Forgotten Realms 1. wasted potential

_Disclaimer: The recognizable elements in this fan fiction belong to the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who own relevant copyrights to Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. These elements are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the settings, character, and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer._

A/N: I posted this over a year ago and then brought it down because I knew I wouldn't finish it (and won't) and because the original character was perfectly suited for _devil takes hindmost_. I didn't expect people to like him in that fic, but due to the pleasant surprise, I'm reposting this fic.

Please remember this is unfinished and will continue to be unfinished. The first chapter is newly edited previous material (except the opening paragraph) and the second chapter is made up of scenes of varying length. Please enjoy.

* * *

_wasting potential _

_The knife was shaking almost uncontrollably in his hand and she was raving and snarling at him. He was weak, he knew, terribly weak and miserable. And he couldn't take it. Couldn't take the screaming. Her screaming. All at once, his knives ceased but his mind, built up on anguish and horror, barreled through her defenses. She offered very little resistance in her weakened state. Her body bucked with the assault as he bludgeoned her mind. His frantic blasts dispersed her synapses, fried her brain's impulses, writhed along the dendrites. Again, again, again, until all that was left of her howling curses was a low gurgle of senseless gibberish._

* * *

Riding lizards had never been Jakadirek Mi'iduor's specialty. He was more inclined to remove a beast's skin than mold his body to their spines. All the same, he was doing an excellent job of staying with the lizard as it ran a spiraling course down the black well, far faster than it should have been able to. It almost seemed the lizard was doing little more than controlling their fall.

Not trusting the lizard's wild flight, Jak kept his head above its shoulder just enough to see if an abrupt stop was in their immediate future. He had no illusions about the state of the lizard's forward momentum; he only looked for the inevitable collision in order to release himself from the saddle at the right moment. He planned to use his innate power of levitation to extricate himself from a deadly fall when the need arose.

If the lizard's rapid spiral had been less tight, he could have gauged how much narrower the well was becoming by the screams and loud cracks of splintering bone and rock reverberating from every corner of the cavern. Unfortunately, he was well past his normally high tolerance for disorientation and entering the realm of nausea. He gave his condition little heed, focusing instead on his poor infravision and the fading heat traces of a broken drow body that had passed him seconds earlier. The heat traces were growing closer, the spiral tighter. Either there was a barrier ahead or the hole became too narrow to navigate.

Knowing his panicked lizard would not respond to the normally subtle manipulations the dark elves used to steer them, Jak opted to pull back on the reins with ferocity reminiscent of his late mother's wicked snake whip. To the lizard's credit, rather than Jak's riding skill, it began to try to arrest its forward momentum. The attempt revealed Jak's earlier observation to be true; the lizard really had been doing little more than controlling the fall.

Jak felt the animal's back begin to arch beneath him as it tried to slow; telling him control was no longer an option. The lizard's hind legs had lost grip on the wall, though they still pumped away with useless abandon. Jak found himself disturbed by the sound of its tail immediately scraping the opposite wall; in his disorientation, he had not registered just how narrow the well had become.

Nimble fingers darted to his harness, freeing himself of the riding saddle in a split second. Even as he slipped the woven straps away he felt the lizard's nose dive down, attempting to right itself when the front end could no longer outrun the back end. Jak kicked free of the harness and braved dodging the falling lizard's bulk rather than risk getting scraped from its back onto the wall.

Levitation wasn't a problem; quick wits prompted him to use his hands and feet to run in place up and around the lithe reptilian body as it fell past him. Still disoriented, a misstep on the beast's snout spun the hapless drow end over end in the air. An ever-wry part of his mind noted that it would be prudent to hold off on vomiting until he knew which way was down. If the rest of his party were as dead as he assumed, nobody would be around to report his weakness to his malicious aunt, the new matron of house Mi'iduor.

With little time to work with, Jak dropped his levitation just enough to show him which way was down and to arrest his sickening spin. No sooner had he begun to head downward by his own control than he heard the scraping and thrashing of his lizard hitting an impasse. Looking down, he saw the vertical tunnel had rapidly grown too narrow for the hapless creature. He was concerned there would be no way to make it past the weakly thrashing animal in order to follow the tunnel to what he hoped would be an eventual exit. Going back up to the monster above, whether he could levitate all the way or not, was not an option.

The patrol wasn't supposed to have gone so horrifically wrong. Several of the young lizard-riding patrol members were fresh from training with their lizards at their respective houses; for many of them it was their first foray outside their house compounds. The route was close to the city, an inner circuit preceded by ten outer routes. For the monstrosity above to get past the previous patrols, it had to be the result of a summoning or rift. Unless it had wiped all the other patrols out, but even then the relatively inexperienced group would have had some word.

Perhaps the patrol _was_ meant to go horrifically wrong.

Jak lowered himself to the lizard's head, which was listing weakly against the side of the wall. It was in the beast's nature to bite whether traumatized or not; Jak decided to minimize chances. Never exceedingly emotional, the young drow quickly focused his thoughts and sent a sudden, scrambling blast into the lizard's mind. The effect was instant. Below his spiked boot heels, the lizard ceased all movement.

