Salutations friends! It has been quite a bit of time since I have posted last, but in my absence, some very neat things have happened! Namely, one of those occurrences was the 22nd birthday of my older brother. This is a story I had written for him as a gift. This is meant more to archive it than anything so that if he so desires, he can read it here. Feel free to enjoy it as well! Many thanks and I hope you are having days of adventure and peace!
Yahnaiyaer’s eyes still felt that unfamiliar fire crawling over the film of his bright, feygreen irises. It had been a fortnight since the Drow fled the dark dwellings he had walked since his homeless childhood. And now he found himself wandering again. A thoughtful frown twitched onto his face. Perhaps he had never stopped.
The world here was bright. Too bright. The cerulean waves sparkled with crests of gold, endless, beautiful, and frightening, like the maw of some incomprehensibly large monster. Yahn had not heard many tales of the sea. There were few in the Guild who had ventured beyond the Underdark. There had been no need to. Though it made very little difference then, the young Drow begrudgingly wondered how useful the information would have been now.
The unbridled vastness of the ocean’s tide was far different than the smuggling tunnels he had grown to love. Instead of the sight of wort and moss filling in the sharp edges of rock faces, there were barnacles plastered to the side of the ship like the yellowed enamel of teeth. Rather than the damp, thick musk of earth and stone, there was the airy scent of sea spray and a faint, daintier smell of tropical fruits that occasionally lingered whenever the quartermaster saw fit to share them with the crew. Yahn had grown fond of that scent.
It wasn’t all brooding, though. Life aboard the Grace of Malia was not all that different from life in the Guild. There were plenty of things to steal, though the way they went about stealing employed a different form of strategy. There was drinking, dicing, card games, bets with both wins and losses, and the inevitable fights that followed. There was a code of respect between crewmates- even if it was not shared with the captain.
And then there was the captain- The crux of several problems Yahn was having at sea.
His introduction was nothing short of spectacular. One moment, Yahnaiyaer and Arândwil were in the penultimate moment of their daring escape. The next moment, the two of them were forcibly whisked away (they counted themselves luckier than the privateer captain, who Yahn did not doubt was still floating somewhere around the spot they left him) onto another vessel. It seemed almost as though Yahnaiyaer and crime were destined to maintain an intimate relationship. The Drow almost thought to be thankful for the pirate captain, were it not for the ugly sneer that the human offered him as they were directed by swordpoint onto the brig.
Their treatment, since then, had seldom been much more hospitable. It wasn’t for lack of trying on behalf of the boatswain or the skipper, both of whom offered some semblance of sympathy for the captured crew of the privateer vessel. But that was quickly superceded by Captain Edumund Orlos, who made it apparent day-by-day that he wanted neither of the dark elves living on his ship.
When the quartermaster had threatened him with a lash, Yahnaiyaer almost laughed.
So while he and Arândwil had escaped the clutches of cultish fanatics and traitorous sadists with far too much ambition for their own good, they landed in the hands of a maniacal pirate with a pension for chucking men overboard whenever he had temper tantrums. Out of the fire and into the frying pan, he supposed.
And speaking of the aforementioned thief…
Yahnaiyaer heard the puff of Arândwil’s exasperated sigh before he saw the man stumbling towards the rail. Yahn found the back of his neck buried in the crook of an elbow within an instant, another hand playfully coming to scruff the back of his head.
“Here I am hauling boxes around like some slave while you’re sitting here daydreaming. I guess some things never change.”
Yahn pulled a face at that and moved to swat at Arândwil’s arm. “Oh, boo hoo. You’re just used to me having to do all the work.”
Arândwil pulled a wicked smile and shrugged. “Also true. How did you do it for so long?” The taller elf threw his hands behind his head emphatically. “I’m exhausted!”
Yahn raised a brow. “I didn’t have much of a choice. You see, I have this really lazy friend who never pulled his weight-”
Arândwil put a finger in the air to interject. “Ah, ah, ah. Never, my friend? I did my share when we were in the heat of it. I must have been pretty useful, right? I mean, why else would someone kidnap me?”
“If half of the nobles were rich in work ethic and blood, I think they’d fetch a far higher price.”
Yahn shook his head dismissively. “Plus,” he offered a devilish smirk to his comrade. “I think it’s just because you have my name attached to you.”
“Oh, I see.” Arândwil drawled sardonically, his lip twitching into a sneer. “I wasn’t aware I was working with someone so prestigious. It’s no wonder a little beggar like me was swept away in all this bustle. It was all to gain the attentions of his most illustrious vagabond, so much more genteel than the rest of us.”
Yahn laughed and buffeted Arândwil on the meat of his back. “Why else would I be so pretty?”
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For the first time in a very long time, Yahnaiyaer was nervous. His hands kept itching to loosen the lacing on the back of the silver gorget that threatened to strangle him. It glinted at him menacingly from where he stood in front of the mirror, it’s weight a reminder of what he had agreed to do.
Yahnaiyaer, the free-spirited and vivacious thief and seafarer, was going to be married.
Yahn smoothed over his doublet for the fifth time, frustrated at the odd Aftokran ruffles that puffed out the front of his cravat like the plumage of some agitated bird. No matter how neatly he tried to arrange himself, the little voice in the back of his head urged him that it wasn’t enough. Lairëmeril would be beautiful, of that Yahn was certain. There was never a time when she wasn’t, and he had seen her in dire straits, when ugliness is prone to rear its ugly head. But she remained graceful. Even in wrath. Even in pain.
And he, of course, was still an urchin. An urchin with a pretty face, but an urchin nonetheless. Not that he thought that she would think any differently of him, but…
Yahnaiyaer swept a hand through his hair again, running over the small braids that held loose white strands away from his eyes. He stared long and hard at himself, a thoughtful frown on his features.
Was this what he wanted? He was almost certain it was love that he felt. How his heart beat so painfully and sweetly whenever Lairëmeril was around, it could hardly be mistaken. Could it?
I am afraid. The thought struck him like an arrow. But of what?
The turning of the tide beneath his feet did nothing to quell the queasiness building in his gut. Not that he’d ever admit that.
“Do you think she loves me? Really loves me?”
Yahn turned to his left. Nibenon, from his perch by the cabin window, stared at the Drow with intelligent eyes. The celestial monkey cocked his head to the side and chittered. Yahn sighed and pushed his hand through his hair again.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m worrying way too much.” He flashed a smile at his pet. “Thanks, Nibenon.”
The monkey chirred and darted from the perch down to Yahnaiyaer’s arm. The little creature began picking at the dark elf’s shirt with his lithe fingers, as if grooming him out for bugs. Yahnaiyaer let out a huff of amusement and scratched at the monkey’s head, his nerves dissipating into an air of confidence.
