Hi friends. Like many others, I've always been fascinated by Drow society. I have tried to create a character that is irredeemable. Evil with no chance of becoming good. Yet tragic in the sense that by the time you read through the story, you can be like. Ok. Yea. I get it. She's a victim. Horrible...but a victim.
The story contains adult themes and ideas. Violence etc. Stuff that you would find in an unfiltered story of Menzoberranzan.
Arra’lith was born the fourth daughter of Quenthel Baenre of House Baenre—the oldest and most powerful house in Menzoberranzan. Born a Szarkai—an albino Drow—with striking white hair streaked crimson red, she immediately drew the attention of her house’s leadership. Szarkai are rare enough, but one born flawless, without deformity? An undeniable gift of Lolth. And Lolth’s gifts are precious.
Typically, such a Drow would be trained as a spy or assassin for life on the surface world. But Arra’lith’s destiny was different. She would be trained as her mother had been: a priestess of Lolth. A living symbol of the Spider Queen’s favor upon House Baenre.
Until her training was complete, Arra’lith’s existence was kept a closely guarded secret. Only the highest ranks of House Baenre knew of her birth—her mother and her sisters among them. Her sisters, understanding what her flawless Szarkai birth meant, realized she would be elevated above them. In a culture as ruthless as the Drow’s, they could not abide it.
Outright killing a defenseless infant—especially a noble-born female—was forbidden, punishable by death in the most excruciating ways imaginable. Instead, they devised a subtler plan: have the baby “rescued” by surface heroes—naïve fools often found wandering near Menzoberranzan’s walls.
Rumors were carefully spread. A sister, in disguise, whispered of a captive Elf babe, one so beautiful that even Sune herself might have crafted her, soon to be sacrificed to Lolth. Tales reached the right ears, and soon, a group of would-be heroes gathered.
Six in all braved the depths of House Baenre’s fortress. Only three escaped the castle. Only two fled the city. Only one reached the surface—and that one carried Arra’lith.
Zenrana Brushpot, a Halfling bard, was the sole survivor. Smuggling an infant through the treacherous Underdark was no small feat. To calm the crying child, Zenrana sang to her, naming her “Aiko”—Little Loved One.
Zenrana took Aiko to a temple of Sune. After hearing her tale and seeing the infant’s red-streaked hair—a color sacred to Sune—the priestesses accepted the baby without question.
Aiko’s life blossomed beyond anything her birthright would have allowed. She grew amid music, dance, love, and friendship—things unknown to Drow society. She made friends. She found love.
His name was Delsaran, an Autumn Eladrin Elf, also an orphan raised by Sune’s temple. Though older by fifty years, he remained youthful by elven standards. Together, they danced in the sunlight, sang in the gardens, and shared whispered promises at night.
Elves grow slowly, but their bonds run deep. Aiko grew radiant. Visitors often gasped at her beauty—her skin pale and cold as moonlight, her eyes warm and joyful.
Then came news that changed everything: Aiko carried Delsaran’s child. The temple erupted in celebration. Plans were made to bless their union. Aiko had everything she could dream of.
In Faerûn, clerics are taught to honor all gods, and Sune’s temple was no exception. Traveling clergy were often invited to speak of deities beyond the Lady of Love.
One day, a group of elven priests arrived, bearing great books and stories of the Seldarine—the elven gods. Aiko and Delsaran listened with rapt attention.
When a page turned to a painting of a beautiful elven woman—stern, regal, haunting—both Aiko and Delsaran gasped.
Aiko’s fingertips brushed the page.
“She looks like you,” Delsaran said softly.
The priest’s face darkened. “That is Lolth,” he said coldly. “Once the consort of Corellon Larethian. Now the Queen of Spiders—the greatest of the Dark Seldarine.”
“Dark Seldarine?” Aiko asked, her voice small.
“Gods of the Drow,” the priest said with disdain.
Aiko shivered. She had always known she was saved from the Drow, had heard stories of their cruelty. Yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from the image. Her fingers traced the painted lips and sharp cheekbones.
Drow.
The word echoed in her mind. It repulsed her—and yet…
Her lips parted. Almost without realizing it, she whispered: “Lolth.”