Simultaneously, a keening screech erupted far above at such high pitch Jak wrapped his arms around his head. If he hadn't guessed the problem before, he was beginning to feel more of the pieces fall into place. He wondered if he might have been either amused or frustrated with the attention, had he been any other dark elf male.

As he slipped past the momentarily still lizard's head, he reined in his impulse to glance up to see if he was going to be followed. Since the attack had begun with a blast of blinding light, it was best to simply expect the worst. It wasn't easy, but he wormed his way under the reptile's muscular haunches.

The tunnel was so narrow past the lizard's tail that Jak quickly came across the body he'd seen from above. The heat was relatively strong within the warrior, but at close quarters, he could see that his heart was no longer pumping and most of his limbs were twisted at odd angles, or bent in places they shouldn't be. Cooling streams of blood flowed from where bones erupted from smooth skin. If it weren't for the male's distinctive armor, Jak would have never known who he was.

Neither familiarity nor sentiment gave Jak pause; he braced his feet on the narrow tunnel's walls and heaved his sire up. It was too convenient an opportunity, he thought to himself. Still, feeling the silken skin of one muscled forearm, he couldn't help but remember his mother. Her skin was far warmer, far sleeker, over more pleasing contours: until… until…

The young drow tried to put the thought out of his mind, but it made his fingers tingle all the same as the surface of his skin became numb. If the drow of the volcanic depths had sight like their brethren, Jak might have imagined all heat leaving his skin. As it was, it looked the same as stone thanks to the prolonged exposure to their thermal habitat.

When the mouth of the tunnel, so very far away, began to light up, Jak hoped the monster would be too large to come down sufficiently far to exterminate him. If size wasn't a barrier to the creature, he hoped the lizard and corpse might block the inevitable attack. Like any drow, though, he would never rely on something as useless as hope.

Jak was trained to throw his armor and weapons on nearly instantaneously, but he'd never done the opposite, especially not while supporting the dead weight of another soldier above him. Moving with an economy of swift actions, Jak tore off his weapons belt, piwafwi, delicate-looking chain, and undershirt and threw them down the impossibly narrow tunnel. Between wishing strongly that he knew how to open a portal and gauging how close the light was coming, Jak listened closely for the sound of his items coming to a stop.

He was anything but disappointed. He heard the weapons belt hit first, and not with a scrape, but a rebounding clatter. Losing no time, he slid down the tunnel, which was helpfully slick with his sire's blood.

In only a moment, the other drow, larger than Jak in most every way, was stuck above him. In the next moment Jak found blood wasn't going to help him get much farther. Beyond his feet, he saw empty blackness, which he took for the cavern he'd suspected below, but the mouth of the hole was not so wide as his slender drow shoulders. He knew he could dislocate his shoulders, but even that wouldn't do him enough good. Frustration burned within his stomach.

Casting about for options, Jak tilted his face up despite trepidation. The light was increasing in brightness, causing his eyes to shift into the light-sensing spectrum. In fact, it seemed, too, that the tunnel's air was getting a bit harder to breathe; warm even. His pale yellow eyes snapped wide in delayed recognition. He was hardly one for terror, as inured to fear as he was, but he was also not so blasé to take a fireball in stride.

Reacting on instinct and the fine edge of fear, Jak's left and right fists rose high above his head and slammed down with all the force adrenaline and elastic young muscles could inspire. Twin cracks of delicate bone sounded, followed by twin pops of cartilage. The young drow snapped his feet together and let himself fall. Either breaking his clavicles and dislocating his shoulders was enough, or he was about to be melted into a pathetic formation with rock, lizard, and his fellow drow.

---

"You wish the tenth ring hadn't found you, don't you?" The rough voice was communicated more through raw nerve-endings than anything else. It was not a voice he needed to answer, especially since it was unerringly accurate. "You wish you hadn't been so resourceful."

Skin was peeling off his flesh in ragged layers, sawed delicately by his own tools, leaving him stuck between mind numbing pain and stark fascination. This is what it felt like to be skinned alive? He had never favored working with live animals and he knew he never would. This was an experience he didn't want to repeat, whether his stock were alive or not.

It took time, but when the sweat pouring off his skin finally worked its way into the exposed nerves, Jakadirek finally broke down. A loud gasp, as ragged as his flayed skin, ripped from his throat, only to be met by his relations' hoots of appreciation.

Not for the first time, he wished fervently for the sharp crack of his mother's voice; ever was she one to show him a condescending sort of mercy. Despite his best intentions, his torn lips shaped the syllables of her name, even as incomprehensible sounds flew from his mouth. It had been going on for so long, between the scraping knives and the fortifying potions, that he was drunk on pain.

"Jaka," a sibilant hiss stirred the fine hair plastered next to his ear, "you want it to end, don't you?"

Nonsense dribbled from his lips. His brow knit in unfocused consternation and before his aunt could rake her nails down his flayed back, he tried again to speak. "Yesss…" he whispered, the word barely recognizable to his tortured senses.

Cool fingertips connected beads of sweat across his brow, encouraged them to fall stinging into his pale yellow eyes. The pain was nothing compared to the massive swath of wounding peeled up from his ribs. "Whose fault is this, little one?"

