The Molt

As summer rounds into autumn on the surface, Viconia begins to molt, and it becomes a lot harder to glamour her scales.  They itch constantly and old scales come off in small flakes of dull purple-black when the new scales have finally grown in.

Viconia rubs her cheek with the heel of her hand as she returns to her dorm.  The largest of her cheek scales loosened at the beginning of the week and hasn't come off yet.  It itches horribly, and Viconia wants nothing more than to dig her teeth into her own skin and rip that horrid old scale out.

A flash of light in her face makes Viconia jolt back with a yelp, throwing a hand up over her eyes.

"It's not a rash!" Kenafin's voice calls from beyond the light.

"Then why's she itching so much?" another boy asks.  "Come on Merdax, she's only a little weird most of the time and now she's being even weirder."

Viconia waits for her eyes to adjust before glaring at Kenafin.

"You wanna lose the other eye?" she growls low, hoping it will spook the gaggle of boys blocking her way down the hall.  Kenafin tilts his head, then grins.  A monocle is hanging over his remaining eye, its lens an unusual red.  Viconia feels a spike of cold.

Shit.

"Now what are those?" he asks, reaching up to Viconia's cheek and ripping out that huge old scale.  It's too soon, and pain lurches up Viconia's cheek, enough to make her flinch.  Kenafin's grin widens, and he holds the scale aloft for his gang to see.

"A scale?" one of the boys scoffs.  "So what?"

"Oh, now Viconia, dear," Kenafin purrs.  "I knew Archmage Despana was a deviant, but I didn't know he'd go this far."

"What is it?" another boy asks.

"Our sole girl isn't even all drow," Kenafin announces loud enough for the whole dorm to hear.  "She's hiding the scales to prove it!  Dragon-drow!"

The word is spit with enough venom that Viconia's lips twitch, desperate to form a snarl.  She won't give Kenafin the satisfaction of thinking he got to her, though.

Kenafin looks down at the scale he ripped off and taps the bloody root to his lips thoughtfully.  He licks the blood off, then smiles.

"Don't wyrmling scales fetch a high price down at the Bazaar?" he asks.

Viconia spins around to run, no answer on her lips.  She sees someone coming out of their dorm to investigate at the end of the hall and makes for them.  Kenafin grabs her wrist before she gets far, and someone else has her hair before she can yank free.

"HELP!" she shrieks to the far-off student.

"Why would he help you?" Kenafin asks.

Viconia screams as loud as she can, thrashes and kicks and even gets a few good hits in, but Kenafin's gang don't seem to care about a few loose teeth or broken noses.  A few seconds more and she's on the ground, Kenafin sitting on her stomach, digging a small penknife under one of her new scales.

She screams again, struggling.  Her scales cling to her skin in a vise grip, and Kenafin peels them off methodically enough it seems to hurt even more.

"You think they're just on her face?" one boy asks.  Kenafin is undoing the high collar of her robes before he's done asking.

"Let's find out," he sneers.

Kenafin gets a single shoulder bared before he lurches forwards in convulsing agony.

"Get off," a low, flat voice commands.  The boys scramble back, but Viconia can barely muster the wherewithal to pull her robes closed.  Her head is spinning.  Her throat aches and her skin throbs.  She flinches when a hand finds her shoulder, but she relaxes a precious little when Quenthel Baenre steps into view.

"You're alright, Nia," she says more softly than she'd ever afford one of her students.  "Up, on your feet."

Viconia staggers up to her feet.  Quenthel holds her tightly, one arm looped around her waist.

"Master Oblodra, please gather a few observing students to help us.  Master Do'Urden's rooms are closest, correct?"

"I believe so," that flat voice replies, and Viconia glances around for the source.  A diminutive, veiled drow stands at the end of the hall, leaning on a strange mithril-capped cane.  Viconia feels a chill.

Master Jalynfein, the Spider Mage.  He never leaves his personal quarters unless he needs to.  Viconia gives him an apologetic glance, but she can't tell if he returns it.

Quenthel walks Viconia to Master Do'Urden's tower, and Viconia can feel blood pouring down her face.  She can’t remember how many scales were ripped free, and she’s trying to rack her brain for a number through the pain, but it’s not working.

