He stood on the wooden bridge along the eastern edge of Zento, the town in which he was raised, watching the waterfall in the darkness that comes with the last few hours before daybreak. Ryu’s charcoal gray robe whispered against the faint breeze, and somewhere a plaintive song was being played out on a bamboo flute. The night was still and quiet except for these small sounds, and darkness prevailed, broken only by the occasional paper lantern hung at strategic yet pleasing intervals within the small city.

The long silver-white hair that was his was braided in a neat plait that fell nearly to his waist, and it nearly glowed with an ethereal light of its own beneath the three-quarter moon. There were several hours before the sun would rise, and Ryu found himself restless. He should be in his room, in the bed provided for him by the man he knew as Father for as long as he could remember. There was no Mother; he was an orphan. A foundling, discovered one cold night so many years ago left upon the doorstep of the dojo that had been Father’s. Ryu had no clear memories of his earliest struggles with daylight; in time he learned to accept it and protect himself from it.

His mind wandered, and he was unable to get the angst out of his system that had been plaguing him for the last several months. It was no longer a matter of missing his father; years had passed since the battle that claimed the calm and disciplined bushido master. As the only child of the master, Ryu was the heir of all that was the master’s. There were times, and this was one of them, that Ryu felt a secret anger toward the man who showed him nothing but kindness and top quality weapons training. On countless occasions in his youth, his questions about his origins and appearance drew no response other than a protracted silence. The people of the islands were xenophobic, Ryu knew. Perhaps that had something to do with Father’s reluctance to discuss his son’s difference from the others; Ryu suspected it was nothing more than the intense respect the villagers had for his father that kept him safe from ridicule and ostracization. Where they were of a pleasant tan color, with black hair and eyes that slanted on the edges, Ryu was ebony skinned, his hair the quicksilver white of his own race. Despite growing and learning among these people, Ryu could not quite understand their approach to life. They spent countless hours in meditation, perfecting calligraphy of their odd little kanji, pursuing inner peace.

Perhaps that was a big piece of the problems he saw as his: an inability to obtain this thing they called ‘peace’. The feeling of inner turmoil had been growing, and Ryu was slowly losing his ability to control it. He felt like a puppet, going through the daily routines of Zento life as if controlled by the puppet-master; the puppet-master being, of course, the ghost of his father. Roaming the lands of Sosaria did nothing to quell the strange feelings and unidentified needs burning within him, though the experience was fulfilling in its own way and Ryu appreciated the advice of an old family friend, that perhaps it was a kind of wanderlust making him feel so restless.

So deep into these thoughts was he, that when a soft but commanding voice came from the darkness behind him, he nearly startled in response.

“Vendui, jaluk”.

The harsh sounding words caused him to drop his hand to the hilt of the sword at his side yet his heart leapt in his chest in a way he’d never experienced from merely hearing words or feeling a potential danger. When he turned to see who disturbed his thoughts, the breath caught in his throat. Standing only feet from him was a female of ebony skin, her own hair long and free flowing over her shoulders. She appeared naked, and too soon Ryu realized that she was very nearly so, covered by scant dark-dyed items. She appeared unarmed and, perhaps foolishly, Ryu felt no immediate threat. Along with that feeling came the realization that his manners had taken a brief vacation, and he quickly bowed in the stiff and formal way of Zento.

Ryu did not understand the words that next came from the figure, though he understood the tone. This woman was angry, yet he had no understanding why. He attempted to greet her in the common tongue of the mainland, and she seemed to understand some of what he said. It crossed his mind to wonder if she could hear his heart beating, so violently did it thud in his chest. Having never met another of his race, he did not know that he was tall, and she shorter of stature, than is typical, but her size was immediately pleasing to his eyes as she was only slightly smaller than the women here on the islands.

He stood there looking serene but surprised, and again spoke in the common language. “You look as I do!” Reluctant conversation ensued and through the course of their halting exchange of words, the woman asked his name and how long he’d been among the humans of the surface-world. Ryu tilted his head in a curious way and convinced himself that he misunderstood the second question she asked. He told her that his name was Ryu—Ryu Hamabuyashi. Again, the woman inquired about his status here among the humans. Ryu laughed and went on to explain that he was the son of a well-placed master of Bushido. “You mean there are more drow here?” she asked with a hint of excitement in her voice.

“Drow?” he asked, and despite the seeming impossibility to do so, his heart beat even faster. “Ilythiiri!” spat the woman, her annoyance becoming more and more apparent. Ryu shook his head to indicate that he did not understand. Ryu could see the ruby red of her eyes in the diffuse light of pre-dawn and the very sight of them seemed to stir the passions that lay within him, carefully kept in check through the years. Raising his hands in supplication, Ryu again shook his head. When the woman pointed to his knees and then the wooden boards of the bridge, he understood her perfectly.

Without a thought, Ryu dropped to his knees and bowed his head to this fierce tempered being. He did not see her satisfied smile as she stepped forward and told him in halting common, “You may call me Bae’vin,”

“Bae’vin,” whispered Ryu, the name ambrosia on his lips. Inexplicably, he knew that for the good or the bad, his life had changed in a way that there would be no return from.

It was this way the two remained for countless minutes, both of their thoughts racing in various directions. Bae’vin, relatively new to the surface and glad to be away from her life before, was realizing the implications of finding such a strong male who seemed to have no particular hatred toward the females of his kind. Why, he didn’t even know what his kind was!

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Ryu realized that Father must have had what he considered good reason to avoid discussions about Ryu’s true nature. It could not be possible that there were no others like him—he knelt before living, breathing, beautiful, proof of this. When Bae’vin reached down and touched the side of his face, fire raced through his veins and Ryu suddenly realized beyond all reason that he wanted this woman. He would have her, at any cost. The monk-like existence that he was raised to believe so strongly in was forgotten in these moments stolen with this woman.

Pale colors were creeping along the horizon, and Bae’vin knew she had to get away from this city. When she beckoned Ryu to accompany her to the dark city of Umbra, he stood.

He followed.


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Author’s note: The city names in this story are borne of the game ‘Ultima Online’ and this story is loosely based on a roleplay event that took place several months ago. Both characters are original—Bae’vin my own and Ryu used with written permission.