He winced at the relatively small pain that came from pressing his lips together to form his answer, "Mine…"

The unrestrained backhand took him hard across the face, flinging blood, sweat, and saliva in a colorful arc through the air. Jak's head hardly moved, held in place by the house's weapon master, but his mind spun.

"Fool," his aunt laughed. "You think a little male could be the undoing of a priestess?"

Blood and saliva poured past his lips, coating his words in a deceptive sheen of stupidity. "I was… just a symptom..." It was hard to think and speak at the same time. "I made things worse."

The sharp point of an index finger insinuated itself into the soft skin under his chin. "Little boy, if one must have a weakness, it should be one easily defended. I fail to see how a pet like you could satisfy that most basic requirement."

Her mocking tone was as damaging as her fingernail, driving into his spirit as surely as the digit digging into his flesh. "She thought to hone that pathetic talent, gotten off dead Tyshakir. A little line of baby psionicists under her command? She was out of line, making dangerous deals with faraway cities! It wasn't Lolth's will!"

Despite the suffering she was causing him, Jak mocked his aunt internally; his mother had been in the Spider Queen's favor. Outwardly, he obeyed the strict survival instincts all drow were groomed for. "I'll do as you wish," he slurred, "I can repair… the damage."

Again his aunt laughed in his face, removing her hand from his chin only long enough to grab the top of his hair and shake his head violently within the secondboy's hands. "Filthy child! You should have died with your sire! You are nothing, you can do nothing, you can help nothing! If Lolth had seen any worth in you at all, you wouldn't have been born with that useless lump of flesh between your thighs."

Jakadirek had no response to her tirade; her logic was impeccable by most drow standards. Only his mother had suggested otherwise and it seemed the flaw in her reasoning helped lead to her downfall. Conceding to the wisdom of submission, he simply slumped deeper in his brother's grip. He was tired in every sense and the potions keeping him alive were weakening.

"That tongue of yours," his middle brother commented laughingly, "is your worst problem, isn't it?"

Matron Kirsul Mi'iduor nodded sagely. "Quite true. Perhaps if it was cut out he might become more useful. Of course, a tongue has other valuable uses Jaka might excel at." She tapped her whip against her thigh thoughtfully, letting the agitated snakes glare wickedly at her youngest nephew. As the new Matron found inspiration, they reared up impressively and rubbed her leg in smug satisfaction.

"Ah, Jaka, little Jaka," she murmured breathily, hooking a cruel finger into his bloody mouth, "I know what to do with you."

---

Muffled sounds of amusement escaped the small group of drow as they gathered together outside the pens wherein waited their riding lizards. It was often a habit of the third ring patrol to congregate early, when their strict schedules so allowed. None of them were especially trusting of any other in the group, but there was enjoyment in the rare ease in which they worked together.

They were neither the best nor worst patrol in Ilchathm's mounted guard, but even with relatively little experience as compared to the fourth ring patrol, the third ring was exceptional. Their leading priestess loathed all of them with unmitigated enthusiasm, yet she had benefited from their rapport most. It was for that reason she protected them from being split up, had even elevated them to their current position as an entire group. For their part, the patrol's males kept their cocky repartee as far out of her sight and hearing as possible.

The group whispered among themselves, some standing at attention their banter gave lie to. A few crouched low around a long-haired soldier who was amusing himself and others by massaging their battle hardened hands.

"Alanam seems annoyed by the name of the new recruit." One of the riders was commenting, obviously in the hope of triggering more information.

"She'd be annoyed by any male, let alone one replacing Usefein. Mi'iduor's runt, isn't it?" The soldier massaging hands asked, though he already knew the answer. It was always in his favor to sound as uninformed as possible to his fellows, even though they knew better.

"A Mi'iduor. The irony is inescapable," came the snorted reply.

"Hells, Arsa," the rider across from the masseuse hissed through gritted teeth, nearly oblivious to the conversation, "does your Matron keep you around for your hands?"

Arsa'olakai smirked at his victim's appreciation, opting to take no offense at the shortening of his name. "Only until she gets our house wizard to replicate them."

It was the group's habit to ignore Arsa's propensity for wit out of simple spite. All the same, a few lips quirked at the comment before the subject returned to their new recruit. "Isn't he the only one who survived the first ring massacre last year?"

A small silence ensued while the riders cast their minds back to the relatively recent event. Though it was never spoken of in the open, Ilchathm's residents knew the incident's motivations had roots in the ambitions of the newest Matron of Mi'iduor. Not long before the most inexperienced ring was wiped out, led at the time by Tyshakir of the eleventh ring, an abrupt change of power had occurred in the city's seventh house.

Another male nodded slowly, "What a mess that was. Remember the back-biting in the tenth circle for Tyshakir's position?"

Many of them rolled their eyes. "Ended up having to replace five people instead of just one."

"How could this so-called runt survive something a veteran couldn't? Why would he get bumped up to third circle, if he only barely survived an initial mission with the first?" The soldier's tone was neutral, unhurried, as he rolled a thin gold bangle in his bare hands. It made complicated rounds along his long fingers, before spinning rapidly around one finger before Arsa's dark red eyes.

The talented masseuse's hands left their ministrations, to slip one through the moving target offered him. In the same motion, he took the soldier's hand into his own, leaving the other dark elf snarling. "Rosali, have any of us mentioned lately that we resent the ease in which you dip your hands into your house's spoils?"

