Something inspired by the fight I wrote about here.
Nalaghar was literally beefing with his 18 year old half-brother at the ripe age of 190. They do become (something like) friends after Darron begins training at the warrior school.
If ever my drow Tav was a BG3 companion, he'll have two possible fates:
The Blue Ending has him give in totally to his good compulsions and become a Silverhair Knight for Eilistraee, swearing to protect his fellow converts and to uphold harmony among drow and other folk.
The Red Ending sees him become a Crusader of Vhaeraun. Ultimately, he becomes one of his top enforcers, seeks out revenge on House Everhate (who destroyed his family), and takes an active part in establishing a drow-led society on the Surface.
In the Blue Ending, he weilds T'zeklochar's scimitar, Reckoning. In the Red Ending, he weilds Nalaghar's flaming scimitar, Grief.
The training hall had been Darron's home for the last three years. The hall itself. Tucked in a quiet corner was a cot, where he slept; a small chest, where he kept his clothes; and a chamber pot. Darron believed that the lack of privacy - the utter indignity he was forced to endure - was part of the punishment T'zeklochar had cooked up.
Darron spent his first sixteen years as a weanling drow cared for conjointly by his father and teacher, but the brunt of his upbringing fell to T’zeklochar, who was more predisposed to raise the stubborn twin.
His refusal to undergo schooling as a noble consort was testimony to his stubbornness.
He had come into his sixteenth year as a slender, spritely sprig of a boy, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. A dancer's body.
Ryld had come to his boys proposing dancing lessons. Dancing lessons, by Lolth! It didn't matter that Darron was close to mastering the Draa Velve (“two sword”) fighting style, or that Baeron was by far the best knife thrower House Barriurden had ever produced. No, they had to take dancing lessons.
Darron had screamed “No!” and “I won't!” through the years more times than T’zeklochar could count. This time, he refused to hear it.
He'd grabbed the boy by the arms and squeezed. “I have indulged you for long enough,” he said through gritted teeth. “You will do as your father says.”
“I. Won't.”
T’zeklochar's grip tightened.
“I'm going to be a warrior, and I will train, even if I have to break into the training hall everyday.”
T’zeklochar fumed, his obsidian skin turning darker as his face flushed. He turned to Ryld. “He gets that from you,” he admonished.
“And who found it entertaining enough to nurture it?” was Ryld's haughty reply.
T'zeklochar released Darron with a defeated sigh. “Fine.” The smile he pulled made Darron shrink back. “I'll make you beg for dancing lessons by the end of the month.”
The Weapons Master could be gentle when he wanted to be. Darron could remember getting cuddled and hugged as a weanling. Even the odd kiss on the cheek.
He wasn't averse to corporal punishment, however, but those were reserved for when Darron had been particularly difficult.
Darron's first sparring session with T’zeklochar as a sixteen-year-old involved no inhibition on the master's end. Darron froze when his guardian punched him full-force in the face.
“You seem upset,” T’zeklochar remarked.
“You just hit me!”
“And you think a real opponent won't? Quit your whining.”
He'd walked away from the spar grumbling and covered in bruises. Matron Dinbreena had laughed. “Aww… you look even prettier this dark,” she told him.
Baeron, the more docile of the two, seemed to actually enjoy his lessons. Well, he'd enjoy anything as long as he was showered with splendid gifts and praise, the buffoon.
Darron often saw him with his instructor - a strikingly masculine Szarkai. An alabaster-skinned drow, what his people called a “ghost spider”. Their complexion allowed them to pass for surface elves and carry out business on behalf of wealthy clients.
Nobody spoke his name. Darron doubted if anyone knew his name, but he knew that Szarkai were all spies and assassins.
He wondered whether the “dancing lessons” were so bad after all. And with how much Baeron and the Szarkai flirted, he wondered what kind of “dancing lessons” they had exactly.
Now, at eighteen, Darron was sinewy and quick; his motion fluid, precise, and cutting - the potential for dance still very apparent. He wore his long hair down. It hung low to his waist, straight and shiny like molten silver. It was a symbol of his nobility, and something to distract from his ice-blue eyes.
He was a voracious reader, preferring books about romance and adventure. If he wasn't reading on his cot (or trying his hand at poetry of his own), Darron was on his feet, wielding two swords and practicing against a dummy.
This was how Nalaghar found him on his visit from Melee Magthere.
Nalaghar was Secondboy of House Barriurden, the Patron's son, who didn't exactly admire Darron or his ambition of becoming a drow warrior. In his world, there was no room for rivals.
“Well!” he cried out, his deep voice bouncing off the walls. “Look who it is!”
