No two cities in Naggaroth are identical, shaped by circumstance and the will of their masters until distant roots are but a memory, but in most there are similarities. Enclosed compounds, private fortresses, barriers and barricades, a thousand and one means by which the worthy elites seek to block and corral the common masses. So it is in every city save for one, and that exception is Har Ganeth. Here there are no ranks, no strata, no artificial barriers raised to bar the path of the common elf. Here there is only Khaine, the Cult that speaks in his holy name, and those too wise to even dream of barring their path.
You leave the Convent behind in the cold hours of the morning, clad in an elegant dress beneath a fur lined mantle, all marks of rank and station carefully removed. On most days even this would not be enough to grant true anonymity, for there is a manner to a Sorceress that those with wit can see no matter her garb, but today is a very different day. Today the noble estates stand quiet, the worker barracks all but deserted, the artisan district shuttered and barred. Today the streets are all but deserted, save for those attending to the most urgent of last-minute business, for though hours yet remain before the gong is sounded few think it wise to risk even the slightest chance of being caught outside when it does.
Death Night is upon you, and the city trembles in anticipation.
You try not to look at the cages, the heavy wagons dragged into position at every major intersection, the guards all but shivering with anticipation. Each bears the sign of some great noble house or mercantile alliance, public displays of piety meant to exalt them in the eyes of Khaine and his faithful, and even the few slaves within new to Naggaroth and its ways can feel the hungry anticipation all around them. They are going to die tonight, one by one as the hours pass, and you've better (easier) things to do than watch doomed souls wrestle with the impending fact of their own demise.
Your destination is a small, freestanding house in one of the city's middle districts, the slate roof studded with gently smoking chimneys allowed to fall silent. The glass windows reveal only empty shelves and absent workers, but the topiary out front twists organically into the razor shapes of druhirii symbols, declaring this place to be 'Vighak's Baked Goods'. You've rather proud of that design, you must say. It was some of your earliest work, a small favour done to commemorate the move to the new and bigger facilities.
The door chimes softly as you enter, drawing the eyes of the lone man waiting patiently within. Vighak is a muscular Druchii of late middle age, his pale face made blotched and ruddy by constant exposure to the baking heat of his ovens, his skin mostly hidden behind a thick apron of cured dwarf hide. He is sharpening a knife when you walk in, an old habit born of nervousness, but when the bell rings and he sees you in the door he sets it aside with a smile.
"Hello, father," you say, closing the door behind you.
"Ah, a vision of beauty comes to my door!" your father says with a smile, taking your hand and pressing it to his lips in fond parody of courtly grace. You try not to laugh, stifling the brief chuckle that threatens to break you. "Tell me, mysterious stranger, do you bring word of my daughter? For it has been many a long and lonely night since last I heard tale of her fate."
"I sent you a letter last week!" you protest, bringing up your free hand to flick his ear until he lets go, "Don't tell me you've forgotten already. You're not
that old."
"A letter, she calls it, when the words did not even stretch to a full page," your father sighs melodramatically, shaking his head in sorrow. "Breton! Lock up. I must take my wayward daughter to task."
The human male that emerges from the small antechamber bears small burn wounds up and down the length of both bare arms, but most of them are old and faded now, and though his eyes are downcast he does not flinch in fear as he passes you on the way to his duties.
"I don't recognise that one," you say thoughtfully as you follow your father through the shop and into the enjoined residence, "A new purchase? Business is good, then?"
"Indeed. A trained baker in his own right, no less, a rare find these days," Vighak nods as you walk, "Thanks to your work with the Silisk Consortium we've been benefitting from low prices and favourable shipping, and I've been able to invest the profits back into expanding the business. We're thinking of a second property, down by the west gate."
You listen attentively as your father explains his plans, smiling in satisfaction at the reminder of your contribution. The Consortium contract was a thoroughly boring undertaking, basic drudge work identifying and then countering a new breed of parasite that threatened to ruin their new plantations in the south, but you don't regret taking them up on their offer. The favourable deal they offered your father wasn't part of your contract, but everyone involved knows the real reason it was made, and the minimal profits they make from supplying the bakery are more than compensated for by having a sorceress of your skillset think well of them.
The bakery occupies the front of the property, and the upper levels are reserved for residence, but the rest of the ground floor has been turned over to more artistic pursuits, and the pale stone of the walls lends the workshop a deceptively bright and airy feel. There is a man stood on a podium at the centre when you enter, clad head to toe in imperious armour of black and silver, one hand pointed at the far wall and the other resting on the hilt of his sword. He performs for an audience of one, and as you and your father enter she puts the last few touches on her easel and sets the brush aside.
"Thystra, dear, excellent timing. We have just finished here," Mirle, your mother and one of Har Ganeth's up and coming artists, smiles briefly at you before turning her attention back to her model, "Please inform your lord that I shall wish to speak with him next week, on the matter of the dedication."
