Bitter tea is always better.

[Rance]

Bitter tea was always better with just enough sugar.

Prepared, prepared they had come, one donning a mask of doll-fine porcelain, the other saying cheers over the mouth of an ornate goblet, the other with the shaking, rhythmic rattle of a bloodied baby's toy. The darkness was a swift and agile predator. It had swallowed them whole, and its embrace -- for the few moments through which they had swiftly traveled through it -- was nauseating, violent, and rough.

Suede Roschen, General Kerrak, and Giscard Guillaume all sipped tea in the bowels of Successor Faeryl's citadel that night, somewhere nudged far below in the recesses of Trae Kesla, amid a stage of stalactites and unexpected words.

The three had been able to enjoy their tea without much difficulty; scarcely had a blade been drawn, though a battle ensued through words that parried with perfect warrior-grace. Grave information came from black lips, while in the shadows, the tentacles of illithids greedily flicked, restrained by but simple requests from the dark elven terrors.

There was no need to kill these humans when, in the grand scheme of things, Successor Faeryl and the black king Audmathus could gain so much more by letting them live.

Over tea, the human council and the drow tyrants discussed things darker than the shadows themselves. Words of potential treachery, a threat upon Myrken challenged not with subterranean blades or vampire-kisses, but something so much larger, so much greater, stumbled upon in lieu of darker deceits.

Something dangerous, something grave and horrific -- something even more dangerous than drow, than vampires -- ebbed in the shadows of Myrken Wood.

That night, if subtle and treacherous in its own right, a fragile alliance lingered in unspoken breath upon the lips of the five speakers. A brash decision lay displayed before the council. Giscard had been the first to know the prowess of the elixirs and alchemies of dark elven priests, for the Flux had been swept from him by a meager potion, as if in offering of trust. Promises of food and protection echoed on the lips of dark-fleshed Myrken-terrors.

Could these promises be trusted? Perhaps they could, for even dark elves knew when their imminent defeat lay smiling before them.

Protection for power. In turn, the council was given their information.

"There is one who harbors secrets of a coming invasion that goes by the name of Kaelum. He will surely run from you, or fight against you -- this is his nature. But he is one half of who bears this dangerous information..."

Traitors in the midst of Myrken? Bubbles of secrets that illithids could not pop, but those difficulties had been easy enough to curtail.

"He has made friendships about this town, but is on distinct commands from his lord to gather information .. to 'open the gates', shall we say."

Another one, too. This, a lie, woven in specific intent to protect a gift for Successor Faeryl. The replacement would do well enough.

"His confidant and traveling companion. She is a child, and a very intriguingly perfect ruse. Her name is Alligail, and I trust that from one, or both of them, you may be able to urge a plethora other treacherous names within Myrken Wood. They obtain orders specifically from their lord .. and there are others throughout Myrken Wood that work alongside them."

Trust not drow, read an age-old proverb. Trust not those who take pride in stabbing backs and destroying cities. To defy this, the council was given specific permission to seek these names out on their own, to speak to these labeled traitors and gather information for their own ears. What one may not trust from the lips of a dark elf could perhaps be more easily trusted from the very source.

"Detain them or arrest them, and question them, and I believe you will have more clues as to who is assisting them in provoking this coming threat."

These had been lies woven in perfection, to stir the council to action, to stir them into temporary alliance. While tea is shared and a Flux is healed, while a gift grows in the womb of an innocent and an unexpected partnership is offered, treachery stirs in the depths of Myrken Wood.

The humans had a land to defend. The drow did as well.

Dark times indeed when flesh of black and white considered working in temporary alliance.

Bitter tea was always better.