Lloth seldom remembered that she had once called the god Vhaeraun her son. Now he was merely a rival. As for Eilistraee, Lloth never wasted a thought upon the girl one way or another. The Dark Maiden lived much as she had in long-ago Arvandor: She'd taken to the forest, where by all accounts she squandered her scant store of godly magic in aid of lost travelers and elven hunters.
Lloth preferred the burgeoning cities of southern Faerun, where turmoil and intrigue bred like lice. She was also growing fond of the dark and twisted tunnels that seemed fashioned for the express purpose of hoarding treasure, staging ambush, and engaging in other delightful clandestine activities. After the dulling sameness of the Abyss, the simmering conflict between the Ilythiiri and Corellon's fair-skinned children was a bracing tonic. The Crown Wars had been a source of dark joy. All things considered, Lloth had not been as happy for millennia.
She was of mixed mind, however, concerning the matter of the Sundering. The mortal body of Ka'Narlist had been swept away by the terrible floods, and the wondrous city of Atorrnash reduced to legend. Lloth did not mourn the loss of her consort, for she had long ago tired of him. Males, she concluded, were not worth the bother. She did not regret the loss of Ka'Narlist's person, though she rued the loss of that wondrous vest of Sea elven magic. There was the possibility that Ka'Narlist had managed to capture his own essence in one of his dark pearls. Lloth did not like the idea that the final fate of the malevolent, ambitious entity was not altogether certain.
Other effects of the Sundering also brought mixed emotions to the goddess. On the one hand, it had destroyed many of her worshipers. Yet for each of her elves that had tumbled into the sea or been crushed by falling stone, at least three of Vhaeraun's followers had perished. Lloth reigned supreme among the dark elves' gods.
Thus was victory won on any battlefield, as Lloth knew well. The last few centuries had left her with considerable expertise in the art and practice of elven warfare.
So intriguing was this new hobby that she had abandoned altogether her ancient craft of weaving enchanted tapestries. Living beings made more interesting threads for her looms, and the ever changing webs they wove were infinitely more appealing to the dark goddess than the well-ordered destinies she had once fashioned and fostered for her dark elven charges. Her time in the Abyss had given her a taste for chaos.
She was not pleased, however, about this matter of an elven homeland. Lloth might be barred from Arvandor, but there was no place upon this world that she would suffer to remain beyond the grasping hands of her dark followers.
Yet try as she might, Lloth could devise no way to strike against the island. She herself was barred from Evermeet as surely as she was from Arvandor; the same magical barriers that protected the Sacred Forest of Olympus from evil gods also warded the elven island.
This angered Lloth, for it was but one more insult to come from the hands of Corellon Larethian. The dark goddess vowed that, in time, she would find a way to destroy Evermeet. This goal became a focus, a receptacle for all her ancient animosity toward the elven god.
There were, however, other matters that absorbed Lloth's immediate attention. The dark elves had been driven below ground. There was new territory to conquer, new magic to learn. The descendants of Ka'Narlist and Lloth were now called drow, and they were as evil and fearsome a people as Lloth could have desired. In time, they would become powerful enough to emerge from their dark world and reclaim the whole of Aber-toril. In time, the drow would bring about the utter destruction of Corellon's children upon the mainland. When that was accomplished, when the elves of Evermeet stood utterly alone, it would be a small matter for her followers to invade and overtake the island, no matter how enchanted it might be. Yes, Lloth had much to accomplish in the warrens and caverns of the great Underdark.
In the meanwhile, Lloth needed an agent to work on her behalf on the surface world. The Ilythiiri raiders who had pressed into the far north often brought back tales of barbarian tribes of humans-fearful warriors who worshiped totem beasts-and oftentimes of the Beast Lord who commanded them. It seemed that Malar, her old acquaintance, was beginning to enjoy a bright turn of fortune.
Perhaps, Lloth mused, it was time to pay a visit to the Great Hunter, and to light once again the fire of vengeance in his heart. Let him spend his strength and his efforts on bedeviling the "elven homeland" while she occupied herself elsewhere.
And why not? Provided that she prodded him in the right direction, Malar was resourceful enough to do justice to the task. Lloth had little fear that the Beast Lord would complete the task and steal her moment of vengeance, for though he had grown in cunning and strength since his attack upon Corellon, Malar definitely lacked the power to challenge alone the forces of the Seldarine.
Even so, a few centuries of torment at the hands ol tne Beast Lord would make the eventual conquest of Evermeet all the easier. 3rd day of Ches, 1368 DR
To Danilo Thann, beloved nephew of my beloved Khelben, does Laeral Silverhand Arunsun send fond greetings.
Dan, my love! Thank you for your letter, and for the wonderfully silly ballad you composed for me. You will never know how gladly I welcomed every foolish line, for my visit to Evermeet has not otherwise been filled with mirth.
Do not misunderstand me-I consider myself fortunate to be among the handful of humans allowed on Evermeet. You know, of course, of my long-standing friendship with Evermeet's queen. Nor am I the only one of the Seven Sisters who has had dealings with Queen Amlaruil. My sister Dove's son was fostered here, kept safe from the many who would harm him to strike at Dove. He was raised in the ways of the elven folk, and is now living in peace and honor as a ranger in the wilds near Shadowdale. What you do not know is that my own child also found a haven on the elven island.
I wish I could have seen your face as you read that last line. You did not know I had a child, I suppose. Very few people do. I thought it would be better so. What I did not anticipate-and should have-was that my wild and beautiful Maura would find a way to thrust herself into general knowledge. That she did so unwittingly makes the situation all the more difficult.
But I am putting the tail before the teeth. I shall start again, this time at the beginning.
You know my story better than most. For many years I traveled with the adventuring party known as the Nine. We found an artifact, the Crown of Horns, and I in my pride decided that my powers of will and magic were sufficient to counter the evil I sensed within it. I wore the Crown, and it claimed me as its own. Years went by, terrible years during which I lost Laeral and became the Wild Woman, the Witch of the North. I remember little of those years, which in many ways is a blessing. But there were things lost to me that I would give centuries of my life to recall. One of these is Maura.
I do not remember her begetting. I cannot tell you who her father was, nor do I remember the months that I carried her. Of her birth, I can tell you little more. All I recall is a terrible storm outside my cave, a soothing voice nearby, and the fierce piping cries of a baby whose face I cannot recall. My sister Dove found me in travail and tended me, and then took the babe to Evermeet for protection and fosterage. In my terrible madness, I could not care for her, and no one on Faerun dared to do so. No one knew what influence the Crown of Horns might have had on this poor babe. Such was the legacy I gave my child.
But Maura thrived on Evermeet. Any taint she might have taken from the evil artifact was cleansed by the healing magic of that fair land. She grew up fierce and wild as any forest elf, yet always and entirely her own person. Among the elves, she stands out like a scarlet rose among snowdrops-vivid and startling in her bright beauty. She did not inherit the silver hair common to me and my sisters; she is as dark as I am fair, and even more exotic in appearance. There is no telling what Maura's sire might have been. Her pale bronze skin and lavish curves suggest southern blood, her sharp cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes hint at elven ancestry-although that she might as well have gotten from me. She has, I blush to confess, a bit of my own vanity and love of drama. Maura is often flamboyant in her ways and her dress. Other than her love of swordcraft-she is a notable fighter-she has little in common with the elves. In fact, I had traveled to Evermeet this time with the thought to bring her home at last, now that she is a woman grown.