Journal of Shur Silverblade [Updated 11/22]

[TheSpaniard]

The High Priest Izral Xes'vyr is dead . . . And yet, the catharsis I seek eludes my grasp once more.

I stand over the lifeless husk of the ancient Priest of Talona, his blood staining my boots red, and I remember feeling absolutely nothing. The sizzling and dissipating energies of Talona's vanquished emissary echo throughout the ruined halls: the sound of our greatest victory, and I felt nothing.

Perhaps I am to live my life this way, swinging my sword for no reason or direction; despite the banality of it all, it seems to keep me amongst the living. I have the ire of two goddesses, their hatred haunts my dreams, the few times that I do. The Maw's great bonfire of dreams and mine, at the epicenter, is not amongst them. I sustain my waking moments with blood: it is all I can do.

So , maybe, I am doing something right . . . The Maw has nothing but successes, and my mercenaries are accomplishing their dreams . . . After the battle I dream for the first time in ages, I mean that I slept, actually slept, incapable of reverie after the exhaustion from S'shamath's counter attack. My mind slips into a dream. I remember Morgannis, Inxun, Zeerith, and I are all together. They are there, Inxun watching the three of us, Morgannis caressing the skull she always carried, grinning up at me from her glass of wine. Zeerith, with a flask of brandy gripped in his hand, regarding each each of us coldly.

And I, the most unlikely to the succeed, the outcast, always irritable or morose. I sit there, drunk on Burduskan Dark, chewing on a twig of sage. We all drink except for Inxun, who perches on a near by boulder, her eyes of flame gazing over our motley crew.

A shadow descends upon us. Morgannis disappears first, then Zeerith, and finally Inxun. Alarmed I stand up reaching for my scimitar, which is no longer safe and at my hip, and curse as I realize I am unarmed. Suddenly I am cast naked into a pitch black darkness; I yell to be heard, clawing at nothingness. Fear grips me for what feels like an eternity.

Before a ball of light bursts forth. It is Inxun, sauntering toward me in the pitch black darkness, touching the back of my neck, tapping my spinal cord, whispering into my ear, "You are beaten, ridiculed, and your name dragged through the mud, for a reason: I do this because you are the best, Shur."

I imagine it is something a mother would say to her son.

The next thing I remember in the dream is my running through S'shamath, spells smashing around me, burning holes into my cloak. The Lolthites chase, driving me toward the caverns past Varalla's Passage. Only, I appear somewhere else, as I burst through the familiar tunnel and appear at the old Maw's hideout. Inxun awaits inside and at her a side, a large demon. Elven children stand in a line, imprisoned in a crude pen, until the gate opens and they slowly walk out from it in a single file line. They walk slowly toward a grisly demise, the demon almost salivating as he awaits for the feast to begin. I reach for the hilt of my scimitar, which is finally back home in its sheath, and attack indiscriminately at all those present.

It is then that I wake, in a cold sweat, the perspiration dripping from my forehead. . . .I can't help but ask does any of this matter? I have my sword, my bow, and my work. Is it time I bury this nostalgia? Bury it all to the unrelenting pressures which never cease to assail me. I am not one to believe in predestination but, is it my fate, to forever elude death for nothing?

[TheSpaniard]

A dull silence breaks , as the bustle of Central S'shamath's bazaar quiets down to a low hum. The light from the fearie fires hang over the various shops in the market, and one can barely make out a group of Duergar merchants closing shop and leaving with crates of ore . Their ruddy faces and stout bodies shuffle against the paved street, their mumbles echoing quietly, distances themselves from their stall next to Gloura's Tavern.

The tavern is a large, one roomed building, always open for business. Gloura's buzzes with activity, when the rest of the city sleeps, it's a place where commoners drown their miseries and adventurer's boast their ventures. This particular cycle in the City of Dark Weavings is different, even the Tavern seems quiet. But often, things are not as they seem. Only a master of divination could notice the subtle and mounting culmination of tension, and as the dead end of the cycle draws near, something happens. Two hooded figures make their way down from the base of the Spire, not much is discernible from them, except the hooded figure in front walks back straight and proud. The other one seems to almost slink behind the prideful figure, its head mostly downcast.

A jaluk and jalil whisper to one another, eying the two as they enter Gloura's. The hooded figures don't seem to notice as they open the tavern's heavy door. The sound of music , even on this quiet day, seems to fill the entirety of Central S'shamath before the door is closed behind the pair. Other than a bard on his lyre, recounting the arrival of Lolth during the Alhoon War, the tavern is relatively empty. Surprisingly, the Minotaur leans forward slightly comatose, having seemingly closed his tab. The two hooded figures, approach the counter, the one clearly in charge puts lithe hands on the counter, barking a quick order to her companion. With a nod, and what can barely be heard by any who is listening, "Y-yes, J-jabbress. "

The subservient one, underneath her hood and cloak, wears sensually tight clothing which reveal themselves as she approaches Gloura and points at a bottle of S'shamath's finest Mushroom Wine. Handing the barkeep a few gold pieces from her coin purse, leaving the bottle at the counter, she makes her way quickly to the armored Jabbress, taking delicate care in not dropping any wine. With a snarl and a back handed comment, the armored Jabbress takes the glass from her flinching servant. At this movement, a keen observer would notice a collar around the blonde woman's neck.

