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Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don’t own them; I’m just examining all their possibilities. Gromph had yet to find out exactly how his apprentice earned his mother’s ire, though the results were not as obtuse. He simply stood in the doorway of the study in House Baenre that was more like a stop-over than any place he actually used. It was also a place where his mother and sisters could leave him little messages about matters of import. The Archmage simply sipped his goblet of fine mushroom wine as he continued looking down at the latest message meant for his immediate attention. It could merely have been written off as a bad aftereffect of last night’s festivities. Unlike the rest of his House, he did not see the Festival of the Founding as a great occasion other than excuse to experience this bizarre thing called “personal enjoyment.” It was the one night of the year he left the scrolls in their cases and opened a bottle of wine or a cloth of rothé cheese instead. Though apparently his apprentice had let himself get a little out of hand…though whether or not he enjoyed his evening was a different story entirely. He could lament even inviting Nzifrel to the House Baenre gathering that night, though he had every reason to be a part of it. After all, he was a Baenre mage; even if he was a Baenre only by title after the rest of his blood was obliterated by a lower House and Gromph merely saw him as a star student worthy of a better fate…like one as his personal errand boy whom he occasionally allowed magical experimentation. Like any worthy drow, Nzifrel had risen through the ranks; that calm, disarming charm working to earn him the tiniest reputation as a decent Necromancer (even though Gromph considered him a genius, though never called him one within five hundred miles of earshot) or better yet as a breeder for the second cousins. Regardless, the young apprentice was satisfied with his scraps and, like any decent drow, was learning to build a city with those scraps. No wonder why he was becoming cockier and cockier by the decade. No wonder why he could include the slightest barb about Mistress Triel being a simpering whore without anyone even realizing a barb was made. No wonder why his thin hands could occasionally turn up with fingers clenched that for the slightest second resembled a dead spider. Of course Gromph never said anything. He personally found Nzifrel rather droll, though for all the reasons why he never had the gall to try half his tricks himself, maybe it was a matter of the higher he was the harder he could be pushed. Or maybe he was indeed a coward about such matters, though it was a thought he didn’t ever allow to cross his mind…until now, at least, when he returned to his little-used study in House Baenre. For a second, the Archmage even wondered why he came here at all. Neither Triel nor Quenthal gave him their usual warnings by way of a sweet smirk that he would be given this little message. It wasn’t as if the High Matron was talking. The High Matron, he thought again, taking another casual sip; how she stepped through the ranks of the rest of the partying House members like some kind of rabid tiger. Normally she would walk through the yearly festivities with a smile that was only missing a nice set of fangs. Now she actually openly wore her personal displeasure with the universe, her usual charming personality in full display. Maybe she was ill. Maybe a yochol had insulted her shoes. Maybe it was that time of the month. Regardless, she still looked in an ill temper. Gromph leaned in the doorway, making himself a little more comfortable in the least horrific place he could find at that moment as he looked down at the swirling contents of his glass and pondered. Had Nzifrel even made any contact with the High Matron that night? For some reason he really couldn’t recall. He did remember Nzifrel standing next to him all night, daintily draining one glass of expensive Baenre vintage after another and passing random witticisms after another in a horrible attempt to further coddle his “cousin,” master, and general handler. A few drinks took some of the edge off of Nzifrel’s usual wit, even to the point where he hadn’t bothered his usual barbs against Lolth. It was doubtful that this was merely a cautious move; the apprentice was that predictable. For the millionth time that minute, Gromph once again tried to recall what Nzifrel had ever done to earn the piercing red gaze of the High Matron; whatever he could have said or done for her to make a dainty line for him. The Archmage could only recall some story his apprentice told about the Melee-Magthere student who took in a wayward imp as a pet. That was the exact moment when the High Matron walked up to him and whispered something in his ear. From then on, Gromph recalled nothing… Except turning in the opposite direction when the apprentice received his summons. Gromph nodded his head and took another deep sip, trying to take some of the deep chill from his body. He simply left his star apprentice right in front of the largest, hungriest spider in the web. The Archmage smoothed out his black robes and pondered for a second. Was he actually feeling guilty about this? Should he have actually jumped in front of the apprentice and…? A small chuckle escaped his lips. Yes, jump in front and find himself as chewed up…though maybe he already had been. Maybe Nzifrel hadn’t made some kind of remotely rude gesture in the High Matron’s direction, or maybe one of his witticisms did not include the words “fried spider.” Maybe Matron Baenre could have cared less what the apprentice said or did since he was merely a low ranking male…who Gromph tended to favor more than a lot of his other students. It wasn’t like this was the first time his mother used a proverbial whipping boy to take out her frustrations on her eldest son when going at him herself was either too impractical or too boring at the time. This was, however, the first time a tiny twitch had founds its way into the corner of his eyelid and a slight sick feeling crept into his stomach. Must be the wine, he thought, making his eyes refocus on his mangled study. Maybe he did care a tiny bit for this apprentice, or maybe it was a twinge of sympathy, though he wanted to think it was merely the smell that was unsettling him a little. Gromph had no idea what Nzifrel had done to earn the High Matron’s ire, though the results were less obtuse. He sipped his wine again while examining the husk of twitching flesh before him. It was Nzifrel, that much was obvious. He could make out the basic shape of his arched eyebrows and long mouth. Then there was the fact the last time he saw his apprentice was before he put his glass down on the table with a small, nervous smirk before following the High Matron a small distance down the hallway and disappearing. That was enough to identify the humanoid shape whose skin was hanging in loose flaps over his exposed muscles and (especially around his ribs) exposed bones. He laid in a pool of various fluids the middle of the fine, blue rug, broken jaw flopping open as he managed a long series of gurgling whimpers. Gromph drained his glass, taking a brief second to examine the mane of fine white hair that lay detached on Gromph’s desk with a small note stuck under it. He didn’t need to read the note to get the message. The Archmage then looked at the tapestry of various sigils over his desk, pondering (he insisted) for a long while. He would have to clean up this mess. He would also have to find a new apprentice, or at least find some way to patch this one up; though the thought of a mercy killing was not out of the question. Regardless, the message was sent. What Gromph did with this was entirely up to him. The Archmage took one more look at the sniveling thing on his floor and for a quick second almost saw his own face. A small chuckle escaped his lips once again. “Poor, poor,” Nzifrel,” he said, his voice taking on a mild strain. “Whatever will I do with you now?” Gromph had no idea what he had done to earn the ire of the High Matron. Regardless, a message was sent. How he acted on this was up to him.
Fanfiction Module 1.0 by Rebecca Smallwood |  |
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