mickume/dnd_drow · Datasets at Hugging Face

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He smiled a rare smile at her before continuing.
"So I ask you now, Lae’zel of Creche K’liir—what is it that you desire?"
The ground shook as Quuthos landed on the beach. She dismounted, strapping her sword back into its scabbard over her back and secured her pack, sparing a glance for her steed as it leapt into the sky. The dragon yearned for the expanse of the Astral Plane, and who was she to deny it? Truthfully, she was surprised at the ease with which she had left her rightful home. To think that she was abandoning the beauty of the Astral Sea for this world of dirt and soft peoples.
She set off up the coast, looking for the part of the beach where the
that began it all had crash landed. She did not know how long it had been since she left Faerûn for the Astral Plane. It may have been one year, or a thousand. As she rounded a corner, the hulking mass of the ship came into view. Where the area was once a smouldering wreckage, new life had taken root. The entire nautiloid was covered in twisting vines and wildflowers. It more resembled a hill in a forest than the instrument of war that it was when she first arrived. So, some time had passed. She could only hope that she was not too late.
The old gnomish fisherman sat on the broken dock, quietly humming a tune and looking out at the ocean. His basket was almost full—another fish and his family would eat well for the next tenday. Finally, he felt a jerk in his line. He reeled in the fish and took the squirming thing in his gloved hands, slitting its throat open in one smooth movement. As he took up the basket and turned for home, he almost collided with a solid wall of silver metal. Trembling, he turned his gaze up to find the terrifying face of an alien warrior staring him down with animalistic amber eyes.
it hissed. "How many years have passed since the slaying of the Absolute at Baldur’s Gate? Tell me, or I will part your head from your shoulders."
He stumbled backward with a squeak, but was pulled into the air by a tight grip on his collar. The warrior’s hand bunched up the cotton of his undershirt, unrelenting and inescapable.
"A—about fifteen years, sera. My son fought in that battle, at the High Hall."
The warrior glared at him, its searing gaze piercing straight through to his soul.
"Hmmm," it sneered. "You do not seem to be deceiving me. Satisfactory."
It dropped him and stalked off without ceremony or further threats. Gond preserve him, he was alive. With a shaky sigh, he picked up his fish basket and made for home.
Fifteen years I’ve fought,
Lae’zel thought.
Fifteen of these mortal years, in pursuit of my people’s freedom. So much has changed.
She was sitting on a bench in the courtyard of Waukeen’s Rest, taking small, disciplined bites of her field rations despite the hunger ravaging her atrophied digestive system. Around her the inn that had once been a smouldering wreckage had been lovingly restored to its former glory. Caravans of humans, tieflings, and everything in between passed through on their way to Baldur’s Gate. Groups of caravan guards milled about, some casting a suspicious eye on the alien interloper, but most ignoring her in favour of a pretty woman, warm bed, or stiff drink. Lae’zel looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, watching the orange and red and purple bloom on the horizon. She had
forgotten how beautiful this plane could be.
"Zhak vo’n’fynh duj," she whispered, thinking back to that sunrise so long ago, when she had asked her cleric to stay by her side for the rest of time. How she had watched as Shadowheart’s form grew smaller and smaller with each wingbeat of her dragon mount. She wondered if she remembered the promise still, across the boundaries of space and time. Perhaps she could find answers inside.
She slipped into the inn’s tavern, feeling the weight of eyes on her as she took a seat at the bar. Already her sharp ears picked up on the titters from the crowd—
githyanki, another one
—but before she could parse that statement, the broad bartender turned around, a polishing rag and a tankard clutched in his meaty hands.
"What can I do ya for, traveller? A bed, a drink? Something else entirely?"
Lae’zel scowled at the man’s jovial demeanour.
"I am here for information regarding the slayers of the Netherbrain," she said. "Do
waste my time."
Her threats seemed to bounce off his cheerful grin.
"My, you’re the feisty sort! Nothing like the other one of you I seen."
Lae’zel’s ears pricked up. Other one? Impossible—Creche Y’llek had
. Surely there were no survivors roaming about.
"Another one? You have seen
"Ayep! He passed through with a band of healers not two days ago. Quiet young thing, but flanked by the largest woman I ever did see. Said they were headed for