And, a keen eye did lurk within in the tavern, , a male Drow with his face obscured by a black cloth wrapped around his head, observing the whole ordeal from a dark corner of the tavern. This male knows these women well, yet remains unseen and unnoticed. He dons all black armor, his mud caked, blood stained cloak and boots would give him the appearance of a distant traveler from some far corner of the Under Dark. Nothing of interest. He seems utterly different from the Jaluk who fled to the surface after instigating the Temple of Lolth for the first, of what would be many incidences. In truth, he flees in wretched and reckless abandon, believing himself capable of only deceit and murder. Still, the Jaluk is not entirely stupid, masking his identity for the time being after a long absence. Perhaps it is to avoid the over zealous attempts of Temple assassins, or maybe it is to walk unnoticed through the streets of S'shamath. Had anyone been paying attention, they would see his yellow eyes burning with a malignant glint, boring holes into the heart of the armored Jabbress Zilv'eari.

Barely touching the stein of Burduskan Dark in front of him, he focuses on the counter . His eyes linger on the tiefling Vala who now huddles against a stacks of boxes, wincing at each word escaping Zilv'eari's mouth. The latter is having a stressful day: he can tell in how she vents her frustration on Vala. However, his gaze always drifts to the Tiefling, and he seems to absorb every flinch, stammer, and incorporate them into his own being through burning yellow eyes. The Jaluk is tall, taller than even some Jalilen, but he does not have their robust physique which makes him merely above average in that sense from other males. His armor, perhaps what could identify him the most, is an old and battered breastplate covered almost entirely by the large cloak draping over his shoulders.

Just then the doors to the tavern burst open and, for a moment, all eyes focus on the bar's three new occupants. Three tall, strong, Drow women walk in talking loudly to each other. With a yelp the gnome the kitchen's gnome slinks from the edge of the wall, ducking out of view. They saunter to the counter, barking orders at the scurrying Gloura.

He curses then under his breath, "T-cht . . .Yathrin, what are they doing here?"

As he glances to Vala, who tries to shrink herself from view, something not unlike fear seeps into the core of his being before his attention shifts to the three large females. They seem to be speaking amongst each other eagerly, perhaps already drunk. They address Zilv'eari then with respect, who merely returns the gesture with a partial smile and nod. The Yathrin take their drinks and turn to look upon the other patrons. They look at the Jaluk, the minotaur, and at a group of card playing Duergar's. After carefully scanning the other patrons, one of the Yathrin sneers, "Not drinking next to this rabble!"

"Xas, I heard Gloura's was fun, but there's nothing in here but dirty peasants, gnomes, and duergar! How utterly boring!" Another of the Yath responds, in an ugly and drab voice.

"Hold on, Sisters, look what we have. How delicious, a toy we can poke and prod," the third murmurs with a cackle. Like vultures descending upon a kill, they make their way to Vala with long and languid steps, the terrified Tiefling gasps as they approach. Zilv'eari merely chuckles, turning and propping her elbows against the counter, to get a better glimpse of the spectacle.
They touch, insult, and force her to do demeaning and mundane tasks; barking absurdities as they gorge themselves with wine. They laugh boisterously at Vala who stumbles in an effort to escape further derision. The other patrons eventually turn away, finding the scene all too common and boring. The conclave's leadership, comprising almost entirely of male wizards , yet the Temple garners an increasing membership and influence. During the War against the Alhoon, S'shamath is all but on her knees, despite the best efforts of a combined force of Illithid, Conclave Archers and Guards, Brain Golems, and hired adventurers. . . Some say, that S'shamath's defense would claim victory that cycle, and drive back the Alhoon's forces. However, no one will ever know, and in the Zenith of the battle, at its very pique, Lolth's avatar inexplicably enters the fray to drive out the Alhoon Tryaxaphelus's forces.

Despite their virtual ineffectiveness during the entirety of the War, the Temple of Lolth surges. To make matters worse for the lesser races, and to an extent Drow males, the Temple is eventually given two seats on the conclave,in an unprecedented triumphant . Those who fought at Undrek Valanar, who defeated the Dreadlord Tagamadus, protest to deaf ears as the war's end marshals in a new era of uncertainty. The Temple poises itself to fill the void from Varalla's passage lying in ruin, the city guard suffering high losses, and the economy in S'shamath reeling. The Lolthites threaten to rule S'shamath with an iron fist, much like in Menzoberranzan and Ched Nasad, and the city teeters on a knife's edge. And, meanwhile lurking from the shadows, lies a terrifying new enemy gathering and mustering its forces, ready prey on a weakened S'shamath . . .

