Smoke rolled over the shattered ruins of the castle, the acrid tang of destruction tickling her nose. Caylaudra barely moved, turning just enough to bury her nose in the crook of her arm, and paused, feigning the stillness of one dead. The hunters were still above. She could hear them shouting to each other, the calls ringing out into the darkness, the coughs engendered by the smoke.

Dlardrageth. She recognized some of the voices.

For a moment, fear touched her heart, and she squeezed her petite body further beneath the rocks she had chosen to hide beneath, arranging herself beneath them to simulate death. She did not want to be caught by the hunters of the Dlardrageth. Bad enough that her her family was so far beneath that House's influence to almost be slaves. Bad enough that they had been dishonored and sent to the dungeons of Ascalhorn Keep with the rest of the demon-blooded.

They'd languished there, until the Keep itself had been destroyed. Oh, the Countess had made some great speech once prisons had been opened, but Caylaudra was unable to tell whether or not she spoke truth. Sarya Dlardrageth was the eldest of them all, and canny. There was good reason that she led the House.

Caylaudra hated her with a passion, but she was below the Countess' notice. She wanted to keep it that way. So when the escaping fey'ri were attacked, she made the most of it, and pretended to be trapped and wounded terribly in a rockslide.

She lay beneath the rocks now, even as the few House members above scattered, searching for survivors. In reality, the partial cover was acting and illusion. She'd sustained a head wound, but while it had bled copiously, it hadn't really been deep enough to alarm her. And even now, it had stopped the sickly oozing feeling that had told her she was still bleeding, though the blood hadn't quite dried yet. She could feel the air moving against it still.

The scrape of leather against rock alerted her to another presence. Caylaudra allowed her body to go limp as the footsteps drew closer, fixing her gaze to nothing in particular. A hand grabbed her shoulder, roughly, and spilled her onto her side. She stared into the profile of her elder brother, Immyrin, who scowled down at her and swore beneath his breath, hunching his wings and lowering himself to bury a hand in her hair, probing at the wounds there. Through it all, she stayed perfectly still, not even daring to breathe. After what seemed like hours, there was a shout, and he swore again, red-skinned visage twisting into a grimace even as he rose, licking the blood from his fingers, and leapt into the air, leaving her behind.

And yet, she still dared not move. That bastard, she thought. Consider desecrating my 'corpse', he would, but he wouldn't even close my eyes.

Well, at least she'd soon be rid of him. Forever, if she were lucky.

Hearing no others near her position, she allowed herself to move slightly, positioning herself so that her eyes were shaded, and closed them, drifting off into an exhausted slumber.


# # # #


The cache hidden in one of the former prisons was a rich one. Almost too rich. Caylaudra was certain that the Countess would send some of the younger Dlardrageth to recover it as soon as was possible. She had to move quickly. Anything that she could take, without it being missed, was something that the daemonfey could not use against her, later. For now, all that mattered was the escape. She'd found a leather satchel, and was even now stuffing it with as much as she could conveniently carry. She threw a pair of elegant dresses in, using them to cushion a half-dozen vials and a pair of flasks, settling three small pouches atop that. Each one was full of stones, semi-precious and if she were lucky, ones more valuable. Another pouch full of mixed coins joined them. She didn't recognize them, but at least the metal would be worth something.

Her only true avarice was taking a sword belt with a dagger and a sword, garnets set into the pommel. It might be missed more readily, but she needed a weapon. A pair of them was even better. It was a true pity that she'd lost a good deal of her belongings in the fighting before, and the chaos in the wake of her imprisonment with the other fey'ri. Caylaudra was going to miss her lockpicks. Ah well, many other places to find those, she thought, checking over her booty once more.

Time to move.


# # # #


Waterdeep. Called the City of Splendors, it was one of the jewels of the West. Given time, just about anything could be found there. But it wasn't the city itself that had caught Caylaudra's interest, though she'd taken enough time to build a bit of a reputation as a merchant fleeing robbers and passing through the city while she was there. Her chosen destination was Undermountain, and rumors of the portals it contaned. Much of her stash had survived her depredations, despite the replacement gear she'd had to buy. Her next objective was far below the city's glittering spires and throngs of people.

The drip of water on cavernous walls was the first indication that her sensitive ears picked up. She'd left the city proper over an hour ago, despite the warnings of the guards that the City of the Dead was no place for her to be, especially once the sun went down. But there had been just enough hinted in the books she'd scoured in her time at the library to indicate that there might be a portal down beneath the massive graveyard. And so Caylaudra had come. Extraplanar portals were rare enough in rural areas. To find a gathering of them so near a city made it seem as if Tymora herself was guiding the fey'ri's steps.

If this was a gift, she wasn't about to discard it offhand, even if it might be a human god's eyes upon her, now.