. I need’ta whisper the last part, see, it’s a bit of a
in the innkeeper world—"
Silence your babbling! I must catch up with them at once!"
If the bartender was put out at all by her attitude, he didn’t show it.
"Well, it’s dangerous to travel these roads by yourself, even though you look like you can handle anything Faerûn throws atcha." He admired her sword, nodding approvingly. "There’s a caravan headed for Baldur’s Gate at first light, and they’re in need of a capable guard. If you’re interested, talk to the big Dragonborn with the scar."
He held out a tankard full of foamy ale. Lae’zel sniffed, but took the tankard, finding the taste to be deliciously bitter. Despite his irritating affect, the man had a point. The Faerûn she remembered was not kind to those travelling alone.
"My thanks," she said, tossing a gold piece to the man. He smiled, pleased, and went back to polishing.
Lae’zel knocked back the rest of her ale and stood to leave, licking the foam off of her upper lip. In the courtyard, she spotted the Dragonborn immediately. She was tall, wore simple black plate, and had dual longswords slung over her back.
"Tavar?" Lae’zel shouted.
Tavar Amaranthine looked up from the cargo manifest she was holding, blue eyes wide in what passed for a "surprised" expression among the dragonborn.
"Lae’zel? Selûne’s pearly tits, it really is you!"
The huge Dragonborn sprinted across the yard, scooping Lae’zel up in one of her customary hugs. Lae’zel made a show of trying to squirm out of the embrace, but a dark, hidden part of her reveled in the familiarity. When Tav finally put her down, Lazel spoke.
"Yes, I have returned. Vlaakith is slain and my people are free, just as Orpheus promised."
Tav whooped, drawing the attention of the other guards.
"Holy hells, "Zel! That’s what, your second god?"
The Gith smirked.
"Third. Of course an
would not remember who landed the final hit on Myrkul."
Tav snarled, but there was a teasing light in her eyes.
remember correctly, it was Gale, with his
. Anyway," Tav shushed Lae’zel’s noise of protest, "I’d bet my last copper that you’re here looking for Shadowheart, yeah?"
Lae’zel nodded.
"Well," Tav continued, "it’s been a few years since I’ve been home, but last I remember she’s set up in a farm just outside of the Gate. My caravan is headed for the city, if you’d like to join us."
Joining Tav for another adventure was not even a question.
Lae’zel followed Tav around the camp, a scowl etching new wrinkles on her face. She had forgotten how much Tav
people. And while Lae’zel had certainly softened to her companions, these
so she simply did not care about them.
"—And this is Maeve Ettares along with her husband Saeth. They’re the nobles we’re escorting."
Lae’zel looked the woman over. She was soft and round with child, wearing fine clothes unsuitable for the harsh environs of the Risen Road.
"Greetings," Lae’zel said, extending a calloused hand.
The woman took it with a smile, failing to be intimidated by Lae’zel’s alien features and gigantic greatsword. The Gith knew it was because of the irresistible charisma of the dragonborn beside her, and only resented it a little bit.
As the nobleman (whose name Lae’zel had already forgotten) stretched out his hand, the sounds of screaming and something blundering through the undergrowth reached the gith warrior’s ears. She retracted her hand and whipped around, catching Tav’s wide gaze. No one beside the two had seemed to notice the commotion. Unsheathing their swords, Lae’zel and Tav sprinted toward the source of the noise.
The pair found it a few hundred yards from camp. A young caravan guard lay on the ground, air whistling from his torn-open throat. He only had minutes to live.
he wheezed, before Lae’zel ended his misery with a sword through his chest.
Tav shook her head, reaching into the youth’s pocket and pulling out a piece of metal with his name and place of birth.
"It was better this way," Tav said. "Anyway, if there are gnolls about—"
Tav’s words were cut off by Lae’zel tackling her to the ground as a slathering gnoll swiped at where her head had been. The githyanki shouted a warning to the rest of the camp, and dimly registered the sounds of steel being frantically pulled from sheaths.
She rolled off of Tav and swept her greatsword up, cleaving through the gnoll’s jaw in one smooth movement. As it fell to the ground another took its place, only to be speared through the heart by one of Tavar’s longswords.
"I see fifteen years has not dulled your edge, dragonborn," Lae’zel said, hacking an arm off of a gnoll.
Tavar responded by letting out a barking laugh and cleanly decapitating a hyena between her two blades.
"Not a lot of time to get rusty when you’re running caravans," she said, blipping out of existence and reappearing, another gnoll skewered on the end of her blade. "Besides, a soft life wasn’t for me. I’m most at home here in the wilds."