Rosali shrugged nonchalantly as the other dark elf slipped his mail-backed gloves back on. "I don't see a problem; you've benefited from Darshenon coffers in the past."

Ignoring the customary bickering, Arsa shrugged, beginning to dig his fingers into the drow's right palm. "I think he fit through a hole nobody else could."

"Are they so tall in Mi'iduor," one of the standing drow commented, so quietly that the other riders took the hint and quickly straightened respectfully while pulling on their gloves, "that their runts are our size?"

It took them all a mere moment to comport themselves as Alanam Seiylsos approached. They cast their gazes down in institutionalized respect, though their minds' eyes recalled the beauty the city knew her for. She was an incredible specimen of the female gender; curves mated effortlessly with fluid muscles. Alanam stood a head taller than almost all the patrol, the one exception being Rosali, who had to stoop in her presence to keep his brow below her chin or risk the sentient whip that thirsted for their flesh.

She did not stop, nor pause, when she reached the silent group. Instead, she roamed slowly through them, her free hand skimming exposed skin while her snakes hissed and snapped. One rider's face, another's bicep, the fingers piercing through fingerless gloves, tapping the top of Rosali's head in unnecessary warning.

"Well, boys," she purred throatily, "though Usefein was, like you, little better than a troop of kobolds and almost as sharp as a wet bag of dead mice, I do miss him. He knew how to appease me in ways no combination of you pathetic creatures could touch. Excepting, possibly," she looked over her shoulder, "if I had two of Arsa."

As she passed, many took the opportunity to get a good look at the new male. He was fine looking as noble males went, but he was unusual in the yellow of his eyes; a trait that often denoted illness. His gear was a cut above everyone but Alanam and Rosali's, while his clothes were unremarkable for a house that prided itself on the production and tailoring of fine textiles and finer leathers. Rather than a helm, he wore the fitted double-spiked plate House Mi'iduor was known to favor and on which house nobles stamped the house symbol. The plate was molded to his aristocratic forehead, kept in place by one of the house's mysterious textiles, both keeping his straight hair from his face and providing him useful, yet lightweight protection.

She turned back to their new recruit, allowing any of the riders who so desired a moment to stare malevolently at him. Jak was neither impressed nor particularly unimpressed by the malicious red gazes nor the threats of subtle finger movements. As had been his way over the years, he simply found a comfortable sense of being an astute observer of his situation, rather than that of the principle actor.

"Mi'iduor's youngest was given to replace Usefein," she continued acidly, " but I feel cheated. He's not the physical specimen I wanted, nor does he appear to be as well behaved. If he steps out of line, I suspect he will become lost and die in the tunnels. Perhaps he'll forget his anti-toxin, fall into a lava flow, or find a hole he can't fit through. A dark elf's life is fraught with peril, is it not?"

Knowing the question was rhetorical, the soldiers remained quiet, only nodding their expected agreement. It was anyone's guess if the spiteful female was seriously suggesting they kill the scion of Mi'iduor or not. As the lowest ranking noble of the small city's seventh house, his position was only slightly less precarious than theirs. The only thing saving him from a lesser rank was his aunt's failure to produce offspring. A failure she hoped to rectify with her second patron; the group's former member, Usefein.

The irony was not lost on anyone, nor was Alanam's indignation, despite the outward appearance of a fair trade. It wouldn't take long in the volcanic city's relatively small confines for word to circulate and the humiliation to be thrown in her face. The troop of lizard riders found their newest member's position unenviable.

For his part, Jakadirek was relieved to be out of his house after a year of demeaning labor to the Mi'iduor household. He didn't mind being put to work in the house's leather and textile operations, but he'd had enough of kobold herding from his time in a more metropolitan drow city's 'care'.

"Mi'iduor," the sly female sighed, "you'll take the rear. Take care not to fall behind and keep an eye on your back." With a flick of her whip, Alanam directed the patrol to proceed to their lizards.

As Jak passed among the third circle to his designated lizard, he allowed his eyes to find as many faces as possible to issue the silent challenge expected from a low-ranking son of a noble house. It was assumed he would have much to prove and Jak would hardly dissuade them of their cliché notions; he'd learned to cultivate assumptions in one of the largest and most mysterious cities under Toril's surface. It was a pity his mother's ambitious plans with the Oblodrans would sour with his blunt aunt in power; it seemed his best path was one that would take him out of the less subtle city of his birth.


	2. extra scenes

_Disclaimer: The recognizable elements in this fan fiction belong to the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who own relevant copyrights to Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. These elements are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the settings, character, and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer._

A/N: Following are many scenes and their explanations. I forgot to mention that Jakadirek goes by Jaka and Jak, according to user preference, but mainly I started switching to Jaka because Jak sounds too much like Zak (as in Zaknafein). I also failed to mention that Jak suffers from a condition known as depersonalization disorder which makes him feel like he is retreating from reality. In extreme cases he begins to lose feeling in his extremities.