She dispelled the illusion that she'd worn throughout the city, gliding into the darkness of the mausoleum before her. Deep within the recesses of the desecrated crypt, among the scattered bones of a dozen or more nameless human dead, her senses tingled. The floor below her was crumbling down into the darkness, and her magic told her that she was indeed near the presence of a portal.

Cupping her wings, she stepped off the crumbling ledge, and descended into darkness.

The City of the Dead, some said, was sinking into the sea.

The sound of dripping water surrounded Caylaudra as her feet touched solid ground. She paused, the dim light from the moon and stars above dimming even further as she took steps forward into the darkness. Rumors were a thing that served her well, most being worth the coin she paid for them. Supposedly, the ruins beneath the massive cemetary joined up to the Undermountain, that place of monsters--and, some said, dimensional doors, portals that could take a person to another world.

That was her destination. Likely, that was where the portal itself was.

After a handspan of minutes, her eyes had adjusted to the faint light in the caverns below. Keen ears told her that the scurrying she heard was likely that of rats, fleeing from an actual presence down below, where their power was absolute. She had heard tales of were-rats below, but if these were true, either the creatures had no desire to toy with a daemonfey, or they considered her no threat, someone to be taken care of by what she sought.

Either assumption served her purpose. Had she thought that she could truly escape the Dlardrageth by remaining on Toril, she would. As it was, Caylaudra well remembered cleaning up after those who had held on to that hubris centuries ago, and failed. It would take a powerful spellcaster indeed to take down the Countess.

She held no such pride. And so, she fled, and found no shame in doing so.

Her magical senses whispered that indeed, there was a portal ahead, though it was not precisely wakened. It was possible for portals to die, their terminus shattered on one end. For most, it rendered them useless. Some simply cast the hapless victim adrift in chaos. Most portals, however, were well maintained by some adherent to a god or goddess of travel. In finding this one, out of the way of most travelers, Caylaudra's luck held.

She nearly crushed the rat bone she held between her fingers in sheer nervousness. She had run her fingers over the rocks that made the terminus, and read that there, in an archaic dialect of Elven. It would seem that the creator of the portal had possibly possessed a sense of humor. Not that that particularly mattered now. With a sharp cry, the fey'ri girl called out the command word, and passed through the portal, blinded by the light it gave off as she crossed it.

She collapsed to her knees on the other side, breathing deeply of the air, untouched by the stench of centuries of decay. The salt sea air was sweet, and smelled much like freedom. A smile crossed her lips as she stood, brushing sand off her hands and knees. The nameless bay stretched before her, distant city lights making it sparkle like the stars in the night sky above.

Caylaudra spread her wings, took to the air, and let the sea winds carry her towards her new home.


# # # #


A handspan of years found her settled, prosperous, and nearly fearless. Her kin had failed to find her. That alone might make her bold, but the small ability she had to alter face and form made her bolder. Her initial fortune, coupled with a careful run of thieving and fencing, had enabled her to start up a fencing and gemcutting business of her own. Lucrative, as such things ever were, she had customers from both sides of the proverbial track--those who desired her artistry, and those needing a swift and certain disposal of their ill-gotten gains.

The individual before her, she had never seen before in her short time here. Far taller than she, with smooth, pale skin and eyes of dark emerald green, he was certainly attractive to look at. Long black hair hung to his waist, unbound. Attractive, indeed. The long black trenchcoat he wore and the dark clothes beneath put her to mind of one of her shadier customers, though the man hardly seemed nervous. He looked at her jewelry designs at his leisure, allowing her to finish with the elderly woman she was serving, only moving towards her when the spinster departed.

"Might I help you, sir?" she inquired. He gave her a sharp smile, and then nodded his agreement, reaching into his trenchcoat. For a moment, she frowned. Caylaudra had so hoped that he wasn't yet another thief looking for a fence...

To her surprise, he opened up his little parcel to reveal a set of wrapped bars. Wrapped chimes. He lifted them, and when they struck one another, soft musical notes wafted through the air, bringing a pleased smile to her lips. She lifted her eyes and quirked a brow at him. Musicians did not often come to her shop.

"If you would, I would like these...enhanced, somehow. I leave it up to your discretion. Engraving, gemming, I trust you know your craft better than I do." He offered her a charming smile, then, one which she readily returned. Long-slumbering hunger, hallmark of her demonic side, stirred within her at that smile, though the disguised daemonfey hid it as best she could. She accepted the silver chimes from him within their wrapping, covering them once again with care.

"So, what name should I put this order down under?" Lifting a slender black brow, she looked up at him again.

A sardonic smile graced his lips at that, and dark emerald eyes twinkled. "God-Emperor Sauron Vader McVoldemort-Smith."

Caylaudra paused. She stared up at the man, lips pursing slightly. Was he for real? It took everything she had not to burst out into a spate of laughter. The man smiled again, then, shook his head, and spoke.

"Call me Stormborn."