When she first met his gaze, Yahnaiyaer felt all the air leave his chest.
Her brow was dressed with a wreath of wildflowers, gentle pedals crinkling lightly in the gusts of seaside wind. The colors stood against the silver of her hair like drops of gold and carmillon. She stood tall, though she hid her face shyly behind some tufts of unbraided hair. When her silver eyes met Yahn’s own purple ones, he saw them dancing in the afternoon sun. She offered a demure and giddy smile, her fingers busying themselves with the hem of her dress.
Yahnaiyaer felt his eyes begin watering and wiped a sleeve at them.
When Lairëmeril came closer, Yahn looked up at her with a grin equally as gleeful and excited and nervous as the high elf’s own. The two of them never broke eye contact, not even when Yahnaiyaer nervously fumbled through his own vows.
The cause for the momentary lapse in composure was the fact that, despite his place at Beinion’s side, Yahnaiyaer never had a true last name. Or, if he did, he didn’t know about it.
When the moment came to pronounce the married couple, Yahnaiyaer had to bite his tongue to stop himself from cursing. Of course he probably should have thought things through before getting here of all places.
Thinking in the instant, Yahn’s mouth spilled the only word he could think of. Veryanwë. Wedding.
As soon as he thought of it, he was momentarily mortified. It came out of his mouth before Yahnaiyaer could even dwell twice on it. Based off of the look of shock that rippled across the faces of those who could understand Elven, he had said it out loud, and there was no turning back.
But before he could change it- before he could charmingly laugh it off like he always did and fix his mistake- Lairëmeril gave a genuine guffaw and smiled. There were tears in her eyes, kind and full of admiration.
“Then I, Lairëmeril Brona Veryanwë, shall be your wife.”
Yahnaiyaer had never felt so proud of a mistake in his entire life.
Out of the corner of his vision, Yahn could see Arândwil furiously dabbing at his face, muttering something about sea spray in his eyes.
And so the two of them were wed. Of course, there was much wine to go around. Even in keeping the celebration rather small, it was unavoidable to have Arândwil encouraging drinking and revelry. But as sweet as it all was, nothing mattered to Yahnaiyaer in that moment but the pressing warmth of Lairëmeril’s hand in his own, clasped together beneath the banquet table. They laughed and smiled at the jests and the antics of the other attendees, occasionally turning to share smiles and knowing looks with one another.
As Arândwil was spouting off another grandiose story about escaping the pursuit of the Underdark priestesses, Yahnaiyaer met Lairëmeril’s gaze. His newly wed wife simply held the contact, her eyes so soft and warm, and gave his hand a little squeeze.
Yes, she seemed to say. I know. I love you, too.
Perhaps, Yahnaiyaer mused. Married life won’t be so bad.
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When he arrived, there was no smell in the air that could deftly avoid the choking scent of burning.
It was everywhere: The trees could not escape the flames, nor the little carrot patch by the front door, nor the small apple orchard around the back of the cabin. And the cabin itself…
“Lairëmeril.” The thought turned time to sap in Yahn’s mind. His blood ran cold, ice lodged in the place between his heart and his lungs. His breath suddenly did not want to come. Instead, he could feel it grating in his throat, like the sob of grief and shock that threatened to slip from him.
The sound was so horrible, like the roar of a creature that crawled out of the Nine Hells. Yahn never knew fire could sound like that. It crackled across the landscape, leaving it blackened and dead, as if erasing the picture of the idyllic clearing from Yahnaiyaer’s memory.
But she wasn’t there. She couldn’t be there. No one could survive that.
It had been burning for some time now, a distant thought told Yahnaiyaer as he numbly eyed the remains of nearby willow stumps. She could have escaped. She had to have.
But she wasn’t there.
The blood left Yahn’s knees before his mind had time to process what his body was doing. He sank to the dirt, not caring how hot the earth was below his hands nor how it caked his fingers painfully. Instead, he dug them in deeper. He needed to feel something aside from numbness. Hollowness.
It was miles on until he hit town again. Yahnaiyaer didn’t mind. He could hardly think. He needed to be away from here. Anywhere would do.
Wordlessly, with one long look at the forlorn remains of his once happy life, Yahnaiyaer turned North and rode off.
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“How much longer are you planning on staring off into oblivion for, Drow?”
The brash, haughty voice of a certain cantankerous dragonborn jerked Yahnaiyaer from his thoughts. His eyelids fluttered as he looked back out the window of the carriage, watching the trunks of mossy oaks as they passed by. He craned his head to look at his companion.
Malik’al was hunched over uncomfortably in his seat, his horns still managing to scrape the roof of the cabin. He looked displeased (as he often did, Yahn found), his icy blue eyes flicking over Yahnaiyaer with irritated curiosity and a subtle hint of concern.
The Drow blinked once, then shifted his hand from its place resting below his chin into his lap. Yahn offered a small shrug in response.
“Thinking.”
“That’s a first…” The mumble was snark, but there were no barbs in Malik’al’s voice. Instead, the ice prince fixed on Yahnaiyaer a disinterested glare. “Praytell, what about?”
Yahnaiyaer smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
His smile widened as he watched the noble squirm frustratedly in front of him. It had been a few weeks of this dynamic. They had developed a strange sort of half-friendship half-animosity that the dark elf wasn’t sure what to make of. Still, the awkward dragonborn had been the closest approximation of a friendly face in this part of the world, despite his blatancy towards racial ignorance and a stubborn unfriendly demeanor.
At the very least, he made for entertaining company.
Malik’al sniffed and turned his snout in the air, only looking at Yahnaiyaer from the side of his vision. “I doubt it was terribly interesting, anyway.” The dragonborn turned his head back towards the map stretched out between his hands. “I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out where we were headed to next. The directions were not particularly clear.”
Yahn frowned at that. He tilted his head to glance over the map. “Didn’t we want to head further in? Towards the eastern border? Feredir and Del Ray should be expecting us, I’d imagine. We promised we’d meet back up.”
Malik’al let out a pretentious huff. “I highly doubt that the carriage would take us far through this jungle mud. Besides,” He cast a glance at the darkening sky that was barely visible through the treeline. As if on command, the horizon rumbled lowly with a tremor of thunder. Malik’al turned back towards Yahnaiyaer with a grimace. “I think the skies are due to open up again. I’m highly surprised that we managed to make it this far without rain.”
He was right, Yahn knew. There seemed seldom a day without rain here. It was practically flooding when they first arrived.
