8 Eleasis 1372
"Nobody knoooows the trouble I've seeeeen, nobody knoooows my sorrooooooow. . . ."
"Is that the only song you know?" I said from underneath my hard pillow. It was midday, and my latest cellmate, a man called Grom, had been singing the same tune over and over since his drunken hide had been hauled in the night before. He knew the guards by name and seemed to be something of a regular.
"Oh, does it bother you?" His voice dripped with false concern. "Whaddaya gonna do about it, blackie, take off yer bandage and bleed on me?" The man gave me a mostly-toothless grin and resumed his singing with greater relish."
"I think there's some pus now, too, so you better watch out for her!" cried a woman at the other end of the cell. But the groans from the other cells told me that I was not the only one who wasn't a fan.
After my first day of incarceration, the guards stopped indulging new prisoners who didn't want to be near the foul drow woman. Except the ones who could afford bribes, of course. And the folks who were thrown in with me had quickly figured out I wasn't a serious danger to them. The cut on my hand was more severe than I had thought in my drunken state; it still seeped blood and was now infected. My back was still sore, but was getting better. It was probably just bruised. But my ribs still felt like someone cast Burning Hands on them every time I breathed. Or sat up, or stood up, or bent over, or just twisted funny. Several ribs were probably cracked. A healer had been in to see me, whether standard procedure or at Thralia's request I didn't know, but she only bandaged up my hand, gave me a once-over and said "She'll live."
My collective injuries weren't that bad, even taken together--they were nothing compared to what I had sustained at Olostin's Hold--but they were enough to restrict my mobility somewhat. Enough that I couldn't effectively threaten anyone; they could see there would be no follow-through. So my ever-changing group of companions took the opportunity to mock a somewhat-less-dangerous-than-most drow mercilessly and with impunity.
"Meal time!" Two guards came through the cell block, one of them pushing a cart. One of them slid three plates of gruel into my cell.
Grom scrambled to grab his, while I sat up slowly.
"Perhaps we'd better help the wee dark lady with her porridge," said the woman. "She might have trouble holding the spoon with her bad hand, there!" She cackled.
"Thank you, but I do not require assistance," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster in my torn, soiled dress and bedraggled hair.
"Oh, listen to the lady's fine manners!" said Grom. "She mus' be used to havin' servants to help her. We can't let her down, now, can we?" I supposed I'd brought that one on myself. Grom sat next to me and tried to spoon feed me, while I tried to swat him away.
It had been two days since Thralia's visit. No one else had come; Seledra was probably still with Methrammar. I still didn't know how Thralia had known so quickly that I was here. She had to have had someone tailing me; it was the only way. And I hadn't even noticed. This alarmed me. I had been deep in my cups that night, to be sure, but how many other times might I have been followed? At Thralia's behest or anyone else's? In Everlund I was certain someone was following me, but I was looking for it, and I had thought it was merely Nimos keeping tabs on me. It was as Thralia had said: I simply wasn't as good as I held myself to be. Her words still stung. Especially after our mission to the monastery, which had been more of a challenge for me than I wanted to admit.
Thralia was right, of course. Once I established myself in Menzo, I found a level of competence I was comfortable with, and I stayed there. I made a point of not distinguishing myself, doing just well enough at my various jobs to not be thrown to the driders, reining in the potential I'd always been told I had. When something came along that stretched my skills, or promised to bring me a little extra attention, I found a way out of it. If I couldn't get out of it, I moved on. Getting myself noticed by House Drii-Upoth wasn't an attempt to improve my station so much as an escape from an employer that was starting to expect more of me than I was willing to give. And when Drii Upoth started to expect more, I moved on from them, too. I was like a mule hitched to a grindstone; always moving, never getting anywhere.
And I'd done it on purpose.
How different I was from the driven girl I'd been in Cormanthor, pushing myself to my limits, alternately trying to defy and impress my aloof father. When I fled, did I leave my motivation behind with home and clan? I was proud of what I accomplished back then. I thrived on the accolades of my peers and the approval of the clan's leaders, especially my father. But I didn't need approval anymore, I told myself. Getting by, merely surviving, was enough, I told myself.
Then again, merely surviving was a big part of why a toothless, hungover vagrant was at that moment dribbling lukewarm gruel down my face and chest. Perhaps it wasn't such a great plan, after all.
"For the last time, I don't need help feeding myself." I finally grabbed the spoon away from the fool with my good hand and smacked him with it.
"Ow! Guards! She's a-hittin' me! Help!"
A little too quickly, the door to the cell block opened.
"If she's been free to go for two days, why in the hells is she still here?" rang out a familiar voice.
"I'm really sorry, miss, but the instructions said we was to let her out if she asked or if someone came for her, but she ain't asked! And ain't no one else come until you! The Harper agent gave us extra money to feed her an' everything!"
"Just. Let. Her. Out."
"Okay, okay, just stop yellin'," the guard muttered, and came up to my cell. "Sorry, Grom, but I gotta take away your plaything. Miss Aerynrae, someone has come to claim you. You're free to go."
"But we was just gettin' to be friends, weren't we, pretty lassie?" Grom reached a grimy hand out to grope my rump, but I whacked him again, wincing as I did so. Then, finally, I was out of the cell, and the guard led me toward the door.
