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[Solanaceae]

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Moments past midnight, on the edge of Nujelm, the city slept while a stranger invaded their sanctuary.

Crickets and bullfrogs serenaded Solanaceae as she crept past a manmade pond beyond the city’s wall, towards an expansive white stone inn. Guards slept slumped over their pikes and shields from gate to each of the building’s portals, leaving none to stand against her mission. Solanaceae didn’t know what the rest of the Order might think if her task this evening, but it was Spring, and certain offerings must be made to set right things that were out of balance. Though death would come to all, this was a season of life, and Life, the mate of Death, was still a part of the eternal circle.

The servant’s entrance gave way to her without resistance. The rear of the foyer was quiet. Solanaceae opened a small mesh jar and smiled as hundreds of grey insects with opulent wings flew into the protective case. Her newest creations had sadly short life spans, not more than 5 days between larva stage and post reproductive death, but tonight they had served her purposes well. Much like the guards at the gate and on the grounds, the severs and maids that normally bustled about the opulent building were slumped over chairs and tables, victims of the insects sleeping toxin. It would be well into the Witching Hour of three bells before the toxin weakened and the affected awoke.

There was no challenge to her invasion as Solanaceae made her way downstairs, and into the main kitchen. Cooks and servants littered the hard floors, leaving huge pots of savory stews and trays of baked goods to cook unattended. A feast was being prepared, to celebrate some marriage between spoiled nobles Solanaceae did not know nor cared to concern herself with. This food had a far more meaningful purpose this evening, one its creators never dreamed of. It took no more than a quarter of an hour’s time to gather enough baskets, and another quarter after than to fill them with fresh bread, sweets, and small covered pots of the stew.

Solanaceae borrowed a pack mule from the inn stables and loaded it with the baskets she’d prepared. After turning down the ovens and stirring the fire beneath the remaining pots so that nothing would burn, she lured the mule back out the servants entrances and past the high walls of the city. If all went well the pampered rich would never notice the missing food, and the servants, afraid of punishment would never admit the crime. With a sudden inspiration, Solanaceae returned to the inn long enough to remove a few cases of wine and ale from the cellar stores, before adding that to the load on the mule and continuing her journey toward the city slums.

Compared to the city of prosperity and privileged behind the sandstone walls, the slums of Nujelm were not more than boxed shape home filled with beds and little in the way of possessions. The real work of Nujelm was done by those who lived here, the people the privileged used and threw away with little thought of their worker’s well-being. Tonight, on the Eve of Springs’ awakening, the doormats of Nujelm’s wealthy would see that someone was looking out for them. One by one a basket was left just within the worker’s homes, each tied with a dark green ribbon, and accented with a single silver and onyx pin, a mark of the Ebon Skull. No trickery tonight. A gesture of good will, to shame those of privilege in the city’s elite, those who profited of the suffering of the city’s poor.

Once her packages were placed, Solanaceae returned the mule to the stables and made her way to the moongate. One more gift to deliver and then rest.

At just after one bells on the morning, The Tangled Web was quiet, the aftereffects of the conflicts between the Order and some of the smaller guilds belonging to the supposed lightbringers did not haunt these hours. Solanaceae did not climb the stairs to the tavern itself, but instead drew a box from her hip sack and entered the basement where the mushrooms were grown. On the tallest mushroom she set the box wrapped in purple and silver wrappings, from which dangled a card celebrating a new birth within the drow royal line. The three fist sized spiders scuffled inside the container, newly born as of that evening, and a third of the nine sister spider born from Solanaceae’s most recent experimentation. At their full grown size the spiders would be akin to small jungle cats in body mass. Deadly venomed and with the intelligence of well-bred guard dogs, the sister arachnids would serve the Matron and her kin well.

Wearily the Fae returned home and crawled into her small bed, smiling as her cat Hemlock, who was recovering well now, stirred from her sleeping place to cuddle close to her mistress. One wedding and a birth, the first the people meaningless, but the trappings would allow for perhaps a few more to turn to her new family for purpose and protection in Umbra. The birth, a gesture of friendship, and a gift as she might have given had she still be in the courts. Both felt right, somehow. Come the day, one more wedding would call for her attention, this time one she’s been invited to attended, and that in a way she was looking forward to. Another gift would be given, perhaps, in the end, the most dangerous and value gift thus far.

The gift of the truth.