The Shadow of Elventree

Part 1

A blur of motion weaved through Elventree's crowded marketplace, barely noticed yet fluid as a stream slipping through rocks. Shadows clung to the figure as he darted between stalls and sidestepped pedestrians with uncanny grace, his movements so slick they barely stirred the air. Only the faintest whisper of boots on cobblestone marked his passage, and even that was drowned out by the shouts of vendors hawking their wares and the rich aroma of spices filling the air.

He was merely a wisp of dark fabric flitting behind a baker's cart, a glimpse of a hooded head ducking under an awning. Those who might have spotted him saw only the briefest shadow, and some doubted their own eyes—a trick of the light, perhaps, or just another passer-by.
As the figure approached the heart of the square, he easily scaled a stack of crates to an old, weathered wagon. Here he stopped. His cloak, a patchwork of forest greens and earthy browns, hid his form against the wagon's backdrop, rendering him another unnoticed piece of the scenery, overlooked by the busy crowd below.

It was only then, as he surveyed the square from his elevated perch, that the shift of light and shadow caught his features just right, revealing the sharp, observant eyes of Thalion Everwood.
Below, children pulled at their parents' sleeves, their questions punctuated with a note of unease, while merchants momentarily abandoned their transactions, their attention drifting to the approaching road. The whispers of the crowd, wary and tinged with suspicion, brushed against Thalion's ears. A soft, but stinging reminder of the distance between him and those he moved among.

This was Thalion in his element, unnoticed yet seeing all. His skill in stealth was not born of mischief or thrill, but was a survival tactic honed during a youth spent dodging jeers and sneers for his mixed heritage. Today, his purpose shifted from evasion to surveillance. His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the wagon as he spotted the first of the visitors. Two figures with stark white hair and grey skin emerged from the bend in the road, their appearance striking against the green backdrop. Drow. A man, his armour scuffed and bearing the marks of a life hard-lived in the wilds, moved with a guarded caution that spoke of battles fought—and survived. Beside him, the woman's cloak, frayed at the edges, fluttered with each step, her head down but her eyes scanning the surroundings with a mixture of wariness and defiance. The guarded expressions and cautious movements of the drow felt familiar. Thalion recognized the wariness in their eyes. Just as he had learned to mask his feelings behind a veil of indifference, so too did the drow shield themselves from the scrutiny of Elventree.

The crowd instinctively shrank back. The drow's reputation, mired in tales of dark sorcery and harsh underworlds, preceded them, casting a shadow that was palpable among the townsfolk. Fearful whispers swirled through the market. An ancient sort of prejudice finding voice in the uneasy murmurs.

At the rear of the group was another drow, her white robes flowing with a grace that seemed at odds with her origins. She walked with a serene composure that seemed to cut through the market's growing tension. Thalion knew her as the advisor to the Lord of Elventree—Larae Torneld, a former worshipper of Lolth who had turned to the paths of Eilistraee, seeking redemption and peace among the surface dwellers as a high priestess. She was accompanied by several Harpers. Some Harpers, seeing a hope for the drow in the church of Eilistraee and in what it represented, chose to lend a helping hand to their cause. They were keeping the peace, but with hands resting casually near their weapons. Larae paused, her gaze sweeping across the crowd with a dignified calm that demanded respect. The murmurs quieted under the weight of her stare, and even the rustling leaves seemed to still.

The doors of the palace swung open gracefully. The entrance exuded an air of the forest itself, framed by the trunks of two ancient trees that served as living pillars, and with moss and flowering vines draped over the stonework. From this verdant gateway, the Lord of Elventree emerged. Thalion watched as Lord Arendor descended the lush palace steps, with his golden hair and his golden robes. As his gaze fell upon Larae, Thalion noticed a fervent light kindle in Arendor's eyes, a silent longing veiled beneath his welcoming facade. With arms wide open in an extravagant display of hospitality, Arendor's booming voice filled the air, "Welcome, travelers from the depths," each word tinged with unspoken desire and eagerness to please. "Elventree opens its arms to those who seek peace. And fellowship."