When The Fantasist landed and the party had first set foot on the tropical land of the New Continent, the first order of business had been investigating whispers of missing colonists, treasure and magic bound further Eastward on the landmass. Feredir had been itching to delve further in at the mention of exotic game, and the lively Del Ray was not far behind in her own excitement. The group agreed that Quesar, Yahnaiyaer and Malik’al would stay behind and resupply while Feredir and Del Ray got their bearings.
It had been a day since then, meaning that the other half of the party was likely all set up in their travelling campsite somewhere in the humid forests. That left Yahn and Malik’al with a decision to make. It was the Doronian who first suggested (or more accurately complained) that they should travel by quicker and more comfortable means while they still could. The governor of Kurawatten had offered them a carriage and horse for their travels outward, so long as they left them both at the boundary between the roads and the wilds.
But seeing as how difficult the land was to navigate by cart, Yahn could only imagine how difficult it would be to travel by foot. He was still trying to wrap his head around how far our Del Ray and Feredir could have gotten.
Malik’al seemed to think the same, making a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat as his eyes swept over the considerable foliage. “Still… They should be around here somewhere.” Again, Yahn caught it: The way that those eyes flashed with worry, even if for the briefest of moments.
Yahnaiyaer watched for a breath before offering a small smile. “I’m sure they’re fine. No need to be worried.”
The dragonborn shifted stiffly upright. He opened and closed his mouth derisively, then hissed out and looked away. “I am not worried.”
Yahnaiyaer scoffed lightly. “Sure you’re not.”
The dark elf could practically see red rise in the face of the white scaled prince. “I half wish you were lost alongside them. Then I might at least have some peace and quiet.”
Yahn raised a brow. Malik’al returned to grumbling into his map, though his fingers were starting to worry the edges of the parchment agitatedly. The dark elf thought to perhaps have one more humorous comment in before his ears caught a sound on the wind.
Malik’al must have noticed Yahn’s worried expression. The thief leaned his head out of the window. Quesar was gripping the reigns tightly in the front of the cart and seemed to slow the horses down to a cantor, and hearing them whinnying frantically was less than reassuring. “Whoah, whoah! Hey now! What’s wrong?!”
The dark elf narrowed his eyes and scanned the trees. A slight movement, maybe? Further in, the sunlight was shifting between the fronds of a few palms sparsely packed in the dense brush. A moment later, his companion caught onto it, too. The dragonborn leaned over, his cool breath tumbling out in a sigh.
“What now?” With a growl, he turned out his own window and raised his voice. “What’s the hold-”
“..uuuuUUUUNNNNN!”
The group on the road seemed to just be on the cusp of hearing to catch the end of a panicked shout. Yahn strained his ears, his eyebrows furrowing. Was that… Feredir?
Perking up and listening again, Yahnaiyaer tried picking out different sounds. Maniacal laughter from a feminine voice sounded in the distance, as well as the footsteps of two runners and… The lumbering of something very large.
Yahnaiyaer backed away from the door of the carriage just as an earsplitting screech ripped through the air. The dark elf leapt through the opening with ease, planting his feet on the broken road and bracing himself. He could hear Malik’al sputtering out curses behind him as he extricated himself from the cart. And Yahnaiyaer looked back just in time to see the terrified face of Feredir sprinting right towards him, his long blonde hair bouncing freely behind him in the dappled sunlight pouring through the trees.
“Oh, boy!” The murmur came from the back of the cart, where Quesar was pulling his long wooden staff off of a leather-laced side panel
The young half-elven lad came skidding to a halt in front of Yahnaiyaer, his chest heaving and sweat pouring into his terrified hazel eyes. The Drow had hardly a moment to process what was happening.
“Feredir! What-”
Another high pitched wailing shriek carried through the air. Malik’al clasped his hands over his earholes.
“Doron, what is that awful noise?! Where have you been?! Where is the demon?!” The dragonborn made his way over to the other two, gritting his sharp teeth. Feredir shook his head and pointed a finger in the direction of the jungle.
“She’s- It’s- There’s a-”
“GIANT CHICKEN!”
Yahnaiyaer had only a second to wonder if he had heard that correctly before the shape of Del Ray- followed rather quickly by a very large silhouette- came bursting like a blue bolt of energy onto the road.
And then said giant chicken joined them. Yahnaiyaer laughed out loud, and his brain reprimanded him for it. It was big alright. And it definitely looked like a chicken.
“What in the name of the Gods?!” Malik’al’s voice sounded equal parts exasperation and horror. Feredir, bow still in hand, drew an arrow from his back quiver. Del Ray, sweaty black hair plastered to her forehead and horns, cackled and pointed a finger at the giant beast.
“This place is wild!”
Yahnaiyaer had to agree. In a swift movement, he slipped his daggers from their place at his side. This was about to get interesting.
The fight that followed was hectic to say the least. The bird had petrifying breath. Good to know. It wasn’t until Yahnaiyaer felt a sluggishness in his arm that he even considered panicking. Based off of the others’ reactions, the feeling was very much mutual.
However, with a few restorative spells and mild bouts of cursing, the team was back to their normal healthy (if not mildly shaken) selves. Plus, they now had a better idea of how different this continent really was. It proved to be helpful information, if not marginally terrifying.
The aftermath of the battle left them with one massive, gamy carcass. Apparently sometime between making camp and fleeing an angry, pertifying-breathed bird, Feredir had managed to collect and amass a fine helping of herbs and mushrooms. So while four dined on poultry, one dined on fungus. It wasn’t great, though it wasn’t unpleasant by any means. It made for a finer meal than the meager fillings they had shared when they first came to the New Continent.
And seeing Feredir smile as he sprinkled ground mustard seeds over the bird’s meat was something that made the meal a little sweeter.
Yahnaiyaer sat by the half-elf on a mildewy log as the others hovered around the cookfire, cutlery and mess kits in hand. Yahnaiyaer had cooked his own portion not a little bit ago and was currently giving it a taste. As it hit his tongue, he offered an encouraging grin. “This is pretty good. Still not sure if I’m going to turn to a statue after eating it, but it’s not bad by any means.”
The young ranger allowed a pleased expression to spread over his features, meeting Yahn’s gaze before flicking his eyes back down to the cured meat in front of him. Yahnaiyaer noted the tinge of pride in Feredir’s posture.
“Thanks. I used to help out with making dinner a lot back home.”
“Anybody teach you? Or do you just have experience with frying colossal birds on a whim?”
Yahnaiyaer meant it in jest, but he did not miss the way that Feredir’s smile faded at the question. The bowman rubbed his arm subconsciously, his eyes darkening minutely.
