,” Zaurett says when Maya gets close enough.  “Can you handle these boys on your own?”

“They've behaved so far,” Maya shrugs.  “If I need to knock some skulls together, I will.”

“Is that an effective deterrent?” Zaurett asks, raising an eyebrow.  Maya shrugs.

“Our father used to do it with us,” she grants, as if it is just common practice for a male drow to lay such a hand on his matron’s daughters.  Zaknafein Do’Urden is, after all, an oddity.

“That reveals a great deal about your brother,” Zaurett sighs, then turns as Vizaeth begins raising his voice at Viconia.  What could they possibly be arguing about?

“Why would I even care that you’re fucking Master Mizzrym?”

“Because your brother is!”

“Rai fucks a lot of people!”

“So he doesn’t think Master Mizzrym is special?”

“He isn’t!  He talks like my dad!”

Zaurett tilts his head to the side, trying to ascertain when the fight got to this point.  None of this is new information for him.  He’s aware Mizzrym has some strange obsession with Despana’s eldest boy, almost to the same degree as his obsession with Do’Urden.  He flashes Maya a glance, and she smiles.

“Shall I?” Maya asks.

“Gently,” Zaurett begs, but from Maya’s grin, he knows she won't.

Maya grabs both Viconia and Vizaeth and brings their heads together, hard.  Viconia squeaks and backs away, rubbing her forehead.  Vizaeth, meanwhile, staggers back with a furious shriek.

“HOW DARE YOU!” he screams, and the whole clearing goes quiet.  All eyes are on Vizaeth and Maya.  The Sword Dancer taps her index finger to her lips, thinking.  Then, quietly, she flicks her sword from her belt and taps it against Vizaeth’s thigh.

“I want you to appreciate that I do not pray to the Dark Mother,” she says softly.  “Because if one of my brothers ever spoke to my mistresses at Arach-Tinilith like that, they would not have a tongue.  I dare.  You do not have that luxury.”

Vizaeth is flushed, whether it's fury or embarrassment that colors his cheeks.  He glances between Zaurett and Maya, expecting his master to react.

“You come with me, Apprentice Thaezyr,” Zaurett sighs, then turns to the students now gawking at Vizaeth.  He sights Rhylfein Dyrr and his flame-red hair instantly among the gaggle.  He looks unsettlingly like his great grandfather in his youth.

That’s the point, of course.  Zaurett has taught seven boys with Lord Dyrr’s face, all named with the same prefix–Rhylvyr, Rhylven, Rhyllyn, Rhyleth, Rhylnar, Rhylnet, and now Rhylfein–all pushed through advanced necromancy with their eyes down and their skin unscarred, all forced to wear the same ancient, out-of-style robes of black silk with blackworked demons snarling across the fabric.  Zaurett has said something, privately, to the Archmage.  Whatever he knows, he clearly doesn’t like thinking about it.

“Apprentice Dyrr, you're friends with Apprentice Xorlarrin, correct?” Zaurett calls, bringing the boy’s attention up to him.

“Yes, Master Zaurett,” the young Dyrr nods.  “Do you want me to go back with Viconia and Vizaeth?”

“And myself,” Zaurett nods, then addresses the rest of the group.  “I expect the rest of you to treat Mistress Do’Urden with the utmost respect.  I would hate to explain to your matrons that one of you got inexplicably lost on the surface.”

A few of the boys pale at the threat, but most are more fixated on the prospect of spending the rest of the class with Maya.

Zaurett bows to Maya again, then leads his small procession back towards the cave.  Rhylfein is keeping the two separate, but Maya’s warning has sobered them both.  Zaurett exhales hard through his nose and keeps pace.

Veryan and Bondalek are sequestered deeper in the cave when they return, a heavy green cloak supplementing the Szarkai’s usual veil.  The white fur along the edges is familiar, but Zaurett elects not to say anything out loud, not for the apprentices to hear.  Bondalek glances up at Zaurett as he draws closer, but returns his gaze to the child before long.

He’s dismissed the guise of a wild priest, letting the metallic golds and warm grays of his actual regalia spill over the illusory reds and blues.  Zaurett can only assume he thought Pharaun would be angrier to know the apostate-mage no longer followed a drow god.  Perhaps he is right.

