Camp in a cave

The perspective shift that occurs midway through this story was not originally intended. Let me know how well the transition does or does not work.


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Ketham took a small stone from the ground and tossed it into the center of his makeshift magical fire. The rock struck the rock fueling the spell with a loud crack, and the fire crumbled a little as sparks flew into the air. The caverns around him were extremely dark, but the fire was not for light. It was for warmth. Cold was as much of an enemy in this forsaken place as the foe he and his companions had come to hunt.

A nearby village within these caverns had been hit hard by the witch hunters. Normally they would have had no word for a long time before anyone knew it was destroyed, but the village had won, and been able to send a messenger for aid. That was what he was here for – aid. Though a spellcaster himself, Ketham had always fared well against the witch hunters.  The company was eighty strong – enough for the small raiding parties Witch hunters generally sent – but his camp only had six in it. They rotated watches so the other women and men could get some sleep, but Ketham had first watch.

The tanned wild elf’s gaze drifted up to female taking first watch with him. She was running a whetstone along the edge of her scimitar. Ketham had no idea how sweat was forming on her body with how cold this cavern was, but he supposed she was probably used to such weather conditions. Her silver-blonde hair was typical for many drow, as were her violet eyes, but what he found unusual was that her skin was a similar shade. He had never seen that before, in all his one hundred years underground.

She was a mercenary, he remembered that much. From something called ‘The Colbert Coalition’. Ketham frowned as he tried to remember what his mistress had told him her name was. Saina? Siria?

She noticed his gaze and grinned slyly. “Somethin’ up, kid?”

Sinaia. That was it. “I was wondering how you’re sweating when it’s this cold.” He replied before looking back at the fire. “As well as why your skin is purple. I’ve seen drow with dark blue skin, mind, but never with purple.”

Sinaia rolled her eyes. “I’m not a drow, I’m a moonelf.” Her answer was weary, as if she had explained this a hundred times before. Which she probably has. He thought. “Related, but not the same.”

“A surfacer, then.Why work for drow?”

“I could ask you the same.” Sinaia replied, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re a wild elf, yet here you are. Moreover, I didn’t know drow let males lead… well, anything really.”

Ketham looked back up from the fire, his expression unreadable. “Normally we can’t. But I’m a… special case.” He left it at that and huddled closer to the small beacon of warmth, rubbing his hands together. The moon elf female shrugged and went back to her whetstone.

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Silence permeated the camp for a little longer, broken only by the crackling of their fire and the occasional stone, before Sinaia set her blade down and asked. “Ok, what do you mean ‘special case’? Were you polymorphed or-”

“I was adopted,” He explained calmly. “and manaborn are too few now to turn away due to gender.”

“Manaborn…” She repeated, running her hand along her chin. “Your word for a spellcaster, right?”

“It actually means my soul is made out of mana instead of incarnum, but yes, that too.”

Sinaia gulped a bit and looked back down at her blade. A soul made of mana meant that the body’s capacity for spellcasting grew thanks to the extra available incarnum, but it also meant the mind could become fractured or unstable, and that a spellcaster’s abilities tended to be extremely focused in one area or another. Sinaia didn’t know the exact specifics of what exactly mana was, but she doubted she would understand even if he explained it to her. So instead of asking about that, she pointed to the fire. “So, is that how you did that then?”

Ketham looked up, blinking. “What?”

“The fire. It’s being fueled by a rock. Did you-”

“Oh. I am not capable of fire spells.”

Sinaia blinked. “Wait, then how-”

“That was Neriana, not me.” He explained, his expression still cold and unchanged as he looked back at the flames. “Dragonfire can burn anything.”

Sinaia looked back the tent behind her. Neriana was a drow woman on the mission with them. The woman’s teeth were sharp and her hair was long, traits that she realized now were probably a part of her dragon heritage showing through. She remembered Ketham and said drow woman having a rather heated (on her side) argument before they had left, though strangely should could not recall what it was about. She rubbed her head. It was like the memory had been ripped right out of her.

“I… heard somewhere that drow women take men for...” The actual word caught in her mouth as she remembered that while he spoke like a mature (if cold) adult, he was still only a hundred or so. “Is she your mis-”

“She’s my sister.” He replied, a slight smirk creeping onto his face for the first time.