Fate - First Reply Unseen hours

Having assumed that the least accessible shelves of the library would be the likeliest spot where any books of miscellany not of immediate interest to the Yaegir's work might be found, Vel'duith spent most of the wee hours scaling bookcases, plumbing the dustiest, most cobwebbed shelves, extracting a few volumes, and then returning to a corner table lit by a solitary candle to skim. The notebook she was currently paging through had just started to seem promising: a scholar with the whimsical name of Wiki had apparently tried to catalogue all the myriad faiths of Arethil. She had yet to find a word about the gods of her own people, but the current chapter spoke of three surface gods called the "Trinity of Light." One of these - the second-goddess, Vel'duith smirked to herself - seemed a nearly complete analogue of Sse'elah. The notebook described a silver-haired darthiir woman whose portfolio comprised moonlight, magic, and wisdom. The passage spoke of how she would seldom intervene directly, but rather motivate followers to help themselves. Why, even her name - Seelah - is so remarkably similar... Just as Vel'duith began to read about Tancred, god of the sun, the first ray of dawn rudely struck her face from the east-facing window. How fitting that the blinding sun is apparently ruled by some we’ha-whol-ak’nen jal'uk! Grimacing and squinting against the unwelcome sunbeam, Vel'duith closed the book with a sour thump and rose from her chair with an audible scrape of wood on stone. Her stomach grumbled insistently, reminding her that she hadn't eaten all day.

Not knowing what exactly surfacers subsisted on, the short, wand-slender drow walked back to the barracks to fetch out her spice-pouch and some provisions she had foraged the day before last from her pack. Nothing fancy; in fact, quite the contrary: a corner-nibbled slab of arantym, a shelf-mushroom also known as 'ripplebark,' that resembled nothing so much as a sickly half-dried fillet of cadaver flesh, and a shy half-handful of spicy fire-lichen. Just as she considered the best way to combine them for an impromptu meal, she suddenly caught the faint scent of a cooking-odor... of course! -surely this stronghold would have a stove or oven of some fashion. Gamey and rather put-offish when eaten raw, arantym toasted in some fat or other was a different meal altogether, indeed, a comfort food for many drow commoners. Commoners like Orebith, who first showed me how to find it. Vel'duith preemptively began rubbing her temples vigorously, lest another unexpected reverie suddenly haunt her.

Vel'duith pulled on her wide-brimmed spidersilk hat, put her ingredients and spice-pouch into a sack, and began following her nose through the keep's hallways, looking perhaps somewhat comical as she walked through the halls, feet crudely wrapped in corded silk, sniffing the air every so often. After a moment, she hardly needed to try to find the richly pungent aroma: some manner of bloody marrow, some type of tallow, a bit strange to her nose, being cooked with an equally unfamiliar smelling meat, yet there was also a delightful twinge of spice laced throughout the carnal odors: the kitchen must lay just ahead.

The drow opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her. Scanning the room, her nose wrinkled a bit at the sunlight spilling from the east-facing window, but yes, this was indeed the source of the aromas. The man cooking bore an air of the Hells about him - as well as horns and a tail - why, quite likely a tiefling, humming softly to himself as he tended a panful of frying meats. Vel'duith's mind flooded with questions - she had read so much about the Hells, but most of the writings either dealt with methods of contacting specific denizens, the perils of negotiating infernal contracts, or describing the horrors a denizen from the prime might face upon entry to the nether planes themselves, but this fellow's lived experience was likely much more varied than all of that, at least one might hope. And now I'm staring at his tail. Vel'duith shook her head at herself, set her sack on a table, cleared her throat, and stepped forward, opening her palms and inclining her head toward Voe in greeting.

Voe

The dark elf stood unfazed by the abrupt clamor of the tiefling's jolt and cry of surprise - it was hardly the first time she had caught someone unawares, after all - although she couldn't help broadening the half-smile on her thin lips into a bemused smirk.

"Why, if merely walking the halls from the barracks to the kitchen amounts to 'sneaking about' on the surface, the Yaegirs have greater need of me than I ever dared think."

Her smirk broadened as he turned and almost shrunk blushing behind his apron. She languidly stalked to the table where her sack of ingredients sat, piercing garnet eyes locked onto her audience's face.

"Your suspicions are well-founded, Hells-son! I have indeed hatched a most dastardly plot."

She abruptly seized ahold of the sack, holding it tightly closed.

"Here, I have a victim! -seized completely unaware from a dark shadow of the Underrealm. It has lately stopped squealing and wriggling...."

Vel'duith soured her expression, in mocking imitation of her ever-pernicious mother's usual greeting-face..