Lae’zel nodded and bowled over the last gnoll, burying her sword halfway to the hilt in the putrid flesh of its stomach. Somehow the fog of battle had delivered them back at camp, where a contingent of bloody caravan guards were gathered around the nobles’ tent. Tavar’s brow knit into concern, and she jogged over, Lae’zel a step and a half behind.
"Is everyone alright?" Tav asked, nearly bowling over one of her guards in her haste.
The small woman that the dragonborn nearly ran into gave a lazy salute.
"Yes, ma’am. All’s well, "cept it seems the gnolls scared the baby right outta our noblewoman here. Gone on, have a look. The father’s practically glowing with pride."
Sure enough, the nobleman
(Sarth? Santh?)
was standing at the centre of the throng of people, holding a tiny, bloody creature in his hands. Tav dove right into the warm gathering, cooing and babbling at the miniscule human. Lae’zel hung back, unsure of her place. She considered her own hands, too-large and veined and thick with callouses from swinging a sword.
Lae’zel’s ears perked up, suddenly aware that she was being spoken to. Tav had one arm tucked securely under the infant, the other motioning her over. Lae’zel picked her way nearer, body taut as a bowstring. She watched the father, looking for any distrust in his beaming eyes. Sensing none, she inched closer, leaning over to examine the child.
Tav smiled, all pointed teeth and unabashed joy.
"Babies don’t bite, Lae. And before you ask, the father isn’t worried about you eating his child, or whatever myths you might have heard people say about gith. In fact, he wants you to give the baby a blessing."
Lae’zel’s amber eyes flicked over the tiny blob of too-soft flesh. Gith’s name, the little creature didn’t even have its eyes open yet. Such a weakness would not be tolerated in the hatcheries of Creche K’liir.
But you are not at Creche K’liir anymore,
a small voice whispered. It was this small voice that compelled her to reach out a finger for the infant to grab, which it did with surprising ferocity. And then it opened its jaw and howled a battle cry into the night, loud and defiant of the unfriendly circumstances of its birth.
Lae’zel looked up, locking eyes with the nobleman.
"Your child is a fierce warrior, to suffer being born under a rain of blood and death. Auspicious timing, befitting one who will carve a trail of woe through all that oppose him."
She looked back at the infant. In the short time she looked away, it had opened its eyes. Bright blue irises gazed back at her from cheeks flushed by squalling. She gently disentangled the tiny digits from her finger, laying the freed hand upon the child’s head.
"Mother Gith guide you, Orpheus’s hand protect you. May your will be forged in silver."
When she looked up again, she saw awe and tears in the father’s eyes.
Lae’zel could not help but be surprised as the caravan arrived at the Last Light Inn. Where there had once been a wasteland of shattered earth and writhing shadows there were now meadows of verdant grasses and brightly-coloured wildflowers. Where the ground was once littered with bones and corpses, groups of travellers stood, drinking wine and sparring and swapping stories around roaring campfires as the red of dusk settled over the land. Next to her, Tavar held out a waterskin, which Lae’zel took gratefully.
"Must be a bit of a shock, coming back now," the dragonborn said, gesturing to the restored town of Reithwein in the distance. "Halsin, Thaniel, and Oliver have really done well with the place."
Lae’zel nodded, eyes wide.
"You speak true. The change is... shocking." A youth whooped in the courtyard, lobbing a ball to a suspiciously familiar tiefling child.
"Mhm," said Tav. "Stay out here and take in the scenery if you like. I’m heading in to book us a few rooms."
The dragonborn gestured over her shoulder with her thumb, then disappeared into the inn. Lae’zel closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nose, feeling the crisp air flow into her lungs, nothing like the oppressive darkness that once haunted the land.
A desirable change,
she thought, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin.
"By the Moonmaiden, Aylin, it’s her!"
Lae’zel’s long ear flicked toward the reverent whisper, and she cracked open an eye. When she saw the source of the voice, her other eye snapped open and she felt as if her whole body was sent reeling. A githyanki youth no older than fifteen rotations stood before her, flanked by Dame Aylin and the cleric Isobel. Instead of the garb of a raider or a creche initiate, he wore long white robes and carried a flimsy spear slung over his back. But that is not what shocked her most of all. No, most perplexing were his eyes. Instead of the yellow irises with catlike pupils, he had flat white circles, reminiscent of the moon.