“Once. Then I kind of taught myself after that, I guess. I… don’t really cook all that much anymore.”
Yahn glanced down at the boy’s hands, which were fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. He pretended not to notice the warped flesh of the younger man’s arm peeking from beneath the cuff of his shirt, nor the faroff glance that built behind his eyes. He did not need to ask what it meant. After all, Yahnaiyaer had worn that look before. Instead, the Drow gave a miniscule nod and patted Feredir on the shoulder.
“Well, however you want to make food, if you keep making taste like this I’ll be happy. This is pretty damn good.”
The comment seemed to break Feredir out of whatever mood he had stumbled into. He looked graciously to Yahnaiyaer and nodded. Without a word, he tore off a small strip of salted cockatrice and chewed on it.
The rest of the night passed, refreshingly, uneventfully. A little bit of bickering banter between Malik’al and Del Ray- with plenty of mentions of “snowflakes” and “demons”- some setting up snares on Feredir’s part, and organizing their stock for the coming day were the liveliest things that passed. And Yahn was happy for that.
When night came over the jungle, it painted their shady little spot a dark indigo. Malik’al and Del Ray tucked away into their respective tents, while Feredir strung up a hammock for himself to sleep in, and Quesar drew some kind of magic circle in the dirt and began to meditate. Yahnaiyaer found a low-bearing tree, ancient old boughs dipping downward like reaching hands. He accepted their offer and quickly made his way up around fifteen feet or so between finding the crook of the tree.
If there was one thing that Yahnaiayer could appreciate about the world above the Underdark, it was the existence of stars. On the New Continent, they were inescapable. Even on dark, cloudy nights such as the one they shared now, the firmament glittered like jewels in the side of a smuggling cave. The deep purple clouds rolling over the moon did not stop them from glittering beneath the thin haze. Yahnaiyaer just laid back and stared, his fingers splayed between the branches of the thin live oak. The sounds of the hammock rang all around him, from the gentle hum of the last evening cicadas to the noisier chime of crickets. He even thought he might have heard the chirping of an animal that Malik’al had identified as a frog. Those little beasts sounded like the strangest ones yet.
Sleep found him soon, comforted by the blankets of grey moss overhead. This place was no paradise, but maybe, given the company, he could get used to it.
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For as ancient and decrepit as the tombs of Titano could be, the stench that poured from the old catacombs was not as fierce as Yahnaiyaer thought it might have been.
The smell of Necropolis’ rotting flesh shifting about as he ascended through the ziggurat, however, most certainly was.
Yahn’s hand was still clutched tightly onto the loose stones. Moss clinging to the walls left his fingers slimy and slippery, but despite the way that they drooled out, Yahnaiyaer was more than accustomed to scaling damp caves and windows back home. It would take more than a little wort to stop him.
Though he would admit, the rain cascading down through the opening of the roof did not help.
When Yahnaiyaer finally reached some semblance of stairs, his knees felt like jelly. He wobbled for a moment uncertainly before bracing himself and bolting upward. The mud brick crumbled beneath his feet, ancient ground giving way with every step he took. The dark elf knew he couldn’t look down, because that was bound to end in disaster.
So instead he looked up.
The instant that he did, through the droplets of rain pooling in his eyes, Yahnaiayer saw a bright flash of purple erupt into a sphere, crackling like ozone in the air. His confidence waned. The wind was whipping around violently, shaking the fronds of palms and making an eerie howl slip into the evening air. The trees clacking bones trembled without abandon, until the sound was almost numbing.
In the center of the sphere, pouring over the tome- The Book of Souls- was Necropolis. His thinning lips were drawn taught in concentration, the pores in his pliable flesh glistening with fresh rain and ichor. Those white, long-dead eyes searched, glazed and endless, down into the names of the most powerful beings of the Planes. Choosing, perhaps, picking out the best ones. Or simply finding the right commands. Yahnaiyaer did not know.
But he did know that he had to stop it.
He didn’t recognize the weight of his daggers in hand. He felt his legs brace and his mind turn to embers. Without a cry, without a sound, the embodiment of a shadow, Yahn pounced with the teeth of his weapons honed in on Necropolis’ back.
The Drow collided with an explosion of lavender sparking in small tendrils of electricity around him. It was then that Necropolis turned on his heel in the instant, flashing with what looked suspiciously like panic and anger. Wroth, the corpse only turned its head in Yahn’s direction, chipped and blackened teeth grit together.
“Fool!” The word was hissed in a shuddering voice, in maggot lined lungs whose holes pressed out the words venemously. “Leave now! You have done your part to help cleanse this world. You needn’t have any further inclusion!”
But despite the fatigue washing over him, and despite the way his arms protested the new tension straining against them, Yahnaiyaer pressed harder against the barrier.
There it was. The vibrant verdant tips of his knives just managed to slip through, glinting hotly in the hues of arcane emittance and inching ever closer to the tattered shell of Necropolis.
But the creature’s hands were moving faster, his gaze flickering more assiduously, his mouth moving at an incrementally faster speed than before.
Yahn squeezed his eyes shut and pushed. There was a pressure, now, of solidity against his weapons. A little further, and it would slide into flesh. Yahn had to continue.
His teeth were left rattling in his skull as lightning split the sky and painted the land white, blindingly so. And then the world exploded into gold, as well, so incomprehensibly light was it Yahn did not know if he had lost his vision altogether.
And when he opened them, Necropolis, as well as the city of Titano, were both gone.
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It felt strange, being back home. Especially since Yahnaiyaer wasn’t quite sure where home was anymore.
It was stranger still being here with the surface dwelling companions he had forged friendships with. Like hosting some alien beings in a foreign land. They were so conspicuous, so sorely out of place, that the entire thing seemed like a ridiculous dream.
It was in this moment that Yahnaiyaer wished it were.
They were sent to go and retrieve a delegate of the Mysteriarch’s band of outcasts. It was meant to be a peaceful mission, but Yahnaiyaer knew that the Drow were anything but peaceful.
Things hadn’t been going well for them as of then. They had not found much out in the first few days of their visit. It didn’t help that his hotheaded royal friend decided to toss his princely decorum out of the window when conducting business with the bullheaded representatives of the gentry. However, with the aid of Beinion, the group did eventually manage to pick up a tantalizing lead into some less than savory business dealings pertaining to one particular god of mischief.
The discovery of a malicious alliance between the High Priestess of Lolth and several powerful demons was far too insidious to be ignored. Yahnaiyaer did not consider himself a champion of great morals by any means, but he did enjoy having a family and he did enjoy having his Guild in one piece. As horrible as it was, this was the place he grew up. He couldn’t give a rats ass about the nobles- better if some of them were gone anyway- but for all of the fellow street rats and beggars and thieves… Yahnaiyaer found that part a little personal.
