~ Nezznar ~

"A creature who‘s only known loyalty through fear, deserves non so in return."
~ Nezznar

Rejected by his house, robbed of his magic and cursed to live his life as a drider, he roamed the Underdark surviving and working to regain his powers. Now he has come to the surface to advance his searches for a cure to his curse.
Along the way unlikely allies cross his path and he is taken on a journey of discovery of the sun lit world and his shadow cast heart.

Nezznar once held one of the highest positions a male drow could attain. He used to be the appointed house wizard of his house Arane'argyn at only 255 years old. He, therefore, did not only need to live up to his matron's expectations but also exceed them.
For five years he did amicably so with no signs of falter. However, he was under no illusion his devotion would one day be tested.
When that day came he was called to the ritual chamber and told his loyalty would be scrutinized under the watch of Lolth herself. His task seemed rather uncomplicated, show his remarkable fighting skills in combat against a chosen fighter under the watchful eyes of his house and an envoy of the goddess.Throughout the fight, he sensed something at odds with the ritual and thought it to have gone wrong. When the masking of his opponent he hesitated to land the final blow as he didn’t trust his own senses anymore as he came to face with his youngest sister.
The moment of hesitation passed quickly remembering this was not a test about his judgment but about loyalty to the spider queen and he landed the finishing blow.
Despite that moment of hesitation passing in mere seconds and being victorious in the fight, he was told to have failed the test. The image of his sister had been nothing more than an illusion.
He was cast out of his house and cursed to live his days as a Drider, a transformation that does not only strip the subject of their magic but would also slowly turn them mad and transform their remaining drow upper body into a horrifically bloated form.
He had known about the Driders curse of course and knew feeble attempts at taking his own life by blade or fall would simply result in more suffering and being torn apart by some random beast, despite being nothing more than one himself still scratched at the last remainders of pride he still had.So he simply hid away in a cave far away from his own, waiting for the madness to take his mind and transformation to complete, knowing it would only take a few days, weeks at best, and it would all be over.
But time passed on and on and perhaps it was the starvation and dehydration that slowed the process but the completion never came.
The curse also causes him headaches and phantom pain in his limbs that are no more.
He begins to wander the Underdark wondering if the curse is not complete maybe he can train to regain his magic again, he becomes focused on finding a way to reverse the curse knowing its damn near impossible but its the only thing keeping him alive.
he also becomes less intent on rejoining drow society again even if he’d manage to reverse the curse.
Occasionally he hears smth ain to a melody in his mind not understanding what it is.
He steals magic books and finds ways to regain a fraction of th powers he used to have eventually even learning how to polymorph himself for brief amounts of times eventually xtending it up to a full hour.
He meets gallnut and eventually gets lead to the surface not entirely certain if its a good idea but he feelt like he has hit the rock wall in the udnerdark so might as well try. After decades of no sucess he becomes near obsessed with his goals and more and more depressed when no results come of omethign especialyl promissing.
In the surface he eventually finds phandalin and heads of the forge, where he meets Kil and Potae.

~ Potae Van'dir ~

"I go where life takes me and stay where I feel home."
~ Potae

Potae stands far taller than the average elf at a height of 188cm.
He's slender but well-defined due to his acrobatic training and days spent in the forge. His hair is a deep auburn color with streaks of fiery hues in between, increasing in amount under the summer sun. His locks are a mix of large corkscrew nes and smaller wavy strands. For work and travel, he ties it up and always keeps his sides and neck area short as he finds it to be uncontrollable otherwise.
Unlike most elves, he's able to grow a little goatee and keeps it neatly.
His skin tone is a warm sun-kissed tone and his entire body is littered with freckles, his cheeks always appear to be adorned by a soft blush.
On first glance, his eyes are a simple grey but in either sun or moonlight, silvery specks and internal reflections of icy blue shine through.
Potae will at all times keep an intricate golden earring adorning his left ear. Few know the significance of the jewelry and why he is so intent on wearing it at all times. Upon being asked he'll gladly explain that one of the rings attaching the small chains to his ear shell is part of a pair of which his spouse wears the other.