* * *

_The following piece was written to flesh out what an Ilchathmyr patrol could be like while indulging my whim to write an action sequence. Ah, and it would help to know that what Kirsul decided to do to control Jaka was to pierce the boy's tongue… by way of his jaw. According to her whim, his tongue is basically nailed to the bottom of his mouth. The top of the pin is a spider made of black sapphire and sits on the top of his tongue. The bottom is her egg sac, which is located beneath his jaw. The thing has various enchantments on it; without the silencing charm he can speak, but you can imagine the lisp. Hence, Jaka ends up using handcode for several years._

It was getting harder to see what he was doing, so Jak stopped trying to follow the direct action with his eyes and simply began to feel it. He was keenly aware of the sensation the red ropes of his muscles sliding against one another as he darted full tilt down the bubbling formations of the magma façade. Once and again he used the butt of his death lance to pole vault from one ridge to the next, trading his foes as easily as a matron mother changed sides.

The lance had no more helped propel him through the air toward another wide perch, than he reversed its flow in midair, striking another assailant with a sweeping slash of the deadly blade. Knowing the immediate assailant was little risk, he conserved the lance's deathly enchantment, settling for the satisfying crunch of ribs.

One of the deep gnomes saw the blow distinctly change Jak's course and surged forward, far inside the lance's ten-foot reach. The wicked mace in its capable hands darted in at an angle to kneecap the agile drow. It was a move the dark elf had anticipated even before he began his leap. He was hardly off course, had counted on his contact with the previous victim to place him on his way.

His spiked boot kicked out at the last second, flying over the gnome's blade, taking the pitiful creature full in the face and bowling it over. He landed on the opposite foot, kicking backwards in the same motion to dislodge a multiplicity of spikes from the gnome's easily punctured skull. The whisper of broken edges of bone on metal was a feeling akin to a physical aftertaste.

Still, even if only for a second, Jakadirek became a delightful target to the deep gnome encampment the cartographical half of the patrol had been wiping out with remarkable glee, until the gnomes were reinforced. The seven drow were outnumbered six two one. A slew of missiles flew at him from all sides. For the lance wielder, it was only so much deadly play. The joy of movement, of losing himself to the murderous action, was his second love.

With little effort, he keyed his innate levitation, just enough to remove what small weight he possessed and allow his arms to propel his whole body up into the air, aided again by his potent lance. His assailants howled in anger as he was propelled out of the reach of their cunning missiles. As soon as they perceived the offensive to be failing, the gnome's shamans began to make their castings.

The death lance was his favored weapon but only of use in large areas that were not always so common in their magma cave habitat. In the sixth circuit's range near the volcano's older flows, he was afforded the greatest use of the weapon and the chance to use it on creatures in line with his skills.

Reaching the desired zenith of his levitation, Jak threw his body into a lethal spiral and dropped the spell that had helped elevate him. Lance held out at a diagonal, flush with his arm for the limitation of his reach, he was a spiral of swiftly descending death. (butt of lance is at shoulder level)

The rising volume of the gnome shamans was enough to alert him to the increasing likelihood of a completed casting. It was according to his desire and fittingly, he touched down in the middle of them, lance slicing and bludgeoning the diminutive creatures down and clearing a span of ten feet on either side of the skilled drow. Skilled and swift as he was, one of the shamans completed his spell. High above, the toothy cavern responded to the smaller creature's call.

Across the uneven floor of magma banks, the cartographers of the sixth ring patrol noted the precursor to a rock fall and leapt toward the outward sloping southwest wall they had skittered beneath only minutes prior. Knowing he would be unable to make the wall before the widow-makers began to spike down from the ceiling, Jak opted to trust in the gnomish shaman's knowledge and self-preservation. Leading with the cold burn of his lance, he threw himself straight at the shocked creature.

The collision turned the two figures into a tangle of limbs, each propelled with murderous intent. Thinking the drow would be hampered with the long lance he still clung to, the gnome grabbed Jak's fine boned face, thumbs working their way to his yellow eyes. With the gnome well inside his reach, it wasn't unthinkable that the dark elf would release his lance to grapple with the gnome. However, it wasn't Jak's intention at all. Instead, he pulled his lance against the gnome's shoulder blades, crushing the breath out of its lungs.

The shaman wasn't impressed with this tactic. Though it stole his breath, the move put him in line to consolidate his grip on the drow. Gnomish fingertips caught hold of the Mi'iduor head plate and used it as a base to press thumbs into Jak's eyes. The gnome's fingers had barely brushed Jak's fringe of eyelashes when the drow reacted. Shutting his eyes tight against the invasion, he snapped his forehead forward, driving the plate and the twin spikes forged into it, squarely into the gnome's face.

The first blow shocked the gnome and loosened his grip. The second blow was more calculated on Jak's part. He slammed his lance haft into the gnome's shoulders, lifting it toward his head again and snapped his head against the other's with all the savage force adrenaline could muster. The spikes, per their enchantment, pierced the gnome's skull with the same intensity his spiked boots had the previous gnome.

Jak clenched his eyes when he released his right hand from the death lance and flung the body from him. Twin spurts of hot blood and soft gore bathed his face as the gnome was dislodged from the spikes. If not for his closed eyes, he would have been blinded, as it was, the rapidly cooling life blood was dripping down from his head plate still threatened his vision.