He smiled a rare smile at her before continuing.

"So I ask you now, Lae’zel of Creche K’liir—what is it that you desire?"

The ground shook as Quuthos landed on the beach. She dismounted, strapping her sword back into its scabbard over her back and secured her pack, sparing a glance for her steed as it leapt into the sky. The dragon yearned for the expanse of the Astral Plane, and who was she to deny it? Truthfully, she was surprised at the ease with which she had left her rightful home. To think that she was abandoning the beauty of the Astral Sea for this world of dirt and soft peoples.

She set off up the coast, looking for the part of the beach where the

that began it all had crash landed. She did not know how long it had been since she left Faerûn for the Astral Plane. It may have been one year, or a thousand. As she rounded a corner, the hulking mass of the ship came into view. Where the area was once a smouldering wreckage, new life had taken root. The entire nautiloid was covered in twisting vines and wildflowers. It more resembled a hill in a forest than the instrument of war that it was when she first arrived. So, some time had passed. She could only hope that she was not too late.

The old gnomish fisherman sat on the broken dock, quietly humming a tune and looking out at the ocean. His basket was almost full—another fish and his family would eat well for the next tenday. Finally, he felt a jerk in his line. He reeled in the fish and took the squirming thing in his gloved hands, slitting its throat open in one smooth movement. As he took up the basket and turned for home, he almost collided with a solid wall of silver metal. Trembling, he turned his gaze up to find the terrifying face of an alien warrior staring him down with animalistic amber eyes.

it hissed. "How many years have passed since the slaying of the Absolute at Baldur’s Gate? Tell me, or I will part your head from your shoulders."

He stumbled backward with a squeak, but was pulled into the air by a tight grip on his collar. The warrior’s hand bunched up the cotton of his undershirt, unrelenting and inescapable.

"A—about fifteen years, sera. My son fought in that battle, at the High Hall."

The warrior glared at him, its searing gaze piercing straight through to his soul.

"Hmmm," it sneered. "You do not seem to be deceiving me. Satisfactory."

It dropped him and stalked off without ceremony or further threats. Gond preserve him, he was alive. With a shaky sigh, he picked up his fish basket and made for home.

Fifteen years I’ve fought,

Lae’zel thought.

Fifteen of these mortal years, in pursuit of my people’s freedom. So much has changed.

She was sitting on a bench in the courtyard of Waukeen’s Rest, taking small, disciplined bites of her field rations despite the hunger ravaging her atrophied digestive system. Around her the inn that had once been a smouldering wreckage had been lovingly restored to its former glory. Caravans of humans, tieflings, and everything in between passed through on their way to Baldur’s Gate. Groups of caravan guards milled about, some casting a suspicious eye on the alien interloper, but most ignoring her in favour of a pretty woman, warm bed, or stiff drink. Lae’zel looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, watching the orange and red and purple bloom on the horizon. She had

forgotten how beautiful this plane could be.

"Zhak vo’n’fynh duj," she whispered, thinking back to that sunrise so long ago, when she had asked her cleric to stay by her side for the rest of time. How she had watched as Shadowheart’s form grew smaller and smaller with each wingbeat of her dragon mount. She wondered if she remembered the promise still, across the boundaries of space and time. Perhaps she could find answers inside.

She slipped into the inn’s tavern, feeling the weight of eyes on her as she took a seat at the bar. Already her sharp ears picked up on the titters from the crowd—

githyanki, another one

—but before she could parse that statement, the broad bartender turned around, a polishing rag and a tankard clutched in his meaty hands.

"What can I do ya for, traveller? A bed, a drink? Something else entirely?"

Lae’zel scowled at the man’s jovial demeanour.

"I am here for information regarding the slayers of the Netherbrain," she said. "Do

waste my time."

Her threats seemed to bounce off his cheerful grin.

"My, you’re the feisty sort! Nothing like the other one of you I seen."

Lae’zel’s ears pricked up. Other one? Impossible—Creche Y’llek had

. Surely there were no survivors roaming about.

"Another one? You have seen

"Ayep! He passed through with a band of healers not two days ago. Quiet young thing, but flanked by the largest woman I ever did see. Said they were headed for

. I need’ta whisper the last part, see, it’s a bit of a

in the innkeeper world—"

Silence your babbling! I must catch up with them at once!"

If the bartender was put out at all by her attitude, he didn’t show it.

