Lingering heat residue and lazily spiraling smoke curled away from the melted slag of the remains of a grand estate, which was slowly oozing its way out of its cubby in the cliff-face of the Great Rift. Hewn directly into the side of the Great Rift, House Nykishsdrae had been formed from hollowed out solid granite and magically enhanced adamantine walls. The hidden House had been famous for the superb smithing of its artisans and its solid defense, which no other House in Menzoberranzan history had successfully breached. Until this day, obviously.

House Nykishsdrae, the former ninth House of Menzoberranzan, had been in continuous war with House Silvex, the tenth House, for centuries. Usually this was carried out with the torture and/or assassination of key members of the main family or the humiliation of the respective Matron Mothers, Matron Shalrein and Matron On’Riekset, respectively.

Unfortunately for House Nykishsdrae, rumors were circulated, which were vehemently denied of course, of the secret House-wide reverence for Kiaransalee, the drow goddess of revenge and the undead. In actuality, this was indeed true, and had been discovered by a member of a group of visiting merchants from the bazaar quarter. While poking around the mansion waiting for the Matron to grace him with her presence, the merchant had gotten lost in the vast compound, and was later found by his comrades gibbering about a small cave coated with the countless skulls and bones of unidentifiable long-dead creatures. He was, of course, killed immediately afterward, but his spirit had been questioned intensely by the priestesses of House Silves.

Regardless of proof, in Menzoberranzan, any rumor of worshipping another deity lost the all-important favor of Lolth, the capricious deity of the drow, and the only accepted deity in the city. The small mistake had allowed House Silves the opportunity they had been searching for every day for over three hundred years.

Mercilessly pouncing on the momentary weakness of the enemy House, Silvex formed a series of dimensional door spells across the cracks in the chasm near the House. This not only confused the defenders, but also prevented Nykishsdrae’s customary battle fodder, the curious shocker lizards, which nested all about the bottom of the cavern with the numerous kobolds, from arriving anywhere near the battle. In addition to this, every member of the House attending the Acadamy was quietly killed, and was thus obviously unable to answer any of the desperate summons from their home.

Faced with such debilitating weakness, the House quickly fell, fading into obscurity within hours of its demise. Smug with victory, Matron On’Riekset could perhaps be forgiven for overlooking the youngest daughter of the dissolved House, who had been sent on a trading mission to Ched Nasad.

Thirty years later

“I’m telling you, you’re practically robbing me, Brethgar! This mace is worth three times what you’re offering me! Do you know what it cost me to acquire this from the House Freth guard?” Whined a young drow leaning against the stall of the half-dwarven arms-dealer, one small hand lovingly caressing an ebony mace faintly crackling with magic that was protectively held at her side.

The drow was slight, even by drow standards, being closer to four feet high than five. It was difficult to see the visage of the slight drow, (in fact he never had) as she wore her customary loose black cape stitched with bone and ivory, the deep, hooded cowl obscuring her face. She always wore a silver ring, alternating the finger it was on every day or so (Brethgar would wager his beard that it was heavily enchanted). Very little could be seen in the way of clothing under the thick cloak, though two wrinkles on either side of her hips indicated weapons of some sort.

But the drow wasn’t as intimidating as she had first appeared to the startled merchant when she had appeared in front of his stall, asking in a rasping whisper if he ‘desired to purchase a few weapons’. Her cloak, though it did indeed have edgings made of bone, was dirty and had numerous holes, and many of the smaller bones appeared to be torn off. The few quick glimpses he caught of her under the cowl of the cloak was of a grey-tinged, lined face; though weather that was from sickness or exhaustion was debatable, as he never bothered to ask, as she probably would caustically make a remark about his own appearance in reply. Her voice was constantly low and rasping, though he was fairly sure it was for effect.

Brethgar figured mostly everything the drow did was for effect. Most notably in the way of seduction: the drow race had not only made that an art, most every drow was well experianced at it. If the result hadn't been a slow, very likely painful death, he would have asked P'drin if half the things she did or wore was a bluff.

The half-duergar shopkeeper snorted skeptically. “P’drin, I know exactly what it cost you. Nothing at all. You probably knifed the poor sod you took it from when his back was turned.” The half-dwarf himself was typical of his father’s race. Loud, short, wide, and no subtlety.

Brethgar Pickcrusher had been regularly trading with the drow female on and off for two decades, ever since setting up shop in the dark elven city Menzoberranzan. P’drin was all right as far as drow went, though she had a bottomless well of sarcasm and a barely perceptible disdain for non-drow, though that was mostly due from isolation, he assumed. He was willing to overlook her doubtful charms, as she knew an impressive amount of Dwarvish, mostly displayed in the way of curses, and supplied him with powerful weapons and armor every week or so, as well as making various small purchases occasionally. Considering the race of his supplier, and his own very real lack of concern, he never asked where she “acquired” the equipment, though he highly suspected she stole most of it. Anyone who visited one of the least reputable merchants in the market either had something to hide or couldn’t afford the rates of the half-dwarf’s more prosperous fellows. He figured she was both.