Where did Kenafin even get that monocle?  Truesight lenses were expensive, the kind of expensive a scion of House Kenafin couldn't hope to afford.  Sure, other students hate her, but any of the houses that can get a truesight lens know who she is.  Hells, Kenafin knows who she is.

“I got five to help,” Oblodra reports as he comes to Quenthel’s side.  Viconia jolts at his sudden appearance.  “Xorlarrin–who I sent to fetch the Archmage, Dyrr and Thaezyr are following us, and Kenafin and his pack are being looked after by Melani and Myath.”

“Myath’s twin is at Arach-Tinilith,” Quenthel recalls.  “They have dragon blood.”

“Sapphire, but much more removed than Lady Despana,” Oblodra nods.  “Oh, I had Dyrr fetch a dressing gown for Lady Despana as well.  It should be more comfortable than her robes.”

Quenthel hugs Viconia tightly to her side.  “I’ll see to helping her get changed,” she says firmly.

The door to Master Do’Urden’s tower is up ahead, marked with a warding glyph that glows like moonlight.

“Khaless,” Quenthel hisses under her breath, barely loud enough for Viconia to hear, and the glyph dims.

Khaless, Trust, Viconia has heard the word so rarely in Menzoberranzan, but it feels right to hear it at Do’Urden’s door.  Quenthel knocks three times, and the door cracks just a hair, then opens fully.

“Quen?” Do’Urden’s voice is barely a whisper, but he looks wide awake as his silver eyes trace through the group.  “What's going on?”

“Some boys attacked Viconia,” Quenthel spits like venom.

Do’Urdens eyes wander over Rhylfein and Vizaeth, but after a split second, he steps aside.  Quenthel ushers Viconia into the tower and pulls her into another room.

Master Oblodra was right, her deep violet dressing gown is significantly more comfortable than her high-collared robes.  The bell sleeves sweep towards the ground, and something about the blackwork patterned scales feel a bit safer than the real ones worked into the formal robes’ bodice.

“Do you trust these boys not to say anything?” Quenthel asks softly.

Viconia nods.  No one would believe Vizaeth, and it's not like Rhylfein doesn't already know.  As for the other three…they're in one boat or the other as far as Viconia knows.

“Good,” Quenthel nods.  She loops her arm around Viconia's and leads her back out into the main room, settling her in one of the reading chairs.

“Thaezyr, here,” Quenthel barks, sending the apprentice stumbling towards her.

Vizaeth looks equal parts terrified and indignant.  Viconia doubts he expected Master Oblodra to fetch him of all people.  Quenthel pulls over the other chair and sits Vizaeth into it.  Moments later, a bowl is placed on the end table between them.  A silk cloth is soaking in the bowl, the liquid reeks of vinegar.

“Wash the wounds,” Quenthel orders.  “Dyrr, help Master Do’Urden with the poultice and a sleeping draught.”

Vizaeth crinkles his nose a little but takes the rag and wrings it out.  Quenthel nods, then storms over to wherever in his apothecary Do’Urden and Rhylfein have vanished too.  Vizaeth starts scrubbing at the blood, as if Viconia were a particularly grimy floor.  A scale tears free, and Viconia yelps and jerks her head back.  Vizaeth, meanwhile, rolls his eyes.

“Gently, Thaezyr,” Master Oblodra cautions.  “We're not here to make her wounds worse.”

Vizaeth scowls and starts again, slowly and carefully this time.  He's still applying too much pressure, but Viconia isn't going to argue.  She grips her shaking hands, trying not to seem quite so affected.  Vizaeth is smirking, so she's definitely failing.

The clack of Quenthel’s boots on the floor heralds her return.  She looks over Vizaeth's work for a long moment before she speaks.

“Who taught you how to clean a wound?” she asks.  A pause follows as her question sinks into the apprentice wizard.

“I taught myself,” Vizaeth answers, clearly taking care not to snap at Quenthel.

“That explains quite a bit,” Quenthel remarks.  “You're applying too much pressure to the wound.  Nia, you're being very patient with him.”

“I assume Apprentice Thaezyr does not want to be here,” Vicona answers softly.  “That he is helping at all is enough reason to be patient.”

Vizaeth pauses now, knitting his brow deeply.

“Very well,” Quenthel nods and departs briefly to fetch a desk chair, then sets it on Viconia’s other side.  She folds Viconia's hand into hers and patiently talks Vizaeth through properly cleaning the wound.