He had no time to consider the possibility of blinded or blurring eyes, for the gnomes had used the shaman's spell to regroup. He was an open target once again, only this time not by his choosing. The sound of another gnomish voice rising to crescendo was the only warning he had. Even for a drow, Jak was at the top of his art when it came to nimble evasions, but he couldn't avoid all the magic missiles suddenly streaking at him from relatively point blank range.

Trying all the same, Jak flung himself to one side, scrabbling to get to his feet. Many of the missiles didn't make it through his innate defenses or his piwafwi, but half of them were not so deterred. A low growl wrestled up from his chest as the missiles slammed through his clothes and propelled him back into the stone floor. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Jak leapt up, using his lance for leverage. Rather than head straight back for the escape and reinforcements of the wall, he again swarmed up the hard magma and the cracks and crevices to be found among the façade's formations.

Another barrage from the ceiling nearly did him in, causing him to remember that the first thing to do would be to take out the magic users in the group. But he assumed the rest of his patrol would come back to do that. Unless they were on the other side, laughing at his predicament, which wasn't unlikely. He cast his mind to the surroundings, to sense if he had been completely abandoned and found only one familiar mind. Arsa'olakai was consumed with making it to the same lave façade Jak was sheltering in, but was still contending with the gnomes. They had him hemmed in and were splitting up to outflank the huge chunk of debris they'd freed from the ceiling. If the male didn't make a run for the façade, the gnomes would fill him full of crossbow quarrels.

It seemed the fight was taking too long and the other members of their small group weren't going to come for them. Rosali had thought the gnomes did not greatly out-number them and had ordered them in for a charge that they'd expected to be recreationally dangerous. But in his blood thirst, he'd overlooked the possibility that the gnomes had split up. When the other half arrived the tables were quickly turned on the drow.

When a cry came out from behind him, Jak gave ground thinking he would either be shot in the back with missile or magic or be joined in defense by the only other dark elf who hadn't been able to make it to the wall. When neither happened he grew flustered but continued to fall back. Assessing the sudden change in the situation was foremost in his instincts.

The answers came at once and barely a moment before his life was directly threatened again. The moment before death sang through the air Jak could clearly see Arsa'olakai was clawing at a stalactite struck through his left shoulder, where it had cleared his fine chain. There was a bloody point making a macabre tent of the male's back. Jakadirek gritted his teeth angrily. He didn't like the other male nor his mockingly suggestive behavior, but he also couldn't deny his interest in having the silencing pin in his mouth removed. Considering Arsa's association with the first house's firstboy, a male known for his penchant to collect unusual magic items, there was every chance the annoying male could help remove the silencing pin.

Even though he preferred to see Arsa die, Jak threw himself into action as the gnomes released a new wave of quarrels. The bolts whispered through the air, over a dozen deadly secrets meant for him and the sixth ring's most troublesome member. His body reacted on more intimate secret plans from his mind. He felt his muscles bunch and strain and suddenly release, he felt himself stretch out long and taut like the bolts yearning for his life. He felt the air as he went through it. His body began to curl as it neared Arsa and before he completed one revolution his arms were bristled like a hedgehog but with more deadly spikes.

He kept his momentum going and used the power that flexed his leg muscles like a spring from the force of his landing to go over Arsa's head now that the crossbow quarrels were no longer in danger of killing either of them. As he sprang he gripped the longhaired drow by his uniform and used his own weight as he curved over to propel the wounded man to the gap between the floor and wall.

---

_This scene comes courtesy of a problem I realized would come with eating a diet largely comprised of fungus and drinking the mandatory fantasy beverage; wine. Quite a bit of fungi is toxic, but fine when eaten alone, but combined with alcohol, the result can be dangerous. Especially dangerous when around somebody who wants to take advantage of it and you. _

A wicked smile twisted Arsa's features, as he continued to dig his fingers expertly into the younger drow's forearms. Jak hardly knew what to do. He could feel the sensation, really feel it with his own body. It made him feel weak. Despite himself, he leaned back against the warm wall.

"I owe you," Arsa soothed, seeing the moment of conflict, the weakness he was expert at exploiting. "You know the idea bothers me. I'm willing to pay the debt like this. I didn't ask you to do what you did, but if I don't pay in some way, perhaps there won't be a Jaka there next time."

The pale-eyed drow nodded listlessly, noticing now that he was beginning to feel a calm euphoria permeate his senses. It had little to do with the masseuse's ministrations, but it enhanced them all the more. The young drow's mouth began to feel remarkably dry, the pin in his mouth felt comfortably tight in his tongue. With each arm in Arsa's intensely strong grip, it was hard for Jak to signal his desire for water and having been silenced by Kirsul less than an hour before, he couldn't speak if he wanted to. His eyelids began to drift down his eyes.

Alarm rang in his mind as Arsa continued to murmur in his most gentle tones, turning the noble's body into so much pliant muscle. "Tell me, dear Jak, is the spider on your tongue enchanted? Does it bite your lovers' tongues?"

Weakly, Jak shook his head, but his answer was more a denial of the situation, which was no longer in his control. Arsa was amazed at the effectiveness of his ministrations in conjunction with the fungus he'd plied the younger drow with earlier that day. He watched in delight as Jak's eyes narrowed in helpless rage. Oh, this was better; his victim knew exactly what was going on.