“Eyestrain,” Bondalek explains as Zaurett kneels to check on his student.  “He was pushing past it until it turned into a migraine.  We already talked about overextending ourselves.”

Zaurett lifts Veryan’s veil, and the cloak with it.  The Szarkai winces at the new flood of light, and Zaurett lowers the veil slowly.

“How are we feeling?” he asks softly.

“Better,” Veryan answers.  “The ranger that carried me back gave me some valerian tea before he left.”

That explains the cloak, but also implies Veryan fainted, which is troubling in its own right.  Zaurett is, at least, thankful the ranger had the good sense to leave before anyone else arrived.

“I didn't know he was here,” Zaurett whispers to Bondalek.

“He’s not keen on being noticed,” Bondalek shrugs, adjusting the cloak a little before resting his hand, lightly, on Veryan’s head.  Only now does Zaurett see that Bondalek’s left arm, an artifice of adamantine and mithral, had been reattached.  He’d been right then, at the meeting, that the triad of priests had intentionally come with as little armaments as was practical.  A clever choice, in truth, as it positions them as no threat to the students, but sends a plain message to Mizzrym.

“I thought he didn’t have a left arm,” Vizaeth says, a bit loudly, enough that Viconia elbows him in the side.

“It’s not his actual arm,” she hisses.  “An artificer made it.”

Bondalek looks over at the three apprentices as they fall into a quiet debate and stands.  “They’re not all coming back, are they?” he asks.

“Not yet,” Zaurett shakes his head.  “I brought these three because Mistress Despana asked me to.”

“Kavan asked you to,” Bondalek corrects.  “Doesn’t sound like Nym to ask you to bring students.”

Zaurett rolls his eyes, he’d forgotten how much of a fucking pedant the wizard-priest was.  Regardless, he settles back against the wall, minding Veryan more than the other three.

“Is it true you lost it to a dragon?” Rhylfein asks almost too eagerly.  Bondalek cracks a half smile.

“Along with most of my hair and Lolth’s favor,” he confirms, holding up his arm and tilting it to and fro.  “Hair grew back, didn't bother waiting on the other two.  I only had this off so Mizzrym wouldn’t be nervous,” he added.  “My left hand had the tattoo used to activate my old holy symbol, and the artificer put the same glyph on my arm.  He made the holy symbol, after all.”

“Activate?” Vizaeth echoes, he’s suddenly a lot more interested knowing the apostate has some secret boon of Lolth.

Bondalek lifts one of the chains around his neck, lifting from under his robes an encircled spider of adamantine, inset with ruby eyes.  The edges of the spider are sharply segmented, and on its back, inset in astral silver, is a High Drow glyph, inscribing the words “ Lolth kyorl dos ” in twisted knots of arcane and divine power.  Bondalek flips his hand over to show the back, bearing the same glyph.

“You can touch it,” he adds.  “When I was still Yor’thae, that may have been a problem, but I can promise Her protection rather lacks its former venom.”

Gingerly, Vizaeth takes the symbol and turns it over in his hands.  His reverence is careful, palpable.  This, he must know, is an item to be cherished, even by one Lolth has forsaken.

“It turns into a giant spider?” Vizaeth guesses softly.

“Far more powerful,” Bondalek corrects.  “A retriever.  I’m sure you’ve learned what that is.”

Vizaeth’s eyes widen, and his breath comes out in an elated gasp.  A retriever , a drow construct imbued with the soul of a demon.  Zaurett has long known about the gift, almost as treasured as the guardian spider Bondalek hasn’t mentioned, tucked in one of his waist pockets.  Vizaeth’s reverence is as strong for this totem as his obsession with Mizzrym.  Lolth is his world, and it makes Zaurett wonder, sometimes, if there is a cleric’s heart somewhere deep in Vizaeth, one Lidnolu would have taught wonderful, terrible things.

Perhaps, Zaurett thinks, Lidnolu would still be here if Vizaeth had been just a hair more patient, just held out a little longer, and learned from her how to thread his Weave, and reshape what he found so deeply distasteful.