In the corner of the room, a spider, hidden in its web, watched. And though none saw, the spider’s lips curved into a smile—twisted in the very same shape that Aiko’s fingers traced upon the page.
A month passed. Aiko became restless. She felt eyes on her, even when alone. She grew anxious. Irritable. She heard things at night: tiny footsteps in the walls.
And then they came.
It was the dead of night. Aiko lay awake beside Delsaran, staring at the ceiling. The night was too silent. No crickets, no distant voices, not even Delsaran’s gentle snore—though his chest rose and fell with sleep.
She nudged him. Opened her mouth to speak.
No sound.
Panic rose in her chest.
Delsaran woke at her touch. His lips moved, but she heard nothing. They both sat upright as the door swung silently open.
A figure stood in the doorway, framed by hallway light.
An elf. Female. Black skin. White hair.
Her head tilted as she studied them.
Others followed—five more—garbed in black leather, blades slick with fresh blood.
The assassins surrounded the bed. When Delsaran moved to defend Aiko, a dagger pinned him to the bed by the knee. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
Aiko threw herself over him—but no further blows came.
At last, a final figure entered.
A woman robed in spider silk, her gaze cold and contemptuous. She surveyed the scene: the wounded Delsaran, the trembling Aiko.
The silence lifted. The woman’s voice was soft but cutting: “Beloved daughter. It is time to go home.”
They dragged them into the tunnels beneath the temple. Delsaran was torn from Aiko’s arms, locked into a cage atop a spider-drawn cart. Aiko was forced into a silk-lined carriage carved with obscene luxury.
Above the rumble of wheels, she heard the woman’s voice: “Take us home. To Menzoberranzan.”
How long had it been?
Aiko could not say. In the endless dark of her captivity, days and nights meant nothing.
She lived in splendor—but it was a gilded cage.
Interrogators. Torturers. Lolth’s priestesses. Her mother. Her sisters. Each visit tore pieces from her: body, mind, soul.
The cruelty was beyond imagining. And her “mother”—the architect of it all—was the worst of them.
They taunted her with news of Delsaran. Promises of reunions dangled like spiderbait, only to be cruelly snatched away. Tales of his suffering were whispered to her, breaking her anew each time.
Aiko thought she had escaped this life.
But Menzoberranzan had always been waiting.
And now—so too was Lolth.
Time in the Underdark became an abstract cruelty. Days bled into nights with no change in light or hope. Aiko, once a radiant song in the temple of Sune, now resembled only a shadow of that girl. Her skin, though still luminous, was often streaked with dried blood and bruises. Her lips, once curled in song, now quivered in silence. The baby in her womb—the one she had once cradled with joy in thought—had become a weight of impending doom.
Her mother, Quenthel Baenre, did not need to raise her voice. Her presence alone drained the warmth from any room. She visited often, flanked by priestesses and torturers, and stood over Aiko with thinly veiled disdain.
“A child born of Sune’s love,” Quenthel spat once, circling Aiko like a vulture. “How poetic. How… insulting.” She ran a clawed finger over Aiko’s swollen belly. “It will be sacrificed upon its first breath. Its soul will please our goddess more than your disgraceful life ever has.”
Aiko screamed that day. She screamed until her throat bled. But no plea reached mercy. Not in the House of Baenre. Not in the Underdark.
It was not long after that they brought her to see Delsaran.
She was dragged into a chamber of black stone, lit by floating globes of faerie fire. The smell of blood and burned flesh hung in the air like perfume. He was there—her Delsaran—strapped to an obsidian pillar, his once golden-brown skin flayed in strips. Muscles pulsed, exposed and raw. His eyes fluttered open when he heard her sobs.
“Aiko…” he mouthed. She rushed toward him, only to be restrained.
“You wanted to see him,” her mother said flatly, standing in the shadows. “So you could see what happens to those who taint our bloodlines with unworthy seed.”
She was dragged back to her chambers, screaming his name.
That night, Aiko lay on the floor of her cell, shaking, cradling her belly. The child within her kicked. Innocent. Unaware. But not safe. Never safe.
And that was when she made her choice.
There was no ceremony. No final prayer. No whisper of farewell. Only resolve. She found a shard of obsidian used to mark ritual diagrams on the floor. Her hands trembled, but her mind was clear.
