- Messages
- 15
- Character Biography
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The journey to Alliria had been troubled, to say the least. Heat and light, hunger and thirst, to say nothing of the Naga and the other dangerous lurking in the Ixchel Wilds and wherever else they had had to traverse to get to the city, had plagued Lady Nath'iarra. She had stolen enough fine things from that little cottage -- supplemented by a beautiful sapphire bracelet she'd swiped from a rather nasty-looking, noble-looking human who had sneered at her on the way into the city and then pawned quickly-- she had enough gold left to take a room and board for herself and her Nordenfiir guardian at a comfortable inn in a respectable part of the city, but it would not last forever.
That would be a problem for future Nath'iarra.
For the moment, she indulged in the softness of the bed, the coolness of the shadowed streets, and yet another copper bathtub. It would take some time before she felt like herself again, if she ever did. That was the risk of coming down from a great height. It was sometimes impossible to get back up again. Nath'iarra had no intention of wallowing in defeat, but before she could begin her comeback, she needed to get the lay of the land. She listened in on conversations at mealtimes and in the evenings in the inn's taproom, secluded in a shadowed booth where her lilac flesh would draw no attention. Her champion and thrall was doing his part, but Nath'iarra could not -- would not -- rely on him for everything.
She would need to earn her way to a position worth being in. And then she would decide what to do with the itchy feeling of Velgir's compelled... affiliation.
By the time the Drow lady awoke on the fifth morning and descended to the breakfast room in a borrowed dress slightly too big for her frame, she was no closer to formulating a plan, and only a few weeks out from destitution, if the burn rate of the gold continued. The innkeeper brought over her usual breakfast -- a kind of mushroom porridge reminiscent of something the poor ate in the underrealm, which she ordered with the air of someone who preferred to dine austerely rather than someone who was looking to limit costs -- but with a little something extra: a scroll tied with a neat ribbon and sealed with a small dot of wax. Nath'iarra nodded her thanks to the innkeeper and waited until she was alone again to break the seal on the note.
Unsealing it revealed an invitation to a salon at the home of one Archaelis Veyndor who, the note suggested, could be of some service to her. Crimson eyes studied it suspiciously. She had heard tales of this city, about how nothing here came without a price. Yet and still, could she afford to turn away potential aid? She considered the note all through breakfast. She read it again during her bath, careful not to get it wet. She scrutinized it a third time. There was no instruction to write back, merely to present herself at a certain address that afternoon.
Trap, she thought at first.
It seemed likely.
But a trap wasn't always fatal. Sometimes a trap was an opportunity. An invitation to see who the players were. Something useful in a new place.
Nath'iarra dressed. She hoped the dress, stolen from that cottage and laundered thoroughly, was old enough now to read as vintage rather than simply hopelessly out of style, and she carefully cinched the belt around her waist tightly. The thing would drown her otherwise. At least her boots fit. Nath'iarra penned a note to Valgir with instructions to come for her at the address if and only if she did not return by ninth bell.
She presented herself at the appointed time and place, armed with two daggers (one in her boot, one strapped to her hip), a coinpurse with a few coins but nowhere close to everything, and the scroll inviting her there.
That would be a problem for future Nath'iarra.
For the moment, she indulged in the softness of the bed, the coolness of the shadowed streets, and yet another copper bathtub. It would take some time before she felt like herself again, if she ever did. That was the risk of coming down from a great height. It was sometimes impossible to get back up again. Nath'iarra had no intention of wallowing in defeat, but before she could begin her comeback, she needed to get the lay of the land. She listened in on conversations at mealtimes and in the evenings in the inn's taproom, secluded in a shadowed booth where her lilac flesh would draw no attention. Her champion and thrall was doing his part, but Nath'iarra could not -- would not -- rely on him for everything.
She would need to earn her way to a position worth being in. And then she would decide what to do with the itchy feeling of Velgir's compelled... affiliation.
By the time the Drow lady awoke on the fifth morning and descended to the breakfast room in a borrowed dress slightly too big for her frame, she was no closer to formulating a plan, and only a few weeks out from destitution, if the burn rate of the gold continued. The innkeeper brought over her usual breakfast -- a kind of mushroom porridge reminiscent of something the poor ate in the underrealm, which she ordered with the air of someone who preferred to dine austerely rather than someone who was looking to limit costs -- but with a little something extra: a scroll tied with a neat ribbon and sealed with a small dot of wax. Nath'iarra nodded her thanks to the innkeeper and waited until she was alone again to break the seal on the note.
Unsealing it revealed an invitation to a salon at the home of one Archaelis Veyndor who, the note suggested, could be of some service to her. Crimson eyes studied it suspiciously. She had heard tales of this city, about how nothing here came without a price. Yet and still, could she afford to turn away potential aid? She considered the note all through breakfast. She read it again during her bath, careful not to get it wet. She scrutinized it a third time. There was no instruction to write back, merely to present herself at a certain address that afternoon.
Trap, she thought at first.
It seemed likely.
But a trap wasn't always fatal. Sometimes a trap was an opportunity. An invitation to see who the players were. Something useful in a new place.
Nath'iarra dressed. She hoped the dress, stolen from that cottage and laundered thoroughly, was old enough now to read as vintage rather than simply hopelessly out of style, and she carefully cinched the belt around her waist tightly. The thing would drown her otherwise. At least her boots fit. Nath'iarra penned a note to Valgir with instructions to come for her at the address if and only if she did not return by ninth bell.
She presented herself at the appointed time and place, armed with two daggers (one in her boot, one strapped to her hip), a coinpurse with a few coins but nowhere close to everything, and the scroll inviting her there.