In a few moments, Do’Urden emerges from his apothecary closet with a poultice and sets it with Vizaeth.  He circles to Quenthel and sets a careful hand on her shoulder.  Quenthel slides her hand up Do’Urden’s arm to return the gesture, chewing her lower lip.

“At ease, Lady Spitfire,” Do’Urden whispers, “let your brother see to Baenre's wrath tonight.”

“You are too calm,” Quenthel returns.

“I am always too calm,” Do’Urden smiles the way he smiled at his sister in the woods.

Viconia stares as Do’Urden flits off to his apothecary closet once more, pulling her lips taut.  She didn't know the Master enjoyed such a relationship with Quenthel.  Her father often spoke as if Quenthel Baenre and her brother, the Archmage, hated each other.  That both spoke kindly to and of Master Do'Urden seemed off somehow, like Quenthel had met the wizard separately.

She’ll have to ask her father about it later.

“Mistress Quenthel,” Master Oblodra speaks up from the door.  “Your brother wants to speak with you.”

“Is he done with them already?” Quenthel asks.

“Apprentices Myath and Xorlarrin are hard at work on them,” Welvryn Melani pipes up from the door.  “He needs to discuss something he learned.”

“I see,” Quenthel stands and gestures Welvryn in.  “If the Masters require an extra hand, you will assist.”

“Of course, Mistress Baenre,” Welvryn smiles.  Quenthel does not return it.

Apprentice Welvryn Melani is not a friend of Viconia's, but he and Nadrak Myath are thick as thieves, enough that most students think they're lovers.

Welvryn is the tallest in their class and drake-lean.  He's the only student in their year learning the ancient art of bladesong and, from mutterings among teachers, Viconia suspects he's the first in decades to choose that path.  He crops his hair unusually short, shaved in webs on the sides and left long enough at the top he habitually fluffs it with one hand.  The other apprentices find him handsome, so do the novice priestesses.  Viconia isn't sure he's her type.

Welvryn looks a bit incomplete without petite Nadrak at his heels, long braid slung over his shoulder, the most punchable toothy grin on his face.  He's the best diviner in their class, and an even better tactician.  More than likely, he’ll graduate Sorcere, then get poached from his house by a Matron on the council, looking for beautiful heirs with brilliant minds.  They'll get that, and a few pockets of wild talent as punishment.

Once Quenthel is gone, Welvryn takes her place, slouched low in the chair like a mercenary on a throne, and truly, in his breeches and silk shirt, he’s just missing the bald head and ridiculous hat.  Vizaeth has turned a deep shade of indigo, and keeps his attention firmly fixed on applying the poultice to each scale divot.

“Nadrak did like to say three of a kind,” Welvryn remarks, settling his chin on the back of one hand.  “Not sure we'll have a Kenafin once those two are done picking him apart.”

Vizaeth cracks half a smile at that, but it quickly flees.

“It shouldn't take him attacking a girl to see punishment,” he grumbles.

Welvryn shrugs.  “That's not just some girl you're putting poultice on,” he notes.  Viconia gives him a look, but Welvryn continues, “You know who her father is, right?”

“Welvryn,” Master Oblodra cuts in now, stern.

“It's fine, Master Oblodra,” Viconia pipes up.

“I don't care what patron sired her,” Vizaeth hisses.

“Not a patron,” Viconia corrects softly.  “My father is Ust Natha’s Archmage.”

Vizaeth's hand jolts back, as if the gravity of his every horrid action is fully snapping into place.  Viconia looks to him and shrugs.

“Why would a girl from some random minor house find a place at Sorcere?” she asks.  “Noori Baenre’s mother barely convinced Triel to allow it.”

“Why not teach you himself?” Vizaeth snaps.  “And keep you and your heretic family away from our city.”

“Careful,” Welvryn warns softly.  “Zaurett likes you because you're at the top of his class.  Oblodra has no obligation to be as fond.”

“Apprentice Thaezyr is a fascinating student,” Oblodra interrupts from the door.  He tilts his head.  “It's a shame he didn't score high enough to take any of my classes.  From what I hear, he certainly enriches them.”

Welvryn makes a face.  “Are all the Eight just eccentric?” he asks softly, leaning towards Viconia.

“I think it's a requirement of having that much power,” Viconia confirms.  Vizaeth glances at Master Oblodra, knitting his brow.