“I’m sorry, little one,” she whispered, her voice raw and hoarse. “Better the Abyss never touch you.”
And then she drove the blade into her own belly.
Blood flooded the stone. Her screams echoed through the walls—wordless, primal, shattering.
The guards found her unconscious. Barely alive. Her body broken, her child already gone.
The punishment was swift.
Her mother herself conducted the sacrifice.
They laid Aiko, still weak and bleeding, upon a black altar lined with spider silk. Quenthel chanted in the tongue of the Abyss, her voice rising with cruel glee as Lolth’s name was invoked. Priestesses circled, eyes shining with zealotry.
When the blade fell upon Aiko’s chest, her soul was wrenched from her body. She saw it—saw it—torn from her like breath in a freezing wind, dragged downward into the gaping, laughing mouth of the Abyss.
Into the Demonweb Pits.
For a hundred years, her soul was toyed with. Flayed. Twisted. Cocooned in darkness and torn open again. Time ceased to have meaning in that place. She forgot words. Then memory. Then self.
But Lolth remembered.
A century later, in the flickering firelight of a House Baenre ritual chamber, a body was reformed. Blood, silk, ash, and venom gave it shape.
And into it, Lolth poured the tortured soul she had held for a hundred years.
Arra’lith awoke, gasping on the stone floor.
Gone was Aiko. That name died with her child. She was Arra’lith now—reborn not with hope, but with purpose. A creature of two lives: one of light stolen, and one of shadow reclaimed.
Her soul was damned. She knew this. She had been to the Abyss, and the Abyss had carved its name across her essence. But perhaps… perhaps if she served well, if she killed in Lolth’s name, if she spread chaos, betrayal, domination—if she gave Lolth pleasure—then maybe her eternity would be… less. Less pain. Less torment. A lesser hell.
And so Arra’lith dons her mask, walks the world again, and beneath every smile lies a silent scream.
Not for herself—but for the child she could not save.
Hi friends. Like many others, I've always been fascinated by Drow society. I have tried to create a character that is irredeemable. Evil with no chance of becoming good. Yet tragic in the sense that by the time you read through the story, you can be like. Ok. Yea. I get it. She's a victim. Horrible...but a victim.
The story contains adult themes and ideas. Violence etc. Stuff that you would find in an unfiltered story of Menzoberranzan.
Arra’lith was born the fourth daughter of Quenthel Baenre of House Baenre—the oldest and most powerful house in Menzoberranzan. Born a Szarkai—an albino Drow—with striking white hair streaked crimson red, she immediately drew the attention of her house’s leadership. Szarkai are rare enough, but one born flawless, without deformity? An undeniable gift of Lolth. And Lolth’s gifts are precious.
Typically, such a Drow would be trained as a spy or assassin for life on the surface world. But Arra’lith’s destiny was different. She would be trained as her mother had been: a priestess of Lolth. A living symbol of the Spider Queen’s favor upon House Baenre.
Until her training was complete, Arra’lith’s existence was kept a closely guarded secret. Only the highest ranks of House Baenre knew of her birth—her mother and her sisters among them. Her sisters, understanding what her flawless Szarkai birth meant, realized she would be elevated above them. In a culture as ruthless as the Drow’s, they could not abide it.
Outright killing a defenseless infant—especially a noble-born female—was forbidden, punishable by death in the most excruciating ways imaginable. Instead, they devised a subtler plan: have the baby “rescued” by surface heroes—naïve fools often found wandering near Menzoberranzan’s walls.
Rumors were carefully spread. A sister, in disguise, whispered of a captive Elf babe, one so beautiful that even Sune herself might have crafted her, soon to be sacrificed to Lolth. Tales reached the right ears, and soon, a group of would-be heroes gathered.
Six in all braved the depths of House Baenre’s fortress. Only three escaped the castle. Only two fled the city. Only one reached the surface—and that one carried Arra’lith.
Zenrana Brushpot, a Halfling bard, was the sole survivor. Smuggling an infant through the treacherous Underdark was no small feat. To calm the crying child, Zenrana sang to her, naming her “Aiko”—Little Loved One.
Zenrana took Aiko to a temple of Sune. After hearing her tale and seeing the infant’s red-streaked hair—a color sacred to Sune—the priestesses accepted the baby without question.