Background

Potae was born in the port city of Waterdeep to his loving Parents Lael and Vulvin Van’dir. Two elves who have left their studies of magic and life on the magical island Everlund behind to spread the fine artisanship of elven smithing on the sword coast.
Potae had noticed early on that he was different from his elven parents and friends in that in his early year where a young elf would normally experience memories of their divine homeland of avandor and their previous soul, Potae didnt appear to have any of those.
He was from the very beginning only able to recall his own memories in his resting meditations. hefelt no magic in himself but therefor also never experienced the yearning for a devine land that all elves underwent around their first century of life.In his youth his othernes had bothered him and he had tried to connect to his ancestors, but it wasnt long until he found the beauty in the mortal and mundane world around him.
He traveled all around the sword coast and the sea with his parents guild who he had become a skilled member off. Potae loved seeing different cultures and meet people and on top of a skill for smithing he developed a love for music and pcked up as many instruments as he could. The most unfortunate for most listeneres was the bagpipes who he finds to be one of the most ejoyable instruments. Whenever someone would threaten to poke a hole in the damn thing if he wouldnt take it somewhere else he’d glady switch to the violin (which wasn't much better at the start) or the lyre, the lute or flute, the list could go on.Eventually is travels took him to silverymoon where he not only finally stood on one of the biggest stages the sowrd coast had to offer but and gaines quite the reputation, if he had not already through spreading his art wherever he went.
He also met Lucien a Half elf who he quickly grew close to, fell in love with and move back to waterdeep where he’d support him in his dream to become a regarded fashion designer.
They exchanged vows to be each others half till death does them part not long after they moved.
Potae enjoyed the domestic life but it became clear he was a soul always out and about in the world. They had tried traveling togetehr but it was obvious his partner was not cut out for the road. Despite all odds they made their rather unconventionally and made it work . Potae would travel the world and go about his busines and always return home finding lucien wait for him.
Potae would occasionally forget his own heritage and so would the people around him. A dwarf had once said : “If it wasnt for those pointy ears o his I coulda taken him for just one of em rather prettier looking humans, boy's down to earth unlike most o' his cousins.-”Now that he’s been caught up in the adventure in tried to help Nezznar when al he had set out to do was finish up a job in Neverwinter , he’s reminded of it however more than ever.
Casting magical spells wasnt impossible for him but he could hardly do it without the support of music in his mind finding that music was the closest to magical he could ever be, preferring archery or simple swords for combat when necessary.

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~ Kilgharrah Cimbathul~

"I don't care what my father thinks, I will not let him use me to exploit others for his gain. I want to use my powers to actually help people."
~ Kilgharrah

From a strict and corrupt family of bankers, Kilgharrah has finally had enough of their ways and one day just went and left them all behind. Shortly after her father stripped her of all titles and status, but she didn't care. Now she is free to retrace the truth about her family's draconic origins and the source of her unique magical legacy.

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~ Mahira ~

"COMING SOON"
~ Mahira

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~ N'abal ~

"[...]I didn’t just one day fall into a sawmill and came out like this. I have a story to tell for each mark on my skin one crueler than the next, but knowing these scars didn’t make me, is was actually made me and taught me how to heal[...]"
~ N'abal

N’abal was the middle son of a middle house. Never adequate enough and constantly tortured by the whims of his matron and sisters, the only solace he had left was a song playing in his mind and a melody on his lips.
Then one day he was swept along by another Matrons mood, developing into him embarking on a journey of survival with her, which led them to the surface and further into the arms of the good-aligned goddess Eilistraee, who turned theirs into one of self-discovery and healing.