"Since it will no longer entertain my cruel whims, I now mean to...."

The drow suddenly whipped the nibble-edged slab of ripplebark from the sack with a dramatic flourish and a broadly grinning mad cackle.

"...cook it for my breakfast! Assuming your esteemed self is done with the stove, of course. I shouldn't like to deprive a devil of any degree his own bloody victim-breakfast, after all."

Voe

The dark elf grimaced at the admonishment- her silly attempt to break the ice had fallen worse than flat. She set the slab of under-mushroom back on the table and repeated her earlier gesture of empty palms and inclined head.

"I apologize, ser, for giving you offense. I shall of course use your name forthwith - well, once you have shared it with me."

Voe

Vel'duith nodded, her Mona Lisa half-smile reforming on her lips. She finished her gesture of apology with a flourish of her hands, gracefully resuming her usual languid, easy posture.

"Voe it is, then. I suppose I had - hastily and rather ironically - assumed that a tiefling might have grown every bit as laconic toward the wary reactions of others as I have. So far, the generally frosty welcome seems to be the only detail about the surface and those living upon it that our yathrin didn't completely lie about! And it isn't as though we drow tend to go about trusting even one other at first, second, or even fiftieth meeting, so fair is fair."

She accepted the proffered frying-pan, lightly swirling the spiced fat and inhaling the aroma.

"Voe, whatever you have added to this pan smells divine! Yet I see no mince of fire-lichen within... Whatever do you add to achieve such a glorious fragrance, delightful smokiness, and the beckoning promise of heat?"

She nodded thoughtfully as the tiefling asked about her doings atop the platform.

"Indeed I was! I felt it prudent to offer up a prayer to my goddess, Sse'elah, in thanks of her saving me from a horrible fate, and guiding me hither. And then her glorious moonlight fell upon me in answer! I suppose I may have gotten a bit carried away, O Voe, exulting in it all. I very nearly managed to freeze myself to the icy boards. I shall certainly have to see about purchasing some warmer attire, as well as some manner of shoes. The trek to surface was too much to ask from my faithful old slippers, it seems... ah! I should remember to go fetch their remains from the bath later. It would not do to be thought a careless litterer as well as an untrustworthy sneak, should report reach the warden."

She placed the pan back onto the stove, pulled her dagger out, and began slicing the disgusting-looking shelf of ripplebark into neat, diagonal fillets about 3/4 inch thick. Taking another whiff of the pan, she quartered the pile of fire-lichen before mincing it, sweeping the remaining unminced portion back into her bag.

Voe

Melfa...? While she had yet to hear the name in clear association with a person, proceeding from the context in which it was dropped, Vel'duith's thoughts swiftly leapt to the towering dragon-woman who had lately arrived, who certainly looked as though she would draw attention on the surface, in the Underrealm, or truly anywhere she might venture.

"Is Melfa that tall, splendidly muscular, flame-coughing woman with the spiraling horns who came in with the large hunting-party?"

Once the pan resumed smoking, Vel'duith sprinkled in her mince, letting the fungus sizzle and sweat, releasing its own heat and spicy aroma into the mix. Then she started dropping the filets of shelf-mushroom in. Their odor began almost smelling of the insoles of well-worn boots, but as the fillets started sweating into the pan, their aroma took on a complex mixture of earthy, nutty, and savory tones as they toasted in the hot, spicy oil.

"Salts, like mineral salts? We only ever get surface flavors at the very grandest banquets, and very likely cooked in much different ways. The chefs' very lives depend on the first-family's surprise and delight, after all, so variety, ambition, and adventure must reign over mere complementary matchings of flavors! Venoms that tingle, then numb the tongue after the initial tasting, only to be restored again mid-bouquet by just the right amount of antivenom! -that is but one example. I of course make no claims to cook as flamboyantly as all that... simple soups, pan fries, mostly just from mushrooms of varied sorts, perhaps a few juicy morsels or scraps of meat now and then, carved in my turn from whatever tunnel-horror chose the wrong House-relative to hunt."

She deftly flipped the fillets over to toast the other sides before continuing.

"And purple pepper... is that some manner of vegetable? I have read that certain vegetable seeds are used as spices on the surface. I should very much like to see what this purple pepper looks like before prepared."

After a brief moment, she slid the fillets onto a plate, immediately slicing a corner and skewering it on dagger-tip to take a dainty nibble at.

"You are welcome to a piece if you like; I do not believe ripplebark as 'tis usually called is considered poisonous to any races, at any rate. You'd never find it on a table in the Upper-Undercity, but in all the netherparts below, 'tis both an uncouth but sustaining staple to nibble at raw, and a warm, comforting succor when toasted up in bluecap oil or whatever tasty fat commoners might luck into. For my own part, I brought some home from my tunnel-jaunts now and then, as much to irk Mother as to enjoy such a scandalously lowbrow treat."