Aiko’s life blossomed beyond anything her birthright would have allowed. She grew amid music, dance, love, and friendship—things unknown to Drow society. She made friends. She found love.
His name was Delsaran, an Autumn Eladrin Elf, also an orphan raised by Sune’s temple. Though older by fifty years, he remained youthful by elven standards. Together, they danced in the sunlight, sang in the gardens, and shared whispered promises at night.
Elves grow slowly, but their bonds run deep. Aiko grew radiant. Visitors often gasped at her beauty—her skin pale and cold as moonlight, her eyes warm and joyful.
Then came news that changed everything: Aiko carried Delsaran’s child. The temple erupted in celebration. Plans were made to bless their union. Aiko had everything she could dream of.
In Faerûn, clerics are taught to honor all gods, and Sune’s temple was no exception. Traveling clergy were often invited to speak of deities beyond the Lady of Love.
One day, a group of elven priests arrived, bearing great books and stories of the Seldarine—the elven gods. Aiko and Delsaran listened with rapt attention.
When a page turned to a painting of a beautiful elven woman—stern, regal, haunting—both Aiko and Delsaran gasped.
Aiko’s fingertips brushed the page.
“She looks like you,” Delsaran said softly.
The priest’s face darkened. “That is Lolth,” he said coldly. “Once the consort of Corellon Larethian. Now the Queen of Spiders—the greatest of the Dark Seldarine.”
“Dark Seldarine?” Aiko asked, her voice small.
“Gods of the Drow,” the priest said with disdain.
Aiko shivered. She had always known she was saved from the Drow, had heard stories of their cruelty. Yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from the image. Her fingers traced the painted lips and sharp cheekbones.
Drow.
The word echoed in her mind. It repulsed her—and yet…
Her lips parted. Almost without realizing it, she whispered: “Lolth.”
In the corner of the room, a spider, hidden in its web, watched. And though none saw, the spider’s lips curved into a smile—twisted in the very same shape that Aiko’s fingers traced upon the page.
A month passed. Aiko became restless. She felt eyes on her, even when alone. She grew anxious. Irritable. She heard things at night: tiny footsteps in the walls.
And then they came.
It was the dead of night. Aiko lay awake beside Delsaran, staring at the ceiling. The night was too silent. No crickets, no distant voices, not even Delsaran’s gentle snore—though his chest rose and fell with sleep.
She nudged him. Opened her mouth to speak.
No sound.
Panic rose in her chest.
Delsaran woke at her touch. His lips moved, but she heard nothing. They both sat upright as the door swung silently open.
A figure stood in the doorway, framed by hallway light.
An elf. Female. Black skin. White hair.
Her head tilted as she studied them.
Others followed—five more—garbed in black leather, blades slick with fresh blood.
The assassins surrounded the bed. When Delsaran moved to defend Aiko, a dagger pinned him to the bed by the knee. His mouth opened in a silent scream.
Aiko threw herself over him—but no further blows came.
At last, a final figure entered.
A woman robed in spider silk, her gaze cold and contemptuous. She surveyed the scene: the wounded Delsaran, the trembling Aiko.
The silence lifted. The woman’s voice was soft but cutting: “Beloved daughter. It is time to go home.”
They dragged them into the tunnels beneath the temple. Delsaran was torn from Aiko’s arms, locked into a cage atop a spider-drawn cart. Aiko was forced into a silk-lined carriage carved with obscene luxury.
Above the rumble of wheels, she heard the woman’s voice: “Take us home. To Menzoberranzan.”
How long had it been?
Aiko could not say. In the endless dark of her captivity, days and nights meant nothing.
She lived in splendor—but it was a gilded cage.
Interrogators. Torturers. Lolth’s priestesses. Her mother. Her sisters. Each visit tore pieces from her: body, mind, soul.
The cruelty was beyond imagining. And her “mother”—the architect of it all—was the worst of them.
They taunted her with news of Delsaran. Promises of reunions dangled like spiderbait, only to be cruelly snatched away. Tales of his suffering were whispered to her, breaking her anew each time.
Aiko thought she had escaped this life.
But Menzoberranzan had always been waiting.
And now—so too was Lolth.