"Is that the only song you know?" I said from underneath my hard pillow. It was midday, and my latest cellmate, a man called Grom, had been singing the same tune over and over since his drunken hide had been hauled in the night before. He knew the guards by name and seemed to be something of a regular.
"Oh, does it bother you?" His voice dripped with false concern. "Whaddaya gonna do about it, blackie, take off yer bandage and bleed on me?" The man gave me a mostly-toothless grin and resumed his singing with greater relish."
"I think there's some pus now, too, so you better watch out for her!" cried a woman at the other end of the cell. But the groans from the other cells told me that I was not the only one who wasn't a fan.
After my first day of incarceration, the guards stopped indulging new prisoners who didn't want to be near the foul drow woman. Except the ones who could afford bribes, of course. And the folks who were thrown in with me had quickly figured out I wasn't a serious danger to them. The cut on my hand was more severe than I had thought in my drunken state; it still seeped blood and was now infected. My back was still sore, but was getting better. It was probably just bruised. But my ribs still felt like someone cast Burning Hands on them every time I breathed. Or sat up, or stood up, or bent over, or just twisted funny. Several ribs were probably cracked. A healer had been in to see me, whether standard procedure or at Thralia's request I didn't know, but she only bandaged up my hand, gave me a once-over and said "She'll live."
My collective injuries weren't that bad, even taken together--they were nothing compared to what I had sustained at Olostin's Hold--but they were enough to restrict my mobility somewhat. Enough that I couldn't effectively threaten anyone; they could see there would be no follow-through. So my ever-changing group of companions took the opportunity to mock a somewhat-less-dangerous-than-most drow mercilessly and with impunity.
"Meal time!" Two guards came through the cell block, one of them pushing a cart. One of them slid three plates of gruel into my cell.
Grom scrambled to grab his, while I sat up slowly.
"Perhaps we'd better help the wee dark lady with her porridge," said the woman. "She might have trouble holding the spoon with her bad hand, there!" She cackled.
"Thank you, but I do not require assistance," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster in my torn, soiled dress and bedraggled hair.
"Oh, listen to the lady's fine manners!" said Grom. "She mus' be used to havin' servants to help her. We can't let her down, now, can we?" I supposed I'd brought that one on myself. Grom sat next to me and tried to spoon feed me, while I tried to swat him away.
It had been two days since Thralia's visit. No one else had come; Seledra was probably still with Methrammar. I still didn't know how Thralia had known so quickly that I was here. She had to have had someone tailing me; it was the only way. And I hadn't even noticed. This alarmed me. I had been deep in my cups that night, to be sure, but how many other times might I have been followed? At Thralia's behest or anyone else's? In Everlund I was certain someone was following me, but I was looking for it, and I had thought it was merely Nimos keeping tabs on me. It was as Thralia had said: I simply wasn't as good as I held myself to be. Her words still stung. Especially after our mission to the monastery, which had been more of a challenge for me than I wanted to admit.
Thralia was right, of course. Once I established myself in Menzo, I found a level of competence I was comfortable with, and I stayed there. I made a point of not distinguishing myself, doing just well enough at my various jobs to not be thrown to the driders, reining in the potential I'd always been told I had. When something came along that stretched my skills, or promised to bring me a little extra attention, I found a way out of it. If I couldn't get out of it, I moved on. Getting myself noticed by House Drii-Upoth wasn't an attempt to improve my station so much as an escape from an employer that was starting to expect more of me than I was willing to give. And when Drii Upoth started to expect more, I moved on from them, too. I was like a mule hitched to a grindstone; always moving, never getting anywhere.
And I'd done it on purpose.
How different I was from the driven girl I'd been in Cormanthor, pushing myself to my limits, alternately trying to defy and impress my aloof father. When I fled, did I leave my motivation behind with home and clan? I was proud of what I accomplished back then. I thrived on the accolades of my peers and the approval of the clan's leaders, especially my father. But I didn't need approval anymore, I told myself. Getting by, merely surviving, was enough, I told myself.
Then again, merely surviving was a big part of why a toothless, hungover vagrant was at that moment dribbling lukewarm gruel down my face and chest. Perhaps it wasn't such a great plan, after all.
"For the last time, I don't need help feeding myself." I finally grabbed the spoon away from the fool with my good hand and smacked him with it.
"Ow! Guards! She's a-hittin' me! Help!"
A little too quickly, the door to the cell block opened.
"If she's been free to go for two days, why in the hells is she still here?" rang out a familiar voice.
"I'm really sorry, miss, but the instructions said we was to let her out if she asked or if someone came for her, but she ain't asked! And ain't no one else come until you! The Harper agent gave us extra money to feed her an' everything!"
"Just. Let. Her. Out."
"Okay, okay, just stop yellin'," the guard muttered, and came up to my cell. "Sorry, Grom, but I gotta take away your plaything. Miss Aerynrae, someone has come to claim you. You're free to go."
"But we was just gettin' to be friends, weren't we, pretty lassie?" Grom reached a grimy hand out to grope my rump, but I whacked him again, wincing as I did so. Then, finally, I was out of the cell, and the guard led me toward the door.