The drow’s harsh, whispery voice sounded faintly amused as she straightened from a slouch against the side of his stall. “Brethgar, I’m wounded. Honestly, you struck a nerve. I knifed him from the front while he was consumed with solving the age-old mystery of whether or not female drow wear undergarments.”

The merchant’s straggly moustache twitched in a smirk. “Do you?”

A low chuckle escaped the hood, followed by the hand not engulfed by the cloak gently shoving the mace in his direction. “Really, Brethgar, you know better. If I told you, I would have to slice your throat on principle. There are some things you simply shouldn’t be curious about.”

A dark form, hidden from infravision by the protective enchantments of its cloak, slipped gracefully between the pressing crowd in the marketplace, dodging greedy hands headed for a bulging pouch with the ease of practice. Slinking without a sound past the well-guarded boundaries of the marketplace, it ducked into a nearby dead-end alley after a perfunctory glance to either side. The figure didn’t stop at the end of the alley, but continued to stride confidently forward, simply walking through the grimy wall.

Narrowed green eyes watched the scene through a scrying mirror. After chanting a phrase to end the enchantment on the mirror, the caster turned to the second drow in the room. “What do you think?”

“I think I should go reintroduce us to the famed thief of the Lolth Garnet. Anyone shrewd enough to waltz in and steal that during chapel in the acadamy and get away alive to pawn it is worth pursuing. Stay here and get ready to cast an antimagic field; I think she has a few magical trinkets on her person.”

P’drin sighed in relief at being back in her, well, hovel was the only correct term. It would be insulting to force the lowliest male to live here, but it was well protected and boasted a comfortable cot and easy access to the sewers for her thefts. P’drin especially was looking forward to bed; it was always tiring dealing with Brethgar. She was usually injured or exhausted by the time she got to him with the goods from her little excursions, but experience had taught her not to reveal any weakness. Brethgar might be approaching a friend or as close to a friend as a drow ever expected or recieved, but that wasn’t close enough for the paranoid drow’s standards.

P’drin gratefully shrugged out of the enveloping folds of her cloak, carefully folding it over a serviceable folding chair. Removing the cowl of her cloak revealed an ovular, tired face to the reflective surface of a pan hung on a wall. (Contrary to Brethgar’s theories, her face was coated with a fine gray powder every morning; she was not sick.) P’drin didn’t have the high cheekbones or the lustrous white hair that was typical of classic drow beauty, but she wasn’t a hag, either.

Almond-shaped silver eyes dominated her face, distracting from her thin mouth, which was permanently chapped, as she had a bad habit of picking at her lips when she was bored. The thick, curly hair bound up in sweaty braids which encircled her head like a crown was not the typical white, but was an extremely light blond, almost silvery in color. Her voice was a bit louder than she preferred most of the time, which was part of the reason why she whispered in public. That kind of volume sticks out.

Peeling a blood stained studded leather vest over her head, it was allowed to drop heavily to the floor, followed by spiked gauntlets that sank with a dull thud into the flooring. She slipped off her weapons belt, hanging the twin swords attached to it on a hook jutting from wall. Running slender, callused fingers through the mass of sweat-soaked braids encircling her head, the female drow made a face when one came away crusted with brownish grit. She had received a small head wound earlier from a zealous guard’s throwing dagger. It had pierced her hood and bled more than previously expected, as head wounds tended to. Most of the braids on the left side of her head were soaked through with dried blood and had started to smell.

Resigned to washing her hair before bed, the thief peeled off the rest of her slimy, blood-soaked underarmor, sat herself on her cot, the only other furniture in the room; and then painstakingly began to undo the knotted mess that was her hair. Halfway through ripping apart the stubborn tangles, she stiffened. Someone had breached her magical wards; a silent ringing noise resounded in her head, the noise chosen for singular intruders who entered her domain through the front door, curiously enough. Most drow snuck in through the hidden entrances. And in pairs.

Looking up sharply from an unwound, matted strand of hair, P’drin came face-to-face with an odd sight. A ridiculous looking male drow stood before her, wearing an outrageously plumed hat tipped at a rakish angle. The wide curve of the hat failed to hide his bald pate, irritating to most drow P’drin was sure, as the way hair was styled was a symbol of status. A single eyepatch covered one eye, and a small vest hardly obscured his rippled torso.

P’drin grimaced, rolling her eyes in exasperation, “Jarlaxle.”

The strange drow grinned disarmingly, “Really, my friend, you have hidden yourself quite well this time. I went to considerable effort to find you.”