It was supposed to be quiet. Get in, get out. Just like every bit of business conducted in the Underdark. Yahn knew his friends and he knew their habits, but he hoped with all his heart and soul that they would catch on to this fact. It was the difference between life and death down there.
Unfortunately, they seemed to err on the side of death.
Yahnaiyaer had been mere inches away from the Priestess’ purse, so close that he could feel the tips of his fingers brushing the cloth of her gown. But then a streak of light and fire shot through the air, and literally all Hells broke loose.
Yahnaiyaer could not remember much of the battle past glimpses that his brief bouts of consciousness allowed him. The burst of lightning spouting from Del Ray’s hand. Lok-Tar turning tail and fleeing. The mangled shaggy black body of Hjalmar. The look of fury in Feredir’s eyes. Holding onto Malik’al, watching those blue eyes mixed with fear and hope as they looked up at their savior. The blackness of the void thereafter. Yahnaiyaer recounted very little, except the knowledge that his friends had been stuffed into that magic bag, and he had been shoved back out of it when they were on the other side. The other side… of what? Of the boulder. Feredir gave it to him. Told him that he had to run. Keep running…
His friends.
The thought rippled through his synapses painfully. Yahnaiyaer felt a tight squeezing in his chest. Where were they? Where was he? He saw only rusted iron bars in front of him.
Yahn opened his mouth to speak, but his bruised jaw went slack and his voice failed to summon. With a cough, Yahn tried again, only to choke on dust tickling the length of his throat. Hacking and wheezing, he leaned heavily against his binds. With gritted teeth, he gave another go. He almost felt ashamed of the way his voice whined out, like the whimper of a child.
“...hello? Malik’al? Feredir? Del Ray?”
“Hello?” A voice answered back. The way it spoke was dreamlike, disbelieving, and was almost unidentifiable with how it was so small and scared. And yet recognition flashed into Yahnaiyaer’s mind like a spark.
“Malik’al. M-” The Drow wheezed, fighting the dryness of the dirt constricting his vocal chords. “Malik’al, it’s me. It’s Yahnaiyaer.”
“Yahnaiyaer?” The voice again trembled. The stupefaction there threatened to make Yahn’s eyes water. Instead, he chuckled darkly.
“I’m glad to see you remember my name.” The dark elf tried sarcastically, ignoring the pain lacing through his chest.
“Where are you? I-I cannot see you. It is so dark.” Yahnaiyaer heard the rattling of chains and the shifting of weight to his right. Yahn again fought the urge to laugh, though this one felt full of relief. He felt a small smile twitching to his lips and ignored the sting in his eyes.
“To your left. I can hear you moving around.” Yahnaiyaer jangled the chain of his iron cuff. He felt his chest tighten as the dragonborn’s laborious breath hitched. A sob echoed around the hallway of the cells.
“Oh Doron, I- When I woke up, I didn’t see any of you and… And I thought…”
The sentence died pitifully in Malik’al’s throat. Yahnaiyaer nodded, though he knew the dragonborn was not like to see it.
“I know, I know.” He tried his best to make his voice soft. Comforting. Instead, it had the effect of a disused mining cart, squeaky and painful.
“W-Where are the others? Where’s Del Ray? Where’s Feredir? Where’s Lok-Tar?”
“Guys?”
At the mention of their friends, another voice joined them. The two knew it in an instant, even if it sounded far more emotionless and strained than it ever had. Yahn could hear clawed fingers grasp the bars to his right.
“D-Del Ray?! Can you hear us?!”
There was a moment of silence before the sound of something akin to a curse and a cry gently came through, almost inaudible. Then the tiefling answered back with as much energy as Yahnaiyaer gathered she could muster.
“Yeah! I can hear you! Still as arrogant sounding as ever, Snowball!”
Yahnaiyaer had to chuckle at that. He heard Malik’al draw a painful breath from the cell beside him.
“Where are you right now?!”
“You think I know?! I just woke up ! Where’s Feredir?!”
Feredir. Yahnaiyaer blinked. Something somber plagued his mind, the piece of a memory he could not quite connect. The only thing he remembered was the spark of determined fire in hazel eyes, solemn and tenacious.
And then he remembered the bag. And the boulder.
The cries of Feredir’s name numbly cascaded overhead as Yahnaiyaer stared into the broken stone that made up the floor. His ears perked to small drips that fell onto the ground in front of him. Yet he had trouble seeing for a moment. He had trouble breathing.
“...He’s not going to answer.” It was so quietly spoken that Yahnaiyaer scarcely heard it himself. But it seemed to have caught Malik’al’s attention, seeing as how the word ‘Feredir’ stopped slipping from his mouth.
“What?”
He would not answer. Yahnaiyaer knew that. There was a reality he was sick to face. But this ordeal- the fate of those who were alive now? That could change. They could be saved.
“...Hold on.” Yahnaiyaer coughed to the side, his eyes scanning his restraints. “We’ll be okay. We’re going to get out of here, together.”
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He had been young. Too young. A half-elf at that, and Yahnaiyaer knew they didn’t age like full fey. If he had been as youthful as he looked, than he hadn’t lived more than sixteen or seventeen years.
Yahnaiyaer wished he had asked while he had the chance.
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“Toad Prince, Toad Prince!” The taunt rumbled out in a loud, endearingly obnoxious croon. Lok-Tar still was pointing at the now far less pristinely put together Malik’al, who looked ready to draw blood. The mottled dragonborn offered a sharp glare in the half-orc’s direction, though it was made softer by an underlying affection that he shared only with his friends.
“If you keep chanting on like that, I shall show you just how vicious a Toad Prince can be.” The dragonborn declared with a sniff. The approximation of a smile threatened to loom on his draconic features.
Yahnaiyaer joined in on the fun. It had been a stressful bout of days as of late, having had lost Del Ray to the angel Barael in the caves of the Underdark and dealing with the aftermath of Malik’al’s sudden… transformation. Yahn still dreamt of those moments; of an illusory head toppling from all too familiar shoulders. Of a strong red hand gripping his neck as the Drow desperately pressed an emblem to the prince’s chest with his last breaths. Now that they weren’t in the Underdark, the pain and the loss still lingered in the dark elf’s mind. But being out in the crisp, open air of the mountains again had been somewhat necessary for the three remaining members of Manu Dei.
Yahnaiyaer still hated that name. But he found that he didn’t care, so long as he was with those friends of his who were in it.
