True to the nature of moon elves, Jentuu grew up traveling all over Faerûn. His father, Zerro, was a merchant while his mother, Siarren, oversaw his education. The boy was always fascinated with the thickest and most decorated of books. In fact, his parents had a rule. No matter how much money the did or did not have, they always allowed him to purchase any book he committed to reading.



As he grew older, Jentuu started to spar with Bragen, an ally and friend who travelled in their elven company. While carrying weapons in Faerûn was essential—given not only their nomadic lifestyle, but also the dangers of the region—Jentuu was in it for the game. He much preferred the challenge and strategy involved in besting his opponent.



At the age of 15, while in the city of Silverymoon for business, his father took him to personally select his weapons of choice. They met with a burly weapons master to play with each potential combination. Having only been exposed to the arms that his travelling band lent him in training, he gazed around the tent in awe. They seemed to be organized from most expensive to least as you looked around clockwise. He stood in awe as he observed the frigid air let off by a frostbitten blade or the gemstones that adorned a pricy staff fit for a ruler. Eventually, he made his way to leftmost limit of the tent, so as to not impose on his frugal family.



Unsheathing a sword, Jentuu gave it a couple swings. Unbalanced, he thought. Returning the blade to its place, he kept looking. He passed over the heavier weapons like hammers and maces, knowing he preferred a nimble fighting style as opposed to the blunt damage caused by such weapons. Behind a tall, rusty-looking shield, he noticed a leather harness. In the shape of an X, it held two weapons with modest hilts. What intrigued him, however, was the sharp curves in the blades.



The weapons master lumbered over upon the completion of a transaction. “Those there are fine sickles, laddie,” he bellowed. “Go on. Try them on!” Noticing the apprehensive look on his father’s face, he swung the harness around and over his head, buckling the belt. The leather fit snug, with the sickles resting on the sides of his ribs.



“Weapons Master...why does the positioning of the blades feel so...awkward?”



“A fine question. This set is meant for those wishing to conceal the blades under a cloak. The angle aids the user in quickly drawing the blades in a fluid slicing motion.”



Jentuu motioned to Zerro Wetsilver. “Father? What say you?”



“Not my choice of protection, naturally, but they are within our means to purchase. Should you find them suitable, they’re yours,” hesitated his father.



“Sir, you have a deal!” Zerro handed over the appropriate coinage to the weapons master, bowing in gratitude.



“Now Jentuu, you are not to shirk your studies to train with Bragen. A book will get you farther than any blade in all of Toril, mind you,” countered his father, airing some of his hesitations.



---



There they are. The two silvers are returning to their camp. Make preparations for the raid, signaled Shin’nay to her sister. The assassin’s kin, Vyar’ra Zinn’ro, was unable to hear, while her twin of equally reputable reputation could not speak. Therefore, they relied on the drow handsigning language to communicate.



These dastardly sisters were leading a small squadron of bloodthirsty drow from the city of Ched Nasad, sister-city to the infamous Menzoberranzen. While they did not have any dealings with the other dark elf city, they shared the same passion for the spider goddess, Lolth. This raid on the surface was to gain favor for something much bigger than any single member of the party.



---



Just as Jentuu locked eyes with Lilander, the tribe’s bard and wizard friend, ready to show off his new weapons, the drow let loose their poison-tipped crossbow bolts in a volley that landed upon his entire camp.



Lilander fell with a confused look across his face expressing discomfort but not distress, dropped by a dastardly drow dart. Jentuu’s father shoved him backward, sending him tumbling down a ledge and into a brush-covered ditch.



Zerro then launched into a flurry of spells, thwarting off the haze of projectiles, searching for his bride. As he brushed aside the incoming slash of a blade, he turned westward, launching an arcane flare in hopes of alerting the city guard. Deep down, though, he knew it was over.



Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of green—the flowing, emerald dress of his wife. Racing to her, in a spell of tunnel-vision, they locked eyes just as Vyar’ra drow sister pulled the trigger on her weapon. The blackened bolt pierced Zerro just below the shoulder, entering his rib cage. He crashed into his wife’s arms, eyes wide, mouth open.



Siarren then yielded, collapsing on her husband, defenseless against any incoming assault. Shin’nay drow sister stalked over slowly, the battle over, while her men set the tents of the silver elves ablaze.



Siarren whipped her head up, eyes seemingly piercing the drow’s soul. There is a fire behind those eyes, mused the drow, Allow me to extinguish it. Her blade slid right into the moon elf’s gut. In what seemed an eternity, lip quivering all the while, Jentuu’s mother never broke her gaze ‘til the very life-light inside her faded into oblivion.



---



Jentuu stayed concealed with all his might. Truthfully, he was petrified. He hated himself for being so scared, but his body wouldn’t allow him to budge. He knew it would soon be over. Everyone he held close would be gone. He was a logical elf, though, and knew that he could do little against such an evil force without losing his own life. He carried a sense of preservation of heritage and family that overruled his inner obligation to cry out and charge his parents’ assassins. He lied there, for minutes, hours, just cowering. What am I to do, he thought hopelessly, using every fiber of his being not to cry out in agony. I am but 15 years old. The landscape of Faerûn is certainly no place for an orphan.