The cracks of night begin to form, When the horizon teases thoughts of morn,
After their meeting concluded and those assembled dispersed to their chambers, or other duties, Viconia made her way swiftly to her chambers within the keep. She was eager to be away from the distrustful gazes of Nors and Eltan’s pet wizard, and especially keen to be rid of the Ranger’s piercing eyes. She wondered if he had perfected such a look, or if it were something that came naturally to a man such as he. Either way, it was unnerving in its intensity and it recalled in her memories of the High Priestesses of Llolth, especially the Matron Mothers, back in Menzoberranzan.
When silent nights touch silent minds
Candles flicker on a breeze Barely felt, source unseen,
With a merry jaunt, the elven ranger, known to most only as Dew, entered the townstead of Tallow just as the sun-kissed the western horizon, sending fountains of citrus and strawberry across the sky. Clothed from head to toe in tight fitted, emerald attire one would customarily associate with her ilk, she made a drastic contrast to the townsfolk who yet trundled down the town’s main, and only, avenue, clothed as they were in drab shades of grey, brown, or burgundy. Despite this distinction, she was met with naught but hearty greetings at her passing, marking the familiarity with which the town held her, and she them, for she returned each hail with an equally exuberant one of her own.
Rippled motes break surface placid Fiery hair suggesting satin
n the early morning hours, Syla crept from her bed. Among her elf-kin around her not one stirred, and though she knew that her footfalls would wake none, still softly did she tread. The tribe that she was staying with currently was a migratory one and, though she was not one of them, she knew that they would judge her for her actions that morn should they discover her motives.
On a clouded, windy night, down a dingy backstreet in the City of San Francisco, a lone woman strode boldly and alone. Her low-heeled steps, emitted by knee-highs, crunching audibly upon loose gravel and discarded needles. The sounds magnified against the looming brick walls on either side. Rats, roaches, and other such vermin scurried from her path and those cast-off peoples who dwelled there on the ever-shrinking fringes of society shrunk away, covering their faces so as not to catch her eye.
Hear us now, the thrice-scarred youth
The Mistress of the Wolves