Taking a slightly larger bite, she brought her plate to a table, sitting upon a stool.

"By any chance, did you come by such warm clothes or fine boots as you speak of here, from the quartermaster? Or are there merchants or artisans of such goods within the keep, or quite close by?"

Her garnet-hued eyes, now quite curious, rested upon the tiefling's face. So many questions I might ask! -but perhaps best to see what comes out of its own, lest I carelessly rankle again.

Voe

Vel'duith nodded, listening intently as the tiefling discussed the provenance of the salt and pepper he had used, making mental notes to jot down when she next got back to her notebook and quill. She was eating more quickly now, though still in a practiced, relaxed, methodical fashion, taking care not to wolf or appear to hurry. She was just hungry, and the shelf-mushroom was quite good toasted in that mélange of surface oil, spice, and lichen-mince.

"Ah!", the dark elf exclaimed as Voe produced the wrinkled pepper. "Is that desiccated, then, to intensify the flavor? Or mayhap dried... under light of the sun? -I do apologize, Voe, if such a notion seems strange. I read it in a book once and thought it fanciful, myself. Why, what if bats, or birds dropped their..." She gestured absently a second, searching for the best word, before shrugging and just using her own. "...iblith upon it whilst drying? Or some animal or other came along and purloined it as fairly found?"

She nodded again, smirking a bit at Voe's polite refusal of the toasted ripplebark. "Ah well, then. More for me, I suppose! I meant to ask earlier, Voe, what manner of surface beast was your breakfast carved from? My nose had never before made its acquaintance. Truly it was the spicy strain of the aroma that led me to find the kitchen, more than anything, but I am ever curious about culinary matters, particularly within other traditions and customs. I suspect that dietary variety may prove hard to come by in such an apparently remote stronghold such as this keep, so such hints may prove as valuable to one's palate as coins of gold and silver to one's purse."

Reaching the last filet on her plate, Vel'duith portioned it deliberately, frowning a bit at hearing her apparent prospects for re-attiring herself. Most likely sized for a cretok, and nearly as smelly. Her own feet seemed quite a bit smaller and daintier than any she had seen here. Though, if there were a size to sit long in a barracks-store awaiting a wearer, it was generally for the smallest and the tallest, in her limited experience. The mental image of her wearing a clownishly oversized raid-suit started to form in her mind, before she hurriedly dug into her temples, sternly massaging that about-to-turn-dreadful flashback away. Perhaps Sigrun was correct in thinking me gone mad after all...

"Don't mind me - merely a symptom of the daylight to one unused to such a brilliant ambiance, I suppose. I do thank you, Voe, for the delightful conversation, useful information, and the lesson learned."

Finishing the last morsel, she licked her lips with a satisfied flicker of the tongue, then produced a muslin kerchief from a hidden pocket among her robes to dab her mouth clean, before secreting it away again. After rising, collecting the sack, and wiping the tabletop clean, she rolled up and re-secreted the kerchief, the repeated her gesture of open palms and slight inclination of her head.

"I look forward to our next conversation, abban; especially if it should deal with food! May your labor this day prove profitable."

Voe

Vel’duith took a reflexive half-step backward as Voe abruptly stepped toward her, arching a snowy eyebrow quizzically. Her posture relaxed again just as quickly, after realizing that he meant no harm. The pupils of her eyes were indeed like pencil points in the indirect sunlight.

“If I manage to catch it head-on, yes, Tancred’s burning orb can be quite unbearable. Why, I nearly staggered right off a cliff when I first stepped out straight into its full brilliance yesterday-morn!”

Her thin lips pulled into a broad grin, and her eyes flashed almost maniacally as she dramatically circled the table before facing the tiefling again to continue:

“But, I had an idea, Voe, whilst reading in the library, for a dwoemer to lay upon my hat, dimming the light passing just under the brim! I think that such a dweomer, in combination with a little more care on my part to mind the orb’s apparently constant path throughout the day - that is constant from one day to the next, I hope? - why, Voe, I think I should be able to manage it. I shall simply need to powder some moonstone and grind a bit of silverdust to prepare the brim for the enchantment… Is there, by any chance, a laboratory of some sort within this keep?”

Voe

The drow nodded thoughtfully.

