›Seke khalith mii'n tluin hyrr'ol xuil dosstan. Rak'nes vel'drav klezn inbau dubo‹ was my father's first sentence in the language of the Drow. It would probably mean as much as ›True courage means to be honest with yourself in his speech. Especially when it gets difficult‹. While I went through the movements given by my mother and teacher in elemental magic and Kyone veldrin, with my staff on the training dummy, I always thought a lot about these sentences. I never understood what he wanted to say to us, me and my sister Miara.

We still live in the small hut south of Menzoberranzan, directly at the Darklake, which my father built for us after he and my mother were banished from Sshamath. They wanted to start again here but never got it made easy. Again and again, our home was attacked by rebels. Faral was sure that they were hired by the houses in Menzoberranzan, but there was never any proof.

Today, however, it seemed quiet around the city. I granted myself a little break, pushed my blindfold up, supported myself with my staff, and watched my sister take care of a new seedling. She seemed so peaceful and carefree that I envied her more than once for not possessing any magical abilities or even a talent for them. But she had a knack for growing trees where they never grew before. Her newest seedling is a Sussur, and she is wildly determined to let it thrive there.
Not far away, my mother cared for my father's grave. Like every first day of a month, she puts Night Orchid on the grave. She says it was his favorite flower and the first one he gave her. I never expected her to be so sensitive.