"Well, it’s dangerous to travel these roads by yourself, even though you look like you can handle anything Faerûn throws atcha." He admired her sword, nodding approvingly. "There’s a caravan headed for Baldur’s Gate at first light, and they’re in need of a capable guard. If you’re interested, talk to the big Dragonborn with the scar."

He held out a tankard full of foamy ale. Lae’zel sniffed, but took the tankard, finding the taste to be deliciously bitter. Despite his irritating affect, the man had a point. The Faerûn she remembered was not kind to those travelling alone.

"My thanks," she said, tossing a gold piece to the man. He smiled, pleased, and went back to polishing.

Lae’zel knocked back the rest of her ale and stood to leave, licking the foam off of her upper lip. In the courtyard, she spotted the Dragonborn immediately. She was tall, wore simple black plate, and had dual longswords slung over her back.

"Tavar?" Lae’zel shouted.

Tavar Amaranthine looked up from the cargo manifest she was holding, blue eyes wide in what passed for a "surprised" expression among the dragonborn.

"Lae’zel? Selûne’s pearly tits, it really is you!"

The huge Dragonborn sprinted across the yard, scooping Lae’zel up in one of her customary hugs. Lae’zel made a show of trying to squirm out of the embrace, but a dark, hidden part of her reveled in the familiarity. When Tav finally put her down, Lazel spoke.

"Yes, I have returned. Vlaakith is slain and my people are free, just as Orpheus promised."

Tav whooped, drawing the attention of the other guards.

"Holy hells, "Zel! That’s what, your second god?"

The Gith smirked.

"Third. Of course an

would not remember who landed the final hit on Myrkul."

Tav snarled, but there was a teasing light in her eyes.

remember correctly, it was Gale, with his

. Anyway," Tav shushed Lae’zel’s noise of protest, "I’d bet my last copper that you’re here looking for Shadowheart, yeah?"

Lae’zel nodded.

"Well," Tav continued, "it’s been a few years since I’ve been home, but last I remember she’s set up in a farm just outside of the Gate. My caravan is headed for the city, if you’d like to join us."

Joining Tav for another adventure was not even a question.

Lae’zel followed Tav around the camp, a scowl etching new wrinkles on her face. She had forgotten how much Tav

people. And while Lae’zel had certainly softened to her companions, these

so she simply did not care about them.

"—And this is Maeve Ettares along with her husband Saeth. They’re the nobles we’re escorting."

Lae’zel looked the woman over. She was soft and round with child, wearing fine clothes unsuitable for the harsh environs of the Risen Road.

"Greetings," Lae’zel said, extending a calloused hand.

The woman took it with a smile, failing to be intimidated by Lae’zel’s alien features and gigantic greatsword. The Gith knew it was because of the irresistible charisma of the dragonborn beside her, and only resented it a little bit.

As the nobleman (whose name Lae’zel had already forgotten) stretched out his hand, the sounds of screaming and something blundering through the undergrowth reached the gith warrior’s ears. She retracted her hand and whipped around, catching Tav’s wide gaze. No one beside the two had seemed to notice the commotion. Unsheathing their swords, Lae’zel and Tav sprinted toward the source of the noise.

The pair found it a few hundred yards from camp. A young caravan guard lay on the ground, air whistling from his torn-open throat. He only had minutes to live.

he wheezed, before Lae’zel ended his misery with a sword through his chest.

Tav shook her head, reaching into the youth’s pocket and pulling out a piece of metal with his name and place of birth.

"It was better this way," Tav said. "Anyway, if there are gnolls about—"

Tav’s words were cut off by Lae’zel tackling her to the ground as a slathering gnoll swiped at where her head had been. The githyanki shouted a warning to the rest of the camp, and dimly registered the sounds of steel being frantically pulled from sheaths.

She rolled off of Tav and swept her greatsword up, cleaving through the gnoll’s jaw in one smooth movement. As it fell to the ground another took its place, only to be speared through the heart by one of Tavar’s longswords.

"I see fifteen years has not dulled your edge, dragonborn," Lae’zel said, hacking an arm off of a gnoll.

Tavar responded by letting out a barking laugh and cleanly decapitating a hyena between her two blades.

"Not a lot of time to get rusty when you’re running caravans," she said, blipping out of existence and reappearing, another gnoll skewered on the end of her blade. "Besides, a soft life wasn’t for me. I’m most at home here in the wilds."