“Hard to believe he's one of the most powerful spellcasters in Menzoberranzan,” he mutters.

“You could say the same about Master Zaurett,” Welvryn shrugs.

“My father tells me Lord Dyrr doesn't look like much either,” Viconia whispers.  “Oh, but I did hear something the last time my father visited; he had to speak to Archmage Baenre about something urgent.  I couldn't help myself.”

“Can you ever?” Vizaeth crinkles his nose.

“When the need arises,” Viconia grants.  “But I heard them talking about Baeloth Barrityl returning to the Underdark; he's been lurking around Skullport.”

“Baeloth Barrityl?” Vizaeth echoes in confusion.

“For how obsessed you are over his protege, I figured you knew who that was,” Viconia teases.  “Baeloth Barrityl is one of the Eight, he used to teach here.  I heard from some Masters that he took a personal interest in Master Mizzrym while he was a student.  I heard from others Master Mizzrym was as obsessed with Baeloth as you are–”

“Were,” Vizaeth interrupts, “I’ve moved on.  Pha–Master Mizzrym probably has too.”

“Now, yeah,” Viconia agrees.  “But back in the day?  He drove Baeloth to flee the whole city, ruined his reputation, spurred Matron Mizzrym to destroy House Barrityl, then took his place as the Master of Transmutation.  Baeloth hasn't taken on an apprentice since.”

Vizaeth looks uncomfortable now, as if the depths of what Master Mizzrym is capable of have truly dawned on him.  Or maybe he's considered those actions himself, who knows?

Vizaeth turns to Welvryn, as if eager to get off the topic.  “What did Archmage Baenre want from Mistress Baenre?” he asks.

“Kenafin insisted Master Mizzrym gave him a truesight lensed monocle,” Welvryn shrugs.  “The Archmage thinks if they confront Mizzrym, he’ll claim it was stolen.”

Vizaeth pales a little.  “What do you think?” he asks, his voice trembling just enough to sound like hesitation.

“Well, Master Mizzrym has fewer wards on his tower than most of the other Masters,” Welvryn grants with a shrug.  “And Kenafin has been caught trying to bypass wards before.  Plus, what motive does Master Mizzrym have to encourage Kenafin to attack Viconia?  Kenafin just wants to knock out a higher-ranked student, but Master Mizzrym’s only mishap was with your grades, and you’re not even the only student whose grades he fucked with.  Lord Dyrr rose all Nine Hells when he found out Master Mizzrym undersold Rhylfein’s Necromancy and Illusion scores.  Didn’t he also mess with your Evocation grade, Viconia?”

“And Divination,” Viconia nods.  “Not enough to disqualify me, but enough that father was cross.  Funny though, Evocation, Necromancy, Illusion, Divination, and Enchantment are the favored schools of the Eight, aren’t they?”

“Mostly Divination, Evocation, and Enchantment,” Master Do’Urden corrects as he sweeps in, Rhylfein at his heels.  “Zaurett and Dyrr are outliers.  It is also worthwhile to recall that the Eighth of their number, Xandaer Xibrindas, is not an archmage but an archdruid.”  Do’Urden sets a bottle on the end table beside Viconia.  “Take this when you’re ready to enter Reverie,” he instructs.  “It will dull the pain.”

“Thank you,” Viconia nods.

Do’Urden nods and heads over to speak with Oblodra, leaving Rhylfein to lean on Viconia's chair and tap her forehead.

“How’s my scaled weirdo doing?” he asks.

“I am surrounded on all sides by men,” Viconia answers.

“I'm sure that's such a nightmare,” Vizaeth sneers.

“I'm sure it's your dream come true,” Viconia returns with a smirk.

The door opens before Vizaeth can say anything else.  Veryan and Nadrak are ushered in first, followed by Quenthel.  Nadrak’s usual punchable grin is plastered across his face as he drops himself comfortably on Welvryn’s lap.  Veryan settles on the arm of Viconia’s chair, offering a speckled hand.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

Viconia nods.  “Just shaken,” she insists, but she takes Veryan's offered hand.

Oblodra and Do’Urden have stepped out, Quenthel is leaning by the cracked door, listening to a conversation none of them can hear.

“What happened with Kenafin?” Rhylfein asks.