“What will you do to us, Toad Prince?” Yahnaiyaer jested, a wicked grin seeping onto his face. “Will you ‘make us croak’? ‘Catch us like flies?’”
Those blue eyes shifted dangerously onto Yahnaiyaer for a moment, before Malik’al feigned haughty distaste. “As my first order of business…” Yahn could already see the demeanor breaking. “It shall be dealing with people who make terrible puns. The punishment is death”
Yahnaiyaer returned a poised look. “Then I declare an insurgency.”
Lok-Tar flicked his excited gaze between the two, then burst with energy.
He leapt at Malik’al with a bellow. “MILITARY COUP!” Yahn watched as the two of them tumbled into the mud. Yahnaiyaer laughed at the display, until a fist bunched round his leg and dragged him down in.
It was like childhood again. The three of them splashed, laughing openly and unabashedly as they wrestled by the bankside. Malik’al covered his eyes with one hand, slapping mud in Lok-Tar and Yahn’s direction while cackling this oddly sonorous laugh of his. Lok-Tar was howling as he dived after Yahnaiyaer this time, but the mud made Yahn’s reflexes extra slippery, and he slid over the brute’s back with ease, his chest huffing happily.
Using the opportunity to distance himself from the others, Yahnaiyaer clambered back onto the bankside, phantom laughs puffing from his lips as he wrung out the water from his pant legs. His mind turned pensively for a moment, then he watched wondrously at the two still splashing about in the water.
A part of Yahnaiyaer wondered how long this mirthful moment would last. Another part of him didn’t care. When you grew up a Drow, you took happiness where you could.
And now? Now that rule applied to everyone.
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“Yahnaiyaer?”
The voice drew the dark elf back to the present. An intense sensation of cold stung his eyes, and he blinked to chase away the flare of pain that swam over the bridge of his nose to his cheekbones.
Dazed, Yahn was bewildered when all he saw was white. Then he remembered himself. His mind spelt out the scene in front of him.
Doronis: The patron city of the white Dragonborn. And now, as it had been recently decreed, in part his own.
He hadn’t wanted that, (not particularly, anyhow) but it seemed that the world seldom cared for what Yahnaiyaer wanted. It had been proven as much with his wife. With his family in Reena. With the first time that death had stolen his Dragonborn brother.
Yahnaiyaer reclaimed his brother. He would reclaim his wife and his Guild next. He closed his eyes. When he had them, he would be sure not to let them go this time.
“Yahnaiyaer?” The voice inquired again. Yahn felt himself smile. It was the heartiest he had heard that tone in quite some time. The dark elf turned from the alabaster balcony, drumming his fingers on the guard rail in a quiet hum as he did so. He came face to face with Malik’al, who was adorned now in what Yahn assumed (by the rest of the people’s attire he had seen here) was traditional clothing. His black horns were tucked away neatly beneath a blue and silver turban, and the golden rings around his jaw spikes jangled as he approached. The dragonborn smirked as he locked eyes with the dark elf, quirking a brow.
“Did you lose something out there? I dare say you won’t find it anytime soon.” The Doronian prince made his way over to his natural place at the right side of Yahnaiyaer, casting a look over the waist high wall with an easy smile. “There have been so many snowdrifts coming in this season, I doubt anyone could make their way through them… let alone a Drow like yourself.”
Yahn smiled lopsidedly and feigned an arrogant tone. “Excuse me, sir, but you are addressing Doronian royalty. You should know I have magical eyes that can see beyond the expanse of space and time. Can’t you see the speck of blue?”
Malik’al huffed at that. “That is absolutely untrue. You have as much of Doron’s blood in you as Adair.” Malik’al grinned and hummed to himself, musing. “Although that doesn’t make you any less my brothers, it certainly does mean that you cannot see through all of this.”
“And you can?” Yahn countered. Malik’al lifted a horned brow.
“Well now, I didn’t say that.”
It was almost strange to see the more often than not dour man taken so comfortably to grinning. It put Yahn in a good mood, which was difficult to do nowadays.
“Scandalous. I’ll have to report this to the farmer’s immediately. They were relying on you to see into the future and predict the weather.”
“Well, I may not be able to predict the weather per say,” Malik’al began. He reached into the breast pocket of his robe. Yahnaiyaer quirked a brow. His expression became even more bewildered when the Dragonborn took out a long, thin scroll of golden embossed parchment. “But I do have my own powers of divination. Mainly in the form of messengers.”
Yahn looked over the scroll curiously as Malik’al extended it to him. As he unraveled it, the Drow almost chuckled. Of course it was written in Draconic. Why wouldn’t it be? “Ah, yes. A very important message. Now would you mind demonstrating your lordly grace and read it to me?”
Malik’al shook his head with a grin teeming with mischief, and that baffled Yahnaiyaer even more. “I think this is a message best read by its intended recipient. Besides,” Malik’al’s gaze shifted from one of mirth to one of scrutinization. “I’d like to know whether or not you’ve actually been attending those lessons I’m paying for.”
Yahn gulped at that. As a new heir to the kingdom, (again, nothing he asked for) it was expected of Yahnaiyaer to be able to communicate freely with his subjects. As such, Malik’al had taken gold from his personal finances and all but commanded Yahnaiyaer to attend language classes. Yahn had wanted to go… well, perhaps that was an embellishment of the truth. The instructor was so terribly boring. Despite the droning, Yahnaiyaer had managed to pick up on some words. His skills were rudimentary, but by no means was he confident in them.
So as he nervously crumpled the edges of the scroll in hand, he let slide an easy laugh. “I’m still kind of learning, you know.”
Malik’al’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Well, I should dare say this is a rather simply written note. So please,” he gestured with one open hand. “Do your best.”
Yahn didn’t miss how that glimmer of mischief still quirked on the edge of the dragonborn’s mouth, and so, with a sigh, resigned himself to read the note.
His eyes skimmed a few words. ‘Boat’ was one he knew well enough. There was ‘coin’, and there by it ‘merchant’. Those he kept well in his mind as the new Master of Trade. Then there was…
A word caught Yahn’s eye and had him stop immediately. It wasn’t a Draconic word by nature, but it had taken him a few seconds to process it nonetheless.
That was because, staring up at Yahnaiyaer from the page, was the name ‘Arândwil’.
Yahn gaped for a moment more, then hazarded a glance up at Malik’al. The smug bastard seemed to be drinking in the dark elf’s shock like jallab. Yahnaiyaer turned the paper over in his hands, suddenly very anxious.