The soldier, clearly some poor dogsbody recruited to stand around in his lord's armour for hours at a time, nods tiredly to your mother and offers you scarcely a glance before departing. You hardly notice, far more struck by the sight of your mother awkwardly levering herself to her feet, the liquid flow of her blue-black dress doing nothing to hide her swollen belly.
"Mother! You told me the potions were for a friend!" you exclaim, crossing the distance and laying a slender hand against your mother's pregnant belly. A quick touch of Ghyran confirms that the pregnancy is natural and healthy, with no significant sign of distress inflicted on the mother's body. "What happened?"
"The friend is a friend no longer, and it seemed a shame to waste your hard work," Mirle says mildly, indulging your fussing with a wry smile, "Your father agreed, as you might surmise, and with enough vigour that I wonder if the potion was needed at all."
"I heard no complaints at the time," your father says, mouth curling in a fondly exasperated smile as he moves to take Mirle's right arm in his own. "Perhaps if our daughter had written more often, I might have remembered to mention her expected brother. Well, it cannot be helped – come, we can catch up over dinner."
Her brother… you are to have a brother, for all that the distance between you is likely to be closer to that of cousins or fond acquaintances. Will he be a soldier, as the state requires? A corsair, seeking plunder on the waves? Will he follow his father into the trades, or his mother into the arts? There are so many questions, not least of which is what he will think of his sister the Sorceress… and what you think of him in turn. Your permission is hardly required, but the fact that neither of your parents thought to consult or even inform you in advance…
"I pity the boy who must endure such an absent-minded buffoon for a father," you scoff, pushing aside such thoughts and taking your mother's left arm in turn, "As for you, mother – you're working for noble clients, now?"
"Indeed. Lord Terenth has commissioned me to produce a portrait that he might display at his next gala," your mother says, a trifle smug as she allows you and your father to guide her from the room, "something to commemorate his recent raid in… where was it again?"
"Ind, I believe," your father shakes his head, "there has been a minor fad for spiced bread ever since, though none of my experiments have really worked out. The ingredients are wrong, I think – it is hard enough to find a corsair willing to plunder herbs and spices in place of gold and flesh, much less one with the discerning eye to choose the right kind."
"And what of you, my dear?" Mirle asks, her eyes suddenly intent, "Keeping well, I trust? Your studies are treating you kindly?"
Ulgu roll – 2,6,2 – Two hits.
"Quite well, yes," you say easily, "My projects are bearing fruit, and my quarters comfortable enough. I'll spare you all the dreary details if you don't mind."
The lie is an old one, polished smooth by repeated use. So too is the acceptance, the quiet relief in your parents' eyes as they nod and accept your answer for what it is. A baker with one shop, an artist just now elevating her clientele – what could either of them do, if you spoke honestly of your life in the convent, of Liliana and her demands? Nothing. Easier to let it stay unspoken. Kinder, too.
"In any case… what of tonight?" you say, frowning at your mother, "Are you well enough to join the revels?"
Elves cannot be bred as one might the beasts of the earth; the process as much magical as biological, requiring the active consent of both parties to have even a chance of bearing fruit. Consequently, it is only those who feel secure in their lives, or dedicated enough to endure the burden, who gamble on having children. In Har Ganeth, tradition born of practicality sees most parents conceive shortly after Death Night, bringing forth the next generation of the chosen people in the long period of peaceful safety that follows. That your mother has neglected to time her pregnancy thus is… concerning.
"I've a crossbow and a steady aim," Mirle sniffs, "and a strong man by my side. What more could I need?"
"I've made arrangements with the neighbours – we're to form a hunting party, to share in the work and the revels," Vighak adds seriously, though you note the faintly worried gleam in his eyes before he pushes it back down, "and I tithed generously to the quarry fund. It would be easier to butcher a slave, I suppose, but the business needs all we have."
"And what of you, Thystra?" your mother asks, as you reach the dining hall and take in the warm scent of fresh cooked food, the slaves scurrying out of the way as you take your seats, "Shall we save a place for you, or have you your own plans?"
Death Night is upon you. From dusk 'til dawn all law and order is suspended, and all pious druchii shall take to the streets for a night of unchecked slaughter and debauchery. Witch Elves stalk the streets, and those who demonstrate insufficient zeal are like to be offered up as sacrifice by those who do.
Thystra is presently favoured by Khaine's servants, her devotion already demonstrated this year through participation in sacred rites. She will neither die nor fall short of the priesthood's expectation as a result. With that in mind, how does she intend to participate?
[ ] Zealous Devotion (Dhar/Hysh)
Give yourself unto Khaine, to kill and maim and murder. Be it by blade or spell you will offer the Lord of Murder his due, and in righteousness drown the embers of your doubt.
[ ] Hedonistic Abandon (Ghyran/Ghur)
Drugged wine to dull fear, burning herbs to stir the heart. Lose yourself in hedonistic bliss, to hunt and kill and rut like the beast you are, and hope to remember little come the morn.
[ ] Haunt the Shadows (Azyr/Ulgu)
Out of sight, out of mind. Kill like a hunter, heading off threats to hearth and home in such ways as you know how. You've survived this night before. You will survive it again now.