Chuckling, he pulled the yellow-eyed male closer, releasing one arm to haul him in hand over hand. He wasn't sure which he liked better; Mi'iduor clothing or Mi'iduor skin. He'd felt enough of both in his time, but he felt that it was time to test the deciding factor.

---

_Just a sequence written to satisfy myself concerning one of his house duties._

Hanging upside down from his lizard, a good distance away from his house's main stalactite outpost, Jakadirek watched large white spores float casually by on a warm updraft. It was always hot in Ilchathm and unbearably humid when the cavern system's intense radiation eventually perverted the climate controlling spells drow wizards were always casting. As heavy as the air was, the guard found the presence of the fluff intriguing. Noting the color and shape, he was satisfied it bore no resemblance to any of the airborne varieties that could cause a dark elf any harm.

The slow glide of the fluff through the air put him in a calmer frame of mind. He kept his stoic watch, yet with a wide focus he admired the fluid glide of more spores wafting occasionally through. Some were ushered violently along by many of the steam vents in the cavern floor, soon falling when filled with water particles.

---

_Ilchathm was in a precarious position, but kept 'safe' by Lolth's blessing. When the Time of Troubles came, her protection was removed and nature took its course during rioting within the city. Jak escaped because he was using the rioting to slip away to get to Menzoberranzan's House Oblodra._

He was tired and too spent from battle and escape to concern himself with the detritus and pallili shattering and crunching under his boot spikes. Before him lay his last stop before further flight: Jaisou's outlying greenhouse. The black structure's obsidian panels reflected the angry red heat of the lava, in contrast with his memory of the inside, which was brightly lit and almost intolerably green in places.

There were no guards standing at the gates, though there was a corpse to indicate there had been at one point. He stepped over the unfortunate and pushed past a cracked black door. With the light the lava flows cast, his eyes were already prepared for the illumination within. Surprisingly, the illumination was not as he expected. A large section of the roof had been caved in by pyroclastic blocks: inside the green house, Jakadirek found flickering white light, mated and bleeding, with the dark amber from outside.

The radiant heat of the volcano had done its deadly work on the life within. Outside the obsidian walls, he had crunched through molten rock that had solidified in the air in lacy glass formations, inside, Jak walked through aisles of dry leaves and ash that came up to his ankles, despite the two inches the spikes on his boots gave him.

It felt as if he walked in slow motion. The heated air stirred the leaves around him and picked hisblack hair from his neck, tumbling it in undulating waves around his shoulders and head. The ash and dry leaves swirled in stagnant spirals and eddies across the floor, collected in shifting heaps in the corners, turned in slow circles by the heat-displaced air. It was like walking through a vast ashen funeral celebration.

Heated gusts moved with more animation in the enclosed area of the green house, ash and leaves hit him with more force, obscuring his vision more effectively with larger bits of organic debris. He had to clear his eyes more often inside and tap more often at the material veiling his nose and mouth. His eyes were watering again, attracting more ash to his face. If he hadn't felt so completely unreal, he would have noticed the burning pain his reddened eyes experienced.

The green house was more of a gray house now. But he walked on, thinking he might find something, rather than doing little more but stir the leaves and ash under his spikes. He ran his hands over tables and shelves, searching for anything of value, but especially for any sign of the precious plants that could produce the vibrant colors his family was famous for.

There was nothing. Nothing but the fragile skeletons the fires had left behind and the dried up husks the heat had no use for. For a few precious moments, the lone male looked around at the terrible beauty of the volcano's destruction, the delicate scene of the ruined green house. The air was thick and soupy with graceful debris, wraiths of ash and smoke that clung to his skin and clothing, leaving him more of a gray ghost than the black shadow he and his kind were known to be. A sigh swept ashy remains near his face into gray curls: it seemed there would be no color from the ashes. Nothing of use to be found despite the risks he'd taken. Nothing.

Vaguely disappointed, Jakadirek Mi'iduor turned and walked out of the latest of Ilchathm's many funeral halls. Again, he noted the difference in texture and sounds between crumbling leaves and crackling pallili.

---

_I ended up playing Jak over at menzoberranzan dot net's role-playing forum with a great player running The Kiaransalyn, obviously a cleric of Kiaransalee. Kiaransalee doesn't accept male worshippers, so this albino drow did the unthinkable by making himself 'not male'… with a knife. The bizarrely unexpected bonus: Kia runs around with his mother's severed hand, just as Jak keeps his mum around his neck. Talk about a couple of twisted dark elves._

The cavern resounded with the rebounding echoes of a thousand thousand drops of condensation dispersing on the surface of the subterranean pool and surrounding surfaces. The warmth of the area combined with the hypnotic susurrus, lulled Jak into a sense of precarious security. He sensed no other minds nearby other than those he knew and the negligible sentience of the glowworms casting their cyan phosphorescence on the clear water.

Moments earlier he had packed his clothes with his riding lizard and ventured into the inviting pool. He was conscious of the mysterious cast to the water the blue light did not quite cover, had recognized the poisonous scent instantly. Few could survive the deceptive pool, but Jakadirek Mi'iduor was at home in most vapors that seeped up from the deep earth.