Darron stood his ground. Drow were short by surface dweller standards. Darron stood at 5 feet and 4 inches. Tall, but he was not likely to grow anymore. Even still, Nalaghar loomed over him, cutting an imposing figure in his black, belted tunic and trousers. He was also wearing light armor, making Darron feel extremely vulnerable in just his soft boots and cotton pants.
He tightened his grip on the sword handles as his half-brother strode up to him, a peevish glint in his blood-red eyes.
“If it isn't our very own little Drizzt!”
Darron could feel himself grow red in the face. A very unbecoming color.
“What are you, now?” Nalaghar flicked Darron's ear. “Huh? Eighteen?”
Darron gave a curt nod.
“Only two more years until you qualify for the Academy,” remarked Nalaghar loftily. He was uncomfortably close now, advancing even as Darron moved to put space between them. “I can't wait,” growled Nalaghar, “for you to come to Melee Magthere. I'll be sure to arrange a little accident for you. One where they'll have to scrape what's left of you off the floor. Matron Dinbreena can keep you in a jar.”
The Patron's other sons flanked Nalaghar, baring their pearly teeth in nasty grins.
This scene had played out dozens of times before; Nalaghar would bait him into a fight, Darron would bite, and he would be whipped for insubordination. He would not take the bait, not this time.
Without a word, Darron walked away.
Infuriated by this display of emotional control, Nalaghar closed his fist around Darron's long hair and gave it a savage tug. “Don't you turn your back on me, you miserable insect!” he snarled.
Instinctively, Darron reached back to free himself. When Nalaghar's grip showed no signs of slacking, he twisted about and punched his half-brother in the mouth.
Nalaghar let go, stumbling from the hit. His bleeding gums stained his teeth scarlet.
Heaving like a beast, Nalaghar locked his gaze on the young drow and slowly unsheathed his sword.
The training hall echoed with the clash of swords and the muffled thumps of fists against flesh. Quickness and well-rehearsed blows are no match against brute strength, and Nalaghar quickly dominated the fight.
Even as Darron successfully cut and disarmed him, aid came from Nalaghar's brothers, who readily tossed him their swords.
Finally, locked in a parry, Darron forced himself to withstand Nalaghar's crushing weight as he tried to force Darron's knees to bend. An awful glimmer suddenly came into Nalaghar's eyes.
In a split second, Darron's vision darkened, and a loud ringing erupted in his ears. Nalaghar had headbutted him.
He did it a second time, and a third. By the fourth time, Darron had lost his grip on his weapons and was staggering blindly in the middle of the hall.
He fell down, groaning from the agony of a broken nose.
“You think you're a warrior, do you?” He pinned Darron down with his boot, making him sputter. With one swift motion, he'd swooped down and bundled up Darron's long, silver hair in his fist.
“You're nothing but the bastard son of a kitchen slave, and that won't ever change. No matter how many times your whore of a father beds the Weapons Master.”
The hairs on the back of Darron's head stood on end when he felt the cold blade of Nalaghar's sword at his nape. He was going to shear his hair off.
Before he could, a knife whizzed past Nalaghar's ear. He reached up to his cheek where a cut began to bleed.
“The next one, I'll put between your eyes,” Baeron warned, brandishing a knife in each hand.
The Szarkai stood by the door, commending Baeron's graceful form and perfect aim.
“You -!”
“That's enough, boy!”
Nalaghar faltered as the Weapons Master strode past Baeron, who got to his knees to examine his brother.
“You may be a master at Melee Magthere, but here you're still only Secondboy.”
Nalaghar looked like a kicked puppy, looking up desperately at T’zeklochar. He'd spent his entire life trying to impress the Weapons Master - his hero. He dressed like him, moved like him, even wore his hair in twists like him, but he never got more than a passive nod at his best efforts.
“Now, get out.” T’zeklochar shot a glare at the Patron's sons. “All of you.”
Darron awoke several minutes later, his head pillowed on Baeron's lap. The moment his eyes focused, and his gurgling turned to words, he was propped up on his back.
“I did terrible in that fight.”
“Nalaghar had to headbutt you four times before you fell, so that's saying something.” Baeron sopped up the blood from Darron's nose with his jacket. “Now, hold still.”
Howdy Blue! I'm loving all the dnd art! I was wondering if you based any of Darron and Baeron's family off of the Todd's? I'm really liking all of their vibes and designs. Your art is always so good!!
Ash!!!! Hello and thanks!!!! 🥹
I tried to give Darron and Baeron a different family setup or at least one that fits in more to the drow society concept, so there aren't any siblings that would say correspond to Nathan, or Susannah, etc.
I have tons of ideas and concepts and I'm really happy I get to share them!
Also, here's a sneak peek to Nalaghar and his lizard horse mount