“This- What- How- What is this, Malik’al? What does it say?” Yahnaiyaer thrust the paper urgently in the dragonborn’s direction. Malik’al in turn upturned his palms and grinned.
“Brush up on your reading lessons and I’ll tell you. Better yet, you can read it yourself.” The prince’s stern glare softened into a teasing tone. “But I will tell you this; Go pick out some decent clothes you fancy. We have a royal visit to the docks tomorrow afternoon.”
———————————————————
“Malik’al.” The name Yahn uttered was one spoken with genuine surprise. There, standing on the road leading down to the natural inlet, was Malik’al dressed down in semi-fine garb. He turned to Yahnaiyaer, and an impatient scowl lingered on his face.
“It’s about time you got here. I thought you were going to be late.”
That… puzzled Yahnaiyaer. The Drow raised a brow. “Late? Late for what, exactly?”
As if on cue, the sound of wheels on cobblestone and the clop of horses hooves rang out into the crisp air. Malik’al turned to his friend, barely contained excitement replacing his exasperation.
“Well,” Malik’al began, clearing his throat. “After I had received word of your friend Arândwil coming into port, I realized how it might be good for you to have all of your family in one place. So I extended some royal summons.”
The closed cart pulled closer, dim orange lanterns dangling on the sides of the doors. The windows on the cart were curtained and offered Yahnaiyaer no glimpse of whoever or whatever was inside, but regardless his heart thumped unsteadily in his chest.
Malik’al smiled. He offered a hand to a form in the carriage. His white and blue robes matched those of the woman at his side. She, however, wore them in a different, more alluring shape. The garment trailed on the ground behind her, light puddles of silk pooling around her limber legs. On her head, a stark sheer veil highlighted the silver in her hair. Though her skin was cracked and scarred, it still practically shone ethereally in the Arctic light. Yahn’s breath hitched in his chest.
Lamëril stood there for a moment, suddenly seeming genteel in her stature, but still bearing a whisper of that fierce confidence that Yahnaiyaer had fallen in love with. It would take time to rebuild it, no doubt, but when he saw the ardor of her eyes again…
She could not see well yet, that much was certain. A milky film over her silver orbs painted them a pale white, like the translucent skin of a banshee. But as her shape lingered, she reached out with her hand, the tips of her fingers wriggling in the air and grasping at a phantom figure. It was akin to an offer.
Yahnaiyaer came to her slowly. A pang of doubt throbbed in him. She had left very purposefully. The high elf had made it very clear that she wanted safety now. This place, his position, the duties he had signed onto now: Would she be comfortable being there with him?
But that didn’t stop him from extending his hand to meet hers. It didn’t stop him from twining their fingers together, and letting out a relieved sigh at the feeling of her skin against his.
Those eyes of hers fixated blindly on the face in front of her. She lifted her free hand and brought it to the curve of Yahnaiyaer’s jaw, fingers feeling their way over his chin bone, ghosting across his lips. Touching with birdlike grace the lashes of his eyes, then hovering over the ridge of his brow.
“Yahn.” Her voice trembled in a whisper. When Yahnaiyaer caught her eyes watering, that’s when he knew it. Nothing had truly changed for them. The doubt, the uncertainty, the fear: None of that mattered. What mattered was that the affection in her voice- the love- sounded the same that it did three decades prior.
The two drew one another into an embrace. It was not electric, nor overtly fierce, but felt more like a slow magnetism driving them together. Yahn held her close, his head turned into her long hair. The years, it seemed, did a number in restoring it back to its previous length, reclaiming some of its former luster. The dark elf gripped his wife carefully but firmly, savoring the feeling of her there at his side. By the response of her hands clasped at his own back, bending down to wrap him in her arms, she must have felt it too.
A gentle cough came from somewhere at Yahnaiyaer’s back. He inched his face back to glance at Lamëril. Though still hazy, her eyes bore a shimmering light, and her expression was taught with some unspoken secret. Yahn gave her a quizzical look before a grating voice chuckled from behind them.
“I don’t want to interrupt anything, but it is getting rather cold in here.”
A flicker of movement caught in the corner of Yahnaiyaer’s eye. He turned to investigate.
Behind them stepping out of the carriage, being given a hand by one of the guards on his right, was an elderly Drow draped in fine purple satin with golden trim. Beneath copious wrinkles and fresh liver spots, Yahnaiyaer still spied the undeniably roguish twinkle in his eye. He made eye contact, then, with Beinion. The Drow Guildmaster flashed a white smile that Yahnaiyaer had admired and practiced replicating everyday when he was young.
“Hello, Yahn. Well, well. A prince now, I see.” Beinion chuckled, politely waving off the tall Dragonborn guard at his side and hobbling closer. “Plenty of wealth, I’d imagine. Probably have no need for old thieves and charlatans now. You didn’t forget about your family beneath all those fancy clothes, eh?”
Yahnaiyaer could only breathe out the word. “Never.” He moved in closer to embrace the old man, and Beinion chuckled and patted the younger man’s back.
“Well that’s good, then. Because some of them are due to arrive soon, and chances are they’d be upset at the news of their own Master of Smuggling forgetting his fellow street rats.” Beinion pulled a thoughtful face, the tip of his nose wet and deep purple in the cold. “We’re here as guests, of course. Your royal friend here promised we’d be treated as such- so long as nobody gets any slippery fingers. Diplomatic immunity and all that.” Beinion waved a thin hand.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Yahnaiyaer blurted honestly. There was no point in hiding his happiness. Why would he? Instead he felt a laugh bubble past his lips. It was like a dream.
“I am too. Although I admit,” Beinion looked around at the frigid docks around them, his light eyelashes frosty and sparkling. “I’d prefer to be inside. When can we move there?” He spoke this to Malik’al, who politely dipped his large head and smiled.
“As soon as you wish it. I shall… let my father know of your arrival.” There was a lapse in his expression, and a glance was exchanged between Malik’al and Yahnaiyaer. Yahn hadn’t even factored in the possibility that Bainor would be displeased, but in a strange way, he felt as though their interactions would very much reflect Yahnaiyaer and Malik’al’s own, though of course Bainor was far more hospitable than his prickly son. They would meet, and hopefully then their personalities would compliment each other.
Some unexpected guests could hardly be unwelcome by Bainor now. After all, it was the arrival of unexpected guests that had saved his son.
Malik’al trailed ahead of them, blazing a path to the throne room with some of the Lealamir at his side. Meanwhile, one of the richly adorned footservants bowed her head and gestures to the doorway. “Right this way, please.”