With a few kicks, the dark elf's lean form was plowing through the water and the concentric ripples the water drops cast all about in miraculous geometric patterns. He kept his head above the pool's surface for a few meters, taking in the satin sensation of water flowing over his ebony skin and the water's loose pull at his long hair.

The ceiling was low over the pool, but the depths were deep. The ethereal glow the worms cast, no matter how clear the water, could not penetrate the depths. His monochromatic form, however, was eerily visible in the water, even when he somersaulted beneath the surface. He knifed back toward the edge of the pool, a black silhouette rippling under the water's skin.

The Kiaransalyn watched the other drow's actions with some interest that found itself laced with a small amount of irritation. While the scent of the area did not offend sensibilities used to the smell of death and decay, it did cause him a noticeable shortness of breath, which had gotten worse since he'd dismounted from his lizard. The presence of many dead rats and other floor crawling animals only heightened his awareness of the dangers he sensed, but could not see.

His companion had told him the area was safe enough, but the Kiaransalyn proposed otherwise, especially when the other male had stowed his death lance and had begun to undress. Nevertheless, curiosity had compelled him to venture forth and the death he saw around the place in various states of decay had placated and worried him both. Still the pool and glowworms were a beautiful sight.

Light blue highlights gleamed over Jakadirek's water slick skin when he surfaced again. He'd been careful not to swim too low, for the water was denser the deeper it went and he didn't want to key his natural levitation abilities if he didn't need to. Long-fingered hands pulled his body up to the pool's shallow lip.

The Kiaransalyn noted that the other drow had failed to remove the flat, black leather rectangle that lay flat on his chest on an equally black cord. It had been shown to him much earlier in their voyage as a sample of fine work. It shone just as wetly as Jakadirek's skin and in the same texture and value of blackness, as if it was his own. He'd seen swaths of thick scarring across the other's back to support the notion that it had been removed from his body. And yet, he had clearly been told it was female skin: the way it was kept hidden supported that claim.

Subconsciously, the Kiaransalyn ran a silver-ringed hand over the preserved one within his robe. It was always wise to hide female drow goods in certain cities, though one day, all those cities would tremble before the might of his goddess' righteous rage. One day, there would be no reason to misdirect the eyes of the wretched followers of lesser deities!

Eyes alight with the fervent love of his goddess, he focused on Jakadirek again. If his allies couldn't accept the future, they would be cast down with their pathetic false idols. As he observed the other drow this time, inspiration came to him. A slow smile pulled his ivory lips. It was manifestly obvious. It made sense. How did he not realize before? The foreign male had not lied about the skin, though it was quite possible he'd lied about his rank. The skin could belong to none other than the male's mother.

The thoughts of the Kiaransalyn were unknown to the yellow-eyed drow. He would never presume to know what was going on in the other male's mind. Resting on his elbows, Jak signed to him, his initial movements causing water droplets to fly from his fingertips. _I didn't see any other living creatures here nor do I think we'll find any of your brothers' kind. I can faintly sense a type of vapor that eats bone._

The Kiaransalyn smiled sardonically, and answered with a double-meaning Jak would not pick up on. _If you're quite finished, I don't think there's anything more to be gained from this outing._

_This place is safe_, Jak signed, shrugging. _The water is warm here, infused with minerals that are good for health. The only danger is the heavier water below, which is impossible to swim in._

_---_

_The following are a couple throwaway scenes. Nothing more than thoughts or fleshing out of an impulse. The first is a detail about Jak's house insignia. The second came of Jak's curiosity of whether or not he could pickle kuo-toa flesh and cure the skin without losing its ability to change color._

Making another decision, Jak slipped his hand to his forehead and the trademark Mi'iduor plate. His was outfitted with two straight spikes, each as long as his smallest finger, located directly above his eyes. Beneath the plate was his house insignia, which held a number of enchantments, the least of which was typical to a noble house proud of its mercantile specialties. He triggered the spell and immediately felt a small whirlwind of force start at his feet and blow swiftly up over his body, leaving his clothes without stain or wrinkle and his skin without dust or blemish.

---

A minimal amount of blood and mucus was drying on Jak's cheek as he stood, tapping the flat of one of his skinning blades against the kuo-toa's flayed arm. He didn't like working with live animals, but in the interests of conservation, he had capitulated to pragmatism. It was much easier to skin an arm that was attached to a body rather than skinning a severed one. Additionally, it allowed the creature continued mobility while Jak learned how long a sheet of skin would emote while thinly attached to the body.

The kuo-toa had ceased protest after Jak had bludgeoned its mind enough. It hadn't even known what he was doing to it in the end. There was no screaming as there had been with his mother. No struggling. Its mind was a comfortable mass of ponderous movement.

---

_And of course, when the poor boy finally arrives in Menzoberranzan, he finds Oblodra destroyed. House Agrach-Dyrr ends up adopting him due to his rare gift of psionics. He doesn't use them much in my writing because he has very little formal training until Agrach-Dyrr contracts Kimmuriel Oblodra of Bregan D'aerthe. And that leads into Jaka's involvement with Entreri and Jarlaxle in _devil takes hindmost_. Hope you enjoyed all that._


End file.