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Moonlit Blade

Chapter 1

The Matron and the Singer

250 years agoNearly inaudible to the ordinary ear, a young dark elf made his way with practiced ease and caution through the ever tighter twisting caves of the underdark.
As the third born male of his house he wasn't afforded the luxury of private quarters. He might have been granted this privilege by successfully undergoing training with their house's weapon master, an education at the fighting school of Ilindith’el or by demonstrating impressive magical skills after studying at the school for wizards, but by the end of his first century of life he had undergone education at all three and completed each, but never to the satisfaction of his house's matron.
So he remained insignificant and had never known what it’s like to fall asleep in a comfortable bed. All he had been given was a place in the servants quarters which consisted of a large community room with nothing but the floor and thin blankets, small enough so one had to decide whether to use it as cover for oneself or the ground.Regardless of his blood relation to the house's matron, he was treated no different from ordinary servants, who had either been acquired by taking them from weaker houses or simple purchase. More often than not he was treated even worse, being a noble disappointment was a far greater disgrace for a house than being a common drow in servitude.
According to this position free time and privacy was something that had ever been privy to him. Even after every dull daily task had been completed, when every curtain had been washed, every stair had been cleaned, every plate had been polished twice and trinkets around the house had been put in their correct position, he would simply have to stand at attention, facing the floor he had so meticulously cleaned and wait for new orders and whims from his sisters, brothers and other superiors of the house.
His Matron Jysleen, his biological mother, had an especially fearsome reputation amongst the nobles of Ilindith’el, she was considered cruel even for the twisted standards of drow.
N’abals many scars each told a tale of every mishap, faux pas and misspoken word he’d ever uttered. Some just told of the matron's ill moods, inflicting wounds upon him that had more than once nearly cost his life.
While almost all drow women tended towards these violent moods, most often cruel punishment was only taken in order to prove their worth and station to the drows' one and only goddess, Lolth the Spider Queen.
Matron Jysleen wasn’t predictable in this way, she simply seemed to take morbid pleasure from hurting one of her own.Right now however, N’abal wasn't thinking about what kind of punishment would await him this time, should he be caught again sneaking outside the bounds of his house. Over the years he had simply become numb to it. He had accepted the whips and knives, the sound of his own voice screeching in agony, ringing in his ear, as part of a daily routine almost as much as drying the dishes and hanging up clothes to dry.
Often he had asked himself why it had to be him who had to be born without any extraordinary talent for fighting or magic, doomed for the remainder of his life to be under the boot of his matron.
There was only one thing only he knew to be good at for sure. He had never been praised for it though, in fact been told to never do it without being asked to and treated harshly when he’d be caught doing it anyways. Nobody ever encouraged him to do it or let alone taught him the proper meaning or purpose of it, yet he knew he was good. It felt right, like breathing air, fresh air far beyond the caves he called his home.
He knew that if there was nothing else he ever did in life that had any value, no meaning to anyone, nothing done ever to proper satisfaction, that with his dying breath he wished to proverbially spit into his family's face and sing.
N’abal knew that he could sing and that he could do it well and that he liked it.So time and time again he made his way out here into a small side cavern he had discovered outside the regular paths of Ilindith’el’s city guard. Where he meticulously put up moss and little scraps of old rags to dampen the sound of his voice. Here he could retreat to and simply forget himself for a couple moments and embrace the soothing feeling that came over him now whenever he sang, quietly he started but a little light in his soul told him he musnt be ashamed. It was hard to hear but the more he sang the clearer he could hear it, each and every time.
It kept him alive.He remembered when the sensation started. It was hardly a decade ago, after what he only remembered as one of the worst days of physical and emotional abuse he had received till this day. Forced to watch his lover, whom he had found against all odds, be brutally tortured to death in front of him, have one of his own eyes burned out right after, followed by another beating and several cuts to his wrists. The only reason his matron decided to leave his other eye intact was that she promised he would come to see worse throughout his remaining centuries of servitude.
All previous experiences of torture paled in comparison to the agonizing pain he felt that day.
Whatever he drank or ate he threw right back up, whatever nerves remained in his right eye socket shot sharp pain right through his head and he wasn't sure if the ripping pain in his chest came from the beating or the loss of the only person he ever held dear.
Then, once all the other servants had left the quarters and no one was left to listen to his sobs, he heard it for the first time.
A gentle voice, faint but clear in the back of his mind that compelled him to sing. He couldn't even keep his voice steady at the time, his nose and throat still clogged with mucus, couldnt even properly breath through his shaking, but the kind voice stayed with him, coaxing him to repeat her sweet melody.
After minutes or hours of catching his breath, he finally dared.
As quietly as he could, fewer than four different notes, he felt just a little lighter and it didn't matter to him why.
She kept him alive.From that day on, he would find any opportunity to sing to himself, to repeat that melody in his head and heart that made him feel as if his life had worth.
He didn't know who or what the voice was yet but she was different from anything he was supposed to believe, so he told nobody.
It was after all blasphemous to follow any other voice than Lolth’s, punishment for which was a fate often worse than death or a life of misery.
Yet here he was, a young drow, making his way nearly inaudible to the ordinary ears through the tunnels outside the city to his one place where he found to have peace.☾⚬ ☾ ⚬ ☾⚬ ☾⚬ ☾Dust still settled behind her and the last crackling of the final magic spell cast still lingered in the air. Her ears rang and her heart raced, her hands were covered in blood.
She couldn't tell anymore how much of it was her own and how much was that of the last soldiers of house Maren’zel she fought off before making her escape.
Her left rib hurt and she was certain it had at least a crack, every breath felt like fire in her lungs, and only the knowledge that any indication, that could give away her position more would mean certain death, kept her from coughing heavily.
Adrenaline kept her feet running and carried her further and further away from the devastation she had initiated. She was in pain and fel disgusted, humiliated and angry beyond belief. This wasn't how anything was supposed to go, her entire house apart from her had been annihilated, and she was the one who led them toward their demise. Remorse and sorrow she felt for none of them, neither a sense of loss over their lives. What made her feel the worst was the emptiness inside her where previously she was filled with the most powerful clerical magic bestowed by Lolth the Spider Queen.