Time in the Underdark became an abstract cruelty. Days bled into nights with no change in light or hope. Aiko, once a radiant song in the temple of Sune, now resembled only a shadow of that girl. Her skin, though still luminous, was often streaked with dried blood and bruises. Her lips, once curled in song, now quivered in silence. The baby in her womb—the one she had once cradled with joy in thought—had become a weight of impending doom.
Her mother, Quenthel Baenre, did not need to raise her voice. Her presence alone drained the warmth from any room. She visited often, flanked by priestesses and torturers, and stood over Aiko with thinly veiled disdain.
“A child born of Sune’s love,” Quenthel spat once, circling Aiko like a vulture. “How poetic. How… insulting.” She ran a clawed finger over Aiko’s swollen belly. “It will be sacrificed upon its first breath. Its soul will please our goddess more than your disgraceful life ever has.”
Aiko screamed that day. She screamed until her throat bled. But no plea reached mercy. Not in the House of Baenre. Not in the Underdark.
It was not long after that they brought her to see Delsaran.
She was dragged into a chamber of black stone, lit by floating globes of faerie fire. The smell of blood and burned flesh hung in the air like perfume. He was there—her Delsaran—strapped to an obsidian pillar, his once golden-brown skin flayed in strips. Muscles pulsed, exposed and raw. His eyes fluttered open when he heard her sobs.
“Aiko…” he mouthed. She rushed toward him, only to be restrained.
“You wanted to see him,” her mother said flatly, standing in the shadows. “So you could see what happens to those who taint our bloodlines with unworthy seed.”
She was dragged back to her chambers, screaming his name.
That night, Aiko lay on the floor of her cell, shaking, cradling her belly. The child within her kicked. Innocent. Unaware. But not safe. Never safe.
And that was when she made her choice.
There was no ceremony. No final prayer. No whisper of farewell. Only resolve. She found a shard of obsidian used to mark ritual diagrams on the floor. Her hands trembled, but her mind was clear.
“I’m sorry, little one,” she whispered, her voice raw and hoarse. “Better the Abyss never touch you.”
And then she drove the blade into her own belly.
Blood flooded the stone. Her screams echoed through the walls—wordless, primal, shattering.
The guards found her unconscious. Barely alive. Her body broken, her child already gone.
The punishment was swift.
Her mother herself conducted the sacrifice.
They laid Aiko, still weak and bleeding, upon a black altar lined with spider silk. Quenthel chanted in the tongue of the Abyss, her voice rising with cruel glee as Lolth’s name was invoked. Priestesses circled, eyes shining with zealotry.
When the blade fell upon Aiko’s chest, her soul was wrenched from her body. She saw it—saw it—torn from her like breath in a freezing wind, dragged downward into the gaping, laughing mouth of the Abyss.
Into the Demonweb Pits.
For a hundred years, her soul was toyed with. Flayed. Twisted. Cocooned in darkness and torn open again. Time ceased to have meaning in that place. She forgot words. Then memory. Then self.
But Lolth remembered.
A century later, in the flickering firelight of a House Baenre ritual chamber, a body was reformed. Blood, silk, ash, and venom gave it shape.
And into it, Lolth poured the tortured soul she had held for a hundred years.
Arra’lith awoke, gasping on the stone floor.
Gone was Aiko. That name died with her child. She was Arra’lith now—reborn not with hope, but with purpose. A creature of two lives: one of light stolen, and one of shadow reclaimed.
Her soul was damned. She knew this. She had been to the Abyss, and the Abyss had carved its name across her essence. But perhaps… perhaps if she served well, if she killed in Lolth’s name, if she spread chaos, betrayal, domination—if she gave Lolth pleasure—then maybe her eternity would be… less. Less pain. Less torment. A lesser hell.
And so Arra’lith dons her mask, walks the world again, and beneath every smile lies a silent scream.
Not for herself—but for the child she could not save.
I love this! Inventive, intriguing, and tragic, this backstory has a lot packed in to it.
- Igglywiv the Wizard
I played every class, now playing every sub-class.
You would not believe how much ADHD helps with creating campaigns!
Happy Pride Month!
Nailed it honestly, you did exactly what you were trying to do.
"Uh, I have Illusory Script. I think I can read that."