“He squealed in a few minutes,” Nadrak replied.  “Like an iblith in a web.  Didn't save his other eye though.”

“He's being sent back to his house,” Veryan adds.  “With some…modifications.”

“What modifications?” Vizaeth asks.

“Arachnid modifications, when the transformation is over,” Veryan grins, and Viconia suppresses a shudder.

“His little group got lucky,” Nadrak adds.  “They're only getting twenty lashes apiece.  Kenafin just ran out of chances.”

“Kenafin put his hands on an archmage’s daughter,” Rhylfein reasons.  “He's lucky they didn't give him to Lolth.”

“They might as well have,” Viconia shrugs.

“Good riddance,” Rhylfein says with a scoff.  “After what he's done to you and Veryan?  I’m just mad I missed Veryan taking out his eye.  You did get to take it out right?”

Veryan smiles.  He does not answer.

The masters filter back in, though the Archmage stays at the door, glowering into the room.

“I'm sorry to ask all of you to stay here tonight,” Do’Urden says, “but Master Baenre insisted.”

Vizaeth pales at the remark, shrinking in.  “I-I’d rather–”

“It's a matter of your personal safety,” Quenthel speaks up from the door.  “With both a master and several students implicated, Gromph and I want a thorough canvas of all students and faculty.  I believe you and your nephew will be able to handle this, Master Jalynfein.”

“With ease, Mistress Quenthel,” Master Oblodra bows shallowly.  “Though, if I might borrow Apprentice Thaezyr for my interrogation of Master Mizzrym.  As I understand he is keen on appearing more forthright around his favorite pupil.”

Vizaeth shrinks in at this but says nothing.  On instinct, Viconia offers him her hand.  Vizaeth recoils initially, eyeing Viconia with narrow red eyes.

“You’ve nothing to fear,” she says softly, “I have no interest in hurting one who cleaned my wounds and defended my friends.”  Vizaeth still doesn't take the hand, but Viconia holds it out regardless.

“What did Viconia ever do to piss you off this much?” Nadrak asks.  “Or are you still sour about being used as a telekinesis test dummy?”

“She did it on purpose,” Vizaeth spits.

“Partially,” Viconia admits, making a face.  “I wasn’t planning on throwing you across the room.  I learned on iron golems, so I figured–since you’re so skinny–I could just do it with one hand.  Turns out, living targets are wiggly.”

Rhylfein snorts at that; Vizaeth looks less pleased.

“And your brother?” he asks.

“Surprise visit,” Viconia shrugs.  “And I’d apologize for Nal, but he’s unrepentant, and will do it again.  Maybe don’t try to sic a foulspawn on my family and we’ll be golden.”

Vizaeth does manage a smirk there, a small one.  “So, you knew nothing about any of your siblings showing up?  Even the priestess?”

“Nym’s friends with Zaurett,” Viconia points out.  “And, apparently, Master Do’Urden.”

“My younger brother’s an agent at Minauthkeep,” Do’Urden notes from the door.

“How is Dinin?” Master Oblodra asks cheerfully, and Viconia turns away from their conversation.

“You think they’ll serve us Evenfeast here?” Rhylfein is asking Welvryn, who grins back.

“I bet we’ll get the good stuff too, from the Arach-Tinilith kitchens,” he suggests.

“Mistress Baenre might tell the kitchens to make things I like,” Viconia offers.  “It might be a lot of seafood.  Steamed clams, crabs, stuff like that.”

“We’ll eat like Matrons,” Nadrak jokes.  “And raise a toast to poor, poor Kenafin, for being the hapless victim paying for our bounty.”

“You’re such a jackass,” Rhylfein holds back a laugh.

“Oh, ginger boy thinks he has room to talk, does he?” Nadrak bites back.

Viconia sinks a little more.  She silently notes Vizaeth has taken that offered hand and is holding it in a vise grip.  She wonders, though only to herself, if he’s going to stomach anything they’re served tonight.

Master Oblodra will take him to Master Mizzrym soon.

“You ready to face Pharaun?” she asks.  Vizaeth shakes his head, and Viconia closes her hand around his.

“Fuck him,” she says softly.  “Hear me?  Fuck him.”

“I have been.”

Viconia smirks.  “Yeah, now fuck him over.”

Vizaeth’s grip relaxes a little; his expression is eerily cold.  “I plan to.”