Mahira Mriggstreea was her name just this morning. Now she no longer had a house and would just be Mahira for the rest of her days, or simply worthless. Days if she was lucky, in her current predicament hours were far more likely. Every Matron in the city would know about her failure and would quickly spring to hunt her down and drag her before the council.
House Mriggstreea had been the second most powerful house in Ilindith’el and now instead of first, it was non-existent.
A little twisted smile spread across Mahira's face at the thought that at least the first house would also not retain its position as well, their Matron and all females in position as successor were dead after all, she had made sure of that.
However Matron Tienrea hadn’t been ruling the city as head of the first house for three centuries for nothing, she had tricks up her sleeve, the last of which was to set off magical traps tied to her life force that had wiped away any remainder of intruders to her house once the blood was drained from her heart. And so it did, nearly, as Mahira was still holding onto a stubborn sliver of life.
Before plunging the magical dagger in Tienrea’s heart, she had received a mental message that a couple of lower rank wizards and clerics had made an escape from the first house's complex and were already within the vicinity of giving word to the third. The message had then been cut prematurely by the magical defenses she had just triggered, killing the house's matron.
This message had spelled certain doom for her and now she was all out of magic.
Her failure to foresee this event and direct her own forces to let none escape the complex, had lost her all her lolthian favors.
Failing to cleanly execute a raid on another house was punishable by imminent death unless another house would take pity on the perpetrator house and take them in as servants.
Mahira knew no house would extend this ‘kindness’ towards her. She was barely in the middle of her third century of life, making her the youngest Matron Ilindith’el had ever seen, also making her one of the most resented ones. Nothing was seen as a bigger sign of arrogance than assuming the place of a matron this young of an age, it didn't matter if the circumstances justified it. Drow would be incredibly prideful in the efforts that go into attaining the power necessary to become a perfect Matron mother and at the time when Mahira had assumed her position she had been nowhere near that expected perfection yet.
She had just been powerful enough to sufficiently justify her position to the Spider Queen and therefore was tolerated as head of her house.
Dozens of times before, more than perhaps any other matron in her short lifetime, she had led successful raids on other houses, going for the first spot was only natural.
However this time she had toiled too closely with the Abyss and lost.
House Mriggstreea once 7th had become the second within a less than a century, a time span no other house had ever experienced before.
Now the days of glory were over for her and she was fleeing from the battlefield that should have marked her greatest victory.
Instead she had lost everything.
Her house and her powers were gone, what remained was the dagger at her hip and most of the blood in her veins. If she wanted to survive for a couple centuries more she needed to flee and regain Lolth's favor elsewhere. But to survive the next hour she needed shelter and a place to treat her wounds and rest first.☾⚬ ☾ ⚬ ☾⚬ ☾⚬ ☾N’abal sat quietly humming to himself when his sensitive senses picked up something and he stood up straight in alarm. The melody died in his throat, his heartbeat quickened and he tried to keep his breath steady.
Footsteps, somewhat uneven but with urgency approached his little cavern.
He knew this couldn’t be any of the city watch, perhaps a messenger but not with such staggering steps, which also rules out an assassin. No drow fighter would move about this clumsily approaching their target. So he held his breath and gripped the dagger at his hip and tried to make out who it could be approaching this hiding spot, knowing that staying quiet would do nothing ro conceal his presence from a fellow drow. Their kinds heat-seeing eyes would reveal his position like a glowing beacon anyhow.
As the stranger turned the corner, N’abal barely had the reflexes to dodge the tiny blade that came flying straight at his head. In the blink of an eye later he realized the maneuver for what it was, a distraction. He tried to shift his balance back onto both feet to not completely lose his footing.
He couldn't even get a proper look at his attacker before he had been twisted around by the arm and shoved harshly against the cavern's wall. All he had time to register for was the incredible strength and skill with which the maneuver had been executed. His attacker must have been a drow female or at the very least a skilled male fighter, however a little weakened.“What house do you belong to?!” Through gritted teeth a female voice snapped at him right at his ear.N’abal recognized the voice instantly.
Matron Mriggstreea?
He had only ever seen the youngest Matron of Ilindith’el a handful of times in his life, which was already a handful more than he had laid eyes on some other Matrons of the city. But everytime he did Mriggstreea had left a very distinct impression on him. Most Matron mothers would strictly forbid any low standing males to direct their gaze at them.
Matron Mriggsteea did not do so. During the times she had visited the schools of sorcery and warfare in lookouts for new potential additions to her house, she had insisted nobody take their eyes off her. She was to be given undivided attention and respect from anyone she would cross paths with and she reveled in it.“Your House and standing waelin’ne!₁” She demanded once more, shoving one of her knees into the back of his, destabilizing his footing even further, while holding her grip on him strong as if she wasn't in worse shape than this little man she just stumbled upon.“Jakyiel, House Jakyiel, second youngest son. I’m a servant.” N’abal managed to choke out with the sharp edges of stone pressing to the side of his face.A boy of the third house, away at this crucial moment? Matron Jysleen appears to not have such an iron grip on her sons as she lays claims to after all.
With a little luck he hadn't heard about the news of the fall of House Mriggstreea yet. She could use this to her advantage.
Under no circumstances would she let this boy back to his house and as tempting as killing him right here right now was, the ex-matron was keenly aware of her current state.
She was severely injured and running on her last reserves of strength and adrenalin. Should she not find aid soon she might be the one who’d not make it out of this cavern alive.
Her own healing magic had run out along with most of her other strongest spells, all she had left was her innate magic and fighting prowess and neither would stitch her wounds.
“Do you know how to heal!?”N’abal was already severely confused by this entire situation. What was the Matron of the second house doing all the way out here away from her house and without any escorts either? Not like he was in any position to question her, he was already expressing his utmost gratitude towards the Spider Queen that this servant of hers had not killed him yet. He couldn’t make sense of anything yet so he had instinctively replied on trained command.
“Yes Matron!, a little.”He could hardly make it much worse. Mahria thought to herself as she felt the stinging pain of her ribs once more and the throbbing in her head intensified.
With her last bit of strength she called out: “Turn on some light and get to work then!”, before giving into her aching muscles and pitifully slumping to the ground herself.Many years of servitude to his matrons had taught N’abal one thing above all else. You never question them and you never underestimate them even in their rarest moments of weakness. So he pushed all questions aside and did as she ordered.
As soon as the first of his glowing orbs of light dimly illuminated the small cavern and his vision shifted into the visible light, he immediately recognized why the Matron had asked him about healing with such urgency.