"An excellent suggestion, Voe! I think I shall indeed explore a bit before taking my reverie. There could well be an infirmary or even a workshop or smithy where I might be able to manage nearly as well as a proper laboratory, with perhaps a bit more care taken to clean off whatever residue of weapon-oil or metal shavings might be on the crucible before I begin. Odd that they do not have a laboratory. I assumed that was the underlying reason for demanding trophies be kept from monsters hunted, that such may be studied methodically in a controlled space for qualities such as resistances, vulnerabilities, whether they hold venom in some manner of sacs or simply ooze poisons onto their skin, specialized fangs or horns, any clues that might give us advantage. Nests too often have young, and surely we might marshal more than valor, steel, and wits each time a new generation comes... of age..."

Once again, she started rubbing her temples vigorously, her eyes having nearly glazed over.

"Erm... the sun, again, I fear."

Voe

Vel'duith read the skepticism in the tiefling's face and grimaced slightly. You've read enough books to know the futility of lying to someone with devil's blood. She paced a few steps, trying to gauge this other odd emotion on his face. It was not unlike that she had seen on the warden's face when he stood Sigrun down and welcomed her to Crobhear Keep. She continued a slow, arcing pace as she attempted to answer and explain.

"'Tis not truly pain, Voe, and perhaps I should not have tried to mislead you. I am truly not certain yet whether the sun affects it at all. Simply put: my reveries have... changed in the weeks since I left the Undercity. Instead of the usual calming void of nothingness, old memories return to me. Quite vividly, like I was... stepping into myself at whichever past point in time. And ever since I set foot onto the surface, snippets of these memories even try to return in waking moments, prompted by the most tenuous of connections: a thing heard or spoken, a passing resemblance. Most are not pleasant memories. And so, I try to... stimulate myself back to presence when I feel one starting to come on."

Voe

She cast her eyes slightly downward in reflection a moment before starting to answer.

"Ah, of course! -you might not natively understand at that, Voe. You see, drow - and I imagine surface elves as well - do not fall fully unconscious for some third of the hours of a day, the way the shorter-lived races seem to. We need only meditate for a few hours: longer if more fatigued, certainly, but usually a few hours is more than sufficient. I cannot speak fully to this point for surface elves as I cannot yet claim to be one; but drow experience a complete void of internal thought during our reverie-trances. Now, there were once instructions we might receive during our trances, whilst still children: that history deemed most important, lessons of culture, and many, many warnings against the surface and all those living upon it."

She began to slowly pace another half circle as she continued, her mind obviously working to test fit together pieces of this particular puzzle as she proceeded.

"But ever since the long-ended days of cadre, Voe, it has ever and always been the void in my trances, unless I chose to meditate upon some past event to remember it properly, such as a book once read with information that was pertinent to an upcoming mission. But when I left the Undercity, the calming, emptying void stayed behind. My memories poured daily and unbidden into my trances, and seemingly they chose among themselves which were to be remembered, with no consultation whatsoever of my agency or whim. I know not whether it be subconscious, or the doing of some higher power - I am, as I lately proclaimed at your gates, foresworn before my newfound deity to perform a penance of sorts, as weregeld for my procession onto the surface. So now I wonder whether 'tis Sse'lah's will that I remember, and particularly these most unpleasant of my memories. It has been truly disconcerting, and yet, it has also strongly reinforced my decision to leave the Undercity. I now begin to suspect, O Voe, that some relic, mythal, or being of power resides within the Undercity with the uncanny ability to suppress us drow from freely remembering all the lessons of our lives - perhaps even as a means to keep us there, to discourage us from daring to question the yathrin and the ilharessen. And I suppose some within these memories might be called ghosts, for whatever that may be worth. But 'tis not as though these ghosts whisper to me in response to events of the moment; 'tis more akin to simply reliving the memories from the days they lived alongside me, just as they originally happened, all within my mind."

Voe

The drow paused her rumination to consider this analogy with a quizzically raised snowy eyebrow, thumb lightly pressed against her chin, an immaculately-trimmed fingernail tapping lightly at her lower lip. She hadn't thought of trying to use wine to suppress the memories, but she was immediately skeptical. Wine removed inhibitions, when inhibition was what she was verily seeking... but perhaps this was the tiefling's very hypothesis. She nodded lightly.

"Perhaps not unlike - and I suspect that trying to drown the memories with wine would only make matters worse, at any rate."

Voe

"Thank you, Voe. "

The dark elf accepted the root with a half-smile and a quick inclination of her head, bringing it under her pointy nose, curiously sniffing at it, then letting the scent bloom a few seconds. Finally, she nibbled the tiniest possible bit off and gave it a slow, tentative chew.

"I may take you up on that offer, should the opportunity arise. I take it, then, that you have not yet had the chance to fully explore this keep?"

Voe