The thoroughly entertained, and grinning, Zilv'eari is not the only voyeur of the Lolthites deplorable games, the Jaluk with the untouched stein of Burduskan Dark still infront of him, glares at the proceedings from his vantage point. He seems almost teetering off his chair, leaning forward, as if he's readying himself to pounce, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. His hand twitches and touches the hilt of his scimitar, he contemplates filling the tavern with blood, as images of carving the heart's from the yathrin flood his mind. Still, then, a memory tells him to stop, a conversation with the Tiefling Vala, before his eventual escape to the lands above.

"Shur, I-i do what I must to survive!" she yells at him, her voice seeping frustration, anger, and fear like a boiling, frothing, cauldron of anxiety.

A faint smile plays on his lips, as the memory somehow assuages the fog of bitterness threatening to swallow his heart and cloud his judgement. It quells his rage enough that he sits back, and after controlling his breathing, rises from the table. From the corner of the room he makes his way toward the trio with smooth and even steps, no one notices but Zilv'eari who watches the tall Drow male walk toward them with an amused smile, the sound from the heels of his boots clicking against the floor is barely audible. Shur barges into three Priestesses, shoulder checking one of the Yath, causing her to spill wine on herself. He merely turns his head then, for a brief moment, gazing at the downcast Tiefling. She looks up in mild surprise, blinking once, as she recognizes his unusual yellow eyes. She makes no other obvious gesture or change, since the women began their games, her eyes betraying only the same haze of pain and humiliation.

Despite their snarls, cursing, and one of the Priestesses throwing wine on him, Shur calmly leaves Gloura's Tavern, goes up the spire, and into the wilds of the Under Dark to hunt.

[TheSpaniard]

Shur takes the reigns of the Baleful Maw in his own hands, invigorated with a sense of purpose for the first time in two hundred years. One by one Zeerith, Morgannis, and even Inxun disappear. He is left alone, and in this belly of the whale, he clamors for resources to fill the void he sees in S'shamath: a void he feels in himself.

Strong enough to handle most dangers, Shur halts his training regiment, and begins observing those individuals brave enough to venture far from the protection of S'shamath's guards. Through the course of several months he recruits dozens of adventurers regardless of race, gender, prestige, or creed. The Baleful Maw transforms itself from a specialized task force of demon summoners who work for the highest bidder, into a small army of Mercenaries. The work of Shur and his mercenaries does not go unnoticed, and they soon contract aire of the more traditional citizens of S'shamath. The Band of the Baleful Maw, work numerous jobs, slowly making a name for themselves through the Under Dark, and their infamy spreads even along the Sword Coast. In S'shamath, many begin to suspiciously question this organization's purposes, and if they are as they claim: a band of Mercenaries. Their transformation from occultist to soldiers is seen as suspicious, and meanwhile, the cryptic nature of the Maw is all but unblemished. Simply put, many do not believe Shur Silverblade is what he simply claims to be: a soldier for hire.

Some believe worse, that he is an abomination, a Darthiiri who walks in the skin of a Drow. To so freely associate himself with the lesser races? It is seen as absurd, as sick, in the eyes of most other Drow. Yet the males of the city, especially those hailing from cities like Menzoberranzan, rally around the Maw, if not officially, unofficially. However the brightest flames often cast the darkest shadows, and even in a city run by wizards, The Temple of Lolth's influence is strong . They start a psychological war against the mercs, whispering vield threats of their demise from the shadows, or shouting accusations of heresy from the street corners. When all measures fail, they damn Shur's soul to Lolth, summoning a demon, Quaggoth Yetth the Hunter, to fetch for him and anyone who comes to his aid. The Mercenaries stand tall, brave, and as Lieutenant Azaxaa's words , "Baleful Maw Ultrin," echo in battle, they vanquish The Hunter that never tires.

It is during this time that the mercenaries place their blades in the crucible of fire and test their mettle. It is during this tentative period that they form themselves and temper their steel. They defeat their foes, batter back the Temple's numerous attacks, ambushes, and minions to force an unsteady cease fire which, surprisingly, holds. Meanwhile, shadows descend upon S'shamath as the Cult of Talona continues to loom. Shadows festering and boiling over Shur's heart, as he realizes that he is but a Drow, a cursed being who will receive no reprieve, who's life is but a meaningless and endless river of chaos. Despite his conflicting desires, despite his strong attachment to the Tiefling Vala and her Master Zilv'eari, and despite his friendship with gnomes such as Dejah, Hyga, and Blixx . . . Shur is tormented.

He yearns to be free, vacate all responsibility, and vanish from sight forever. It is the Druidic Oath and his own inability to reconcile his inner turmoil. Before he follows through with this logical outcome, he gears himself to accomplish his and the Mercenary's goal, and fill the void in S'shamath. To fill the void in the S'shamath and restore balance to the one city in the Under Dark where males of the Drow race are not trapped underneath the bloodied boot of the Yath. To make sure the Maw's fortress is built, a symbol that not just the City's wizards will stem back the will of Lolth, the mother of these children of chaos. It is with these ideas in their hearts that the band of the Baleful Maw, these Mercenaries, step foot and wade through the future which awaits them.