The usually pearly white dark elven hair of hers was nearly completely gray and brown and wildly out of array. It was interlaced with dirt and rubble, dust and blood from a large gash on her scalp. Some of the blood from the wounds on her hands had stained his arms and clothing as well, from when she had held him tightly just moments ago. Her face was surprisingly the most well kept part of her, only mild scratches, dirt and a split open lip stained her still impeccably shaped face. Her eyes however were in a haze from the telltale sign of magic drain and blood loss.
Like any skill he had pursued so far, healing wasn't his best either, but the punishment that would come for him of letting a drow female die under his hands would extend far beyond his death and would be far worse than any whipping could ever be.
So he began to recite the ritual words for the most basic of healing spells he knew, for now he had to make sure she’d stay conscious and breathing, every other injury could be treated later.As expected moments later no extraordinary soothing wave came over her but it was enough that her breath began to even out and she could focus her gaze upon him in the typically scrutinizing fashion of authority he came to expect from any drow woman.
“My left rib is cracked, focus on that next.”“Yes Matron.” N’abal replied and complied.Internally Mahira winced at the title. She was no longer entitled to be called as such, she had lost that privilege earlier that day, but she was certainly not about to give up the last bit of pride and confess to the events that led to her being in this state, in front of a lowly ranking male no less.
All she needed to do after this was to get away far, far away from the city that would no longer be her home and seek to reestablish her power elsewhere. The underdark was a vast place after all with thousands of caverns layered upon and below each other, somewhere she would find a way to redeem herself to the Spider Queen and once more take her rightful place in the ruling class of drow society. And this young man, she decided would be the very first new addition to her following.

₁ - drow language: shortened form of : young man. waelin - young nesst - man

Next Chapter

The Gates of Silverymoon

present dayTo be continued...