Beinion nodded. “Good. You know, hína, Arândwil has been bragging about this Doronian schnapps in his letters.” Beinion leaned on Yahnaiyaer as they made their way up the stairs, Lamëril at their side and the Doronian escort troupe not far behind them. “In this cold, anything with a nip to it would be welcome.”
“Ha! It may be a bit different than your typical wine. Leave it to Arândwil to write letters home about alcohol.” Yahnaiyaer shook his head, and Beinion shook his own in turn.
“That boy seldom finds anything that doesn’t interest him. He’s been going on and on about talking giant white wolves and two legged polar bears as of late.” Beinion quirked a brow. “I did find that part interesting. I hope I’m not disappointed.”
“This land is certainly exotic.” Yahn’s smile dimmed. “Atar, how did you escape? When we left, wasn’t everything destroyed?”
Beinion grunted, a shadow flickering across his features. “Damn near it. Those rotten creatures swarmed in like cave skippers. Took out half of the populace in the Roval and Pimpë. Devoured another quarter of the nobles in I Arbar.” The old Drow shook his head. For once in the time that Yahn had seen him, Beinion’s spirit suddenly seemed his age. “Most of our siblings slipped out through the tunnels. Those that were smart enough to listen, that is. Those that didn’t, well…”
They didn’t speak anymore on the matter. There was no need to. That was another life away. Those that survived made it out. That’s the way they needed to look at things nowadays.
Arândwil greeted them in the halls, his open shirt now bore a freshly stitched fur line mink collar. Clinging to his neck was Nibanon, who chattered excitedly at the sight of Yahnaiyaer. Arândwil looked equally excited. His face was all smiles as he pulled both Lamëril and Beinion into a hug, wrapping Yahnaiyaer uncomfortably in the middle. “Would you look at that? It looks like the gang’s all together!”
Yahnaiyaer half-heartedly glared at him from where he was being pressed into the other Drow’s arms, but he smiled and rolled his eyes.
“Now add the big guy, and we’ll be set!” Arândwil said happily. He suddenly seemed to realize the absence of said figure and cast a look around. “Speaking of which, where is he?”
Yahnaiyaer managed to press a hand to Arândwil’s shoulder and free himself, gaining some breathing room. “He went to go talk to his father.”
“Uh-oh.” Arândwil gave a chipped smile and put his hand up to shield his mouth, as though he were exchanging some secret. “Did we get him in trouble with his atto?” Nebanon leaned in, curious at the hushed tones. Yahnaiyaer snorted and brushed Arândwil’s hand off.
“Nah, he’s always in trouble for something, it seems.” The statement was not wholly true, but Yahnaiyaer hoped it would create the effect of Malik’al being perceived as potentially rebellious rather than overly sheltered. He knew the Dragonborn would probably be thankful for it. The Drow prince shrugged. “I doubt you will receive anything but a warm welcome, though.”
“Good! Cause I’m frigid!” Arândwil clasped his hands together and rubbed his fingers vigorously. “‘Sides, it’s not like we’re planning a heist anytime soon. We haven’t even gotten the full layout of this place.”
Yahnaiyaer gave his friend a warning glare. “Arândwil…”
“What?! I said we wouldn’t!”
The sound of their laughter echoed raucously down the wide open halls.
————————————————————
Yahnaiyaer stepped into the prince’s room and stopped at the doorway, giving a knock on the door. From his writing desk, Malik’al peered up from his reading glasses. He stuck a quill between the leaves and closed the book in his hand, favoring instead to get up from his chair and approach Yahn with a smile.
“Ah, you’ve finished giving them the tour then?” Malik’al seemed genuinely pleased. Yahnaiyaer smiled gratefully and tilted his head.
“For the most part. I stopped at the library. Figured you’d want that honor reserved for yourself.”
“Well,” Malik’al stood firmly. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a scholar show them about the palace there, I suppose.” A momentary frown permeated Malik’al’s good mood. “Although the last time I tried to show your boisterous friend, he wouldn’t stop going on about visiting the bazaar.”
“Yeah,” chuckled Yahnaiyaer. “That sounds like Arândwil. I… thank you, Malik’al. I really appreciate this.”
Malik’al beamed at the Drow. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, before he licked his lips in anticipation.
“I have something else. Give me one moment.” The dragonborn excused himself, turning from Yahnaiyaer and stumbling back over to his desk. The dark elf watched him curiously as Malik’al rummaged through various papers, sketches, writings, and documents until he came upon a stack of parchment. With a satisfied grin, Malik’al took it in hand and turned back to Yahnaiyaer.
“Here you are, then.” Malik’al watched eagerly as Yahnaiyaer took the papers. “Feel free to read them whenever.”
Yahnaiyaer spared a glance at Malik’al quizzically and then delved into the pages, skimming through them.
On the front page, written in dark ink with a careful hand, were the words: The Life of Yahnaiyaer Veränwye, as recited by his friends and family.
Yahnaiyaer inhaled sharply, surprised. Malik’al looked between him and the pages encouragingly, and Yahnaiyaer looked back and flipped through them.
Each of them seemed to detail a different part of Yahnaiyaer’s life. The first time he met Beinion as little more than a tyke, stealing the man’s amethyst ring. The trouble that he and Arândwil would constantly get into, and the every successful account of them escaping it. The conflict with the “Duke of Fuckingham”, which Yahnaiyaer laughed out loud at the thought of Malik’al writing down and being bewildered by. The dashing adventures of he and Lamëril. The cottage outside of Aftokra. The nights as a bodyguard. The days in the sun. The thefts, the journeys, the good times and the bad… Everything and almost anything that Yahnaiyaer had done in his life was all there.
Yahnaiyaer was speechless. He instead turned his gaze back to Malik’al, who had worn such a fierce expression of loyalty and affection that it left the Drow thief breathless.
“I know that you are… uncertain of the exact date,” Malik’al smiled warmly, and effectively melted the chill of the afternoon blitz away. “But I had kept records in my journal, you know. And I thought it might be best to pick a designated day for your celebration. I chose the day we met, considering that symbolic in some manner. Before you mock me,” Malik’al held up a clawed hand at Yahnaiyaer, who was holding back laughter. “It was my only point of reference! It was, after all, the first time I saw you. And, at least to me, it is a very important day.”
Malik’al grasped Yahnaiyaer by the shoulder, then held his right palm open to Yahn with a smile. “Happy two hundred and twentieth year to you, brother.”
Yahn couldn’t help but laugh. He met the dragonborn’s palm with his left fist.
Despite the daunting tasks ahead of them, the challenges and the vast amounts of opportunity and responsibility, Yahnaiyaer had a feeling in his heart that it would be an important, wonderful year.
THE END