Lae’zel nodded and bowled over the last gnoll, burying her sword halfway to the hilt in the putrid flesh of its stomach. Somehow the fog of battle had delivered them back at camp, where a contingent of bloody caravan guards were gathered around the nobles’ tent. Tavar’s brow knit into concern, and she jogged over, Lae’zel a step and a half behind.

"Is everyone alright?" Tav asked, nearly bowling over one of her guards in her haste.

The small woman that the dragonborn nearly ran into gave a lazy salute.

"Yes, ma’am. All’s well, "cept it seems the gnolls scared the baby right outta our noblewoman here. Gone on, have a look. The father’s practically glowing with pride."

Sure enough, the nobleman

(Sarth? Santh?)

was standing at the centre of the throng of people, holding a tiny, bloody creature in his hands. Tav dove right into the warm gathering, cooing and babbling at the miniscule human. Lae’zel hung back, unsure of her place. She considered her own hands, too-large and veined and thick with callouses from swinging a sword.

Lae’zel’s ears perked up, suddenly aware that she was being spoken to. Tav had one arm tucked securely under the infant, the other motioning her over. Lae’zel picked her way nearer, body taut as a bowstring. She watched the father, looking for any distrust in his beaming eyes. Sensing none, she inched closer, leaning over to examine the child.

Tav smiled, all pointed teeth and unabashed joy.

"Babies don’t bite, Lae. And before you ask, the father isn’t worried about you eating his child, or whatever myths you might have heard people say about gith. In fact, he wants you to give the baby a blessing."

Lae’zel’s amber eyes flicked over the tiny blob of too-soft flesh. Gith’s name, the little creature didn’t even have its eyes open yet. Such a weakness would not be tolerated in the hatcheries of Creche K’liir.

But you are not at Creche K’liir anymore,

a small voice whispered. It was this small voice that compelled her to reach out a finger for the infant to grab, which it did with surprising ferocity. And then it opened its jaw and howled a battle cry into the night, loud and defiant of the unfriendly circumstances of its birth.

Lae’zel looked up, locking eyes with the nobleman.

"Your child is a fierce warrior, to suffer being born under a rain of blood and death. Auspicious timing, befitting one who will carve a trail of woe through all that oppose him."

She looked back at the infant. In the short time she looked away, it had opened its eyes. Bright blue irises gazed back at her from cheeks flushed by squalling. She gently disentangled the tiny digits from her finger, laying the freed hand upon the child’s head.

"Mother Gith guide you, Orpheus’s hand protect you. May your will be forged in silver."

When she looked up again, she saw awe and tears in the father’s eyes.

Lae’zel could not help but be surprised as the caravan arrived at the Last Light Inn. Where there had once been a wasteland of shattered earth and writhing shadows there were now meadows of verdant grasses and brightly-coloured wildflowers. Where the ground was once littered with bones and corpses, groups of travellers stood, drinking wine and sparring and swapping stories around roaring campfires as the red of dusk settled over the land. Next to her, Tavar held out a waterskin, which Lae’zel took gratefully.

"Must be a bit of a shock, coming back now," the dragonborn said, gesturing to the restored town of Reithwein in the distance. "Halsin, Thaniel, and Oliver have really done well with the place."

Lae’zel nodded, eyes wide.

"You speak true. The change is... shocking." A youth whooped in the courtyard, lobbing a ball to a suspiciously familiar tiefling child.

"Mhm," said Tav. "Stay out here and take in the scenery if you like. I’m heading in to book us a few rooms."

The dragonborn gestured over her shoulder with her thumb, then disappeared into the inn. Lae’zel closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nose, feeling the crisp air flow into her lungs, nothing like the oppressive darkness that once haunted the land.

A desirable change,

she thought, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin.

"By the Moonmaiden, Aylin, it’s her!"

Lae’zel’s long ear flicked toward the reverent whisper, and she cracked open an eye. When she saw the source of the voice, her other eye snapped open and she felt as if her whole body was sent reeling. A githyanki youth no older than fifteen rotations stood before her, flanked by Dame Aylin and the cleric Isobel. Instead of the garb of a raider or a creche initiate, he wore long white robes and carried a flimsy spear slung over his back. But that is not what shocked her most of all. No, most perplexing were his eyes. Instead of the yellow irises with catlike pupils, he had flat white circles, reminiscent of the moon.