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Nocturne scribbles the figures in her ledger; short, careful strokes delineating the state of the Cloister’s stocks. 100 candles (10 inch), -15 gp, she records. She had actually only paid 12 gold for the set, but Mother Superior didn’t need to know that, and hadn’t made a habit of auditing her ledger even once in the years Nocturne had been quartermaster. Perhaps, Nocturne muses to herself, that is a vestigial behavior of the drow woman considering accounting work to be too mundane and beneath her. Whatever the cause, it didn’t matter - it had allowed her to skim off the top for years unnoticed, embezzling small funds here and there with fraudulently false costs hiding her movements. A few coppers there, a silver here, one or two gold pieces too many expended on the endless list of sundries that the Cloister of Sombre Embrace required to function in its service of Lady Shar.
Hempen Rope (200 ft), -5 gp & 29 cp.
Nocturne had come to the Lady of Loss willingly - life as a young child was full of so many things she would much sooner forget, after all. A body she would prefer not to remember, an identity she’d hated playacting for everyone else’s comfort. 40 years ago, she’d gladly traded her freedom for Shar’s comforting embrace - but in time, that embrace had turned into an icy grip chaining her to the only stability she’d ever known. She could never leave the safety the Cloister offered; she knew that life outside the walls would be impossible for someone like her, even in the Gate. At least on her own.
Flour (125 pounds), -6 gp & 3 sp.
It’d been Shadowheart’s plan, at first. Save up enough money and then slip away, the two of them. Get on a ship sailing somewhere far away from the Gate and never look back. But what had begun as a characteristically bold plot of Shadowheart’s had changed, in time, to become Nocturne's, all thanks to the endless well of petty venom that was the Mother Superior. The Mother Superior had always held a sharp vendetta against Shadowheart, constantly wiping all memory and personality out of her at the slightest infraction. Nocturne had never understood what Shadowheart had done to deserve such a harsh treatment, or what she herself had done to avoid becoming collateral damage despite being Shadowheart’s closest friend and confidant.
Dried foxglove petals (12 drahm), -52 gp & 4 sp. Foxglove seeds (100), -17 gp.
They’d even been lovers, once. Decades ago, now, when Nocturne had not yet known herself to be the woman she was now. Keeping it a secret had been difficult - even young adults trained as Sharrans were not exceedingly adept at concealing their nocturnal habits from would-be prying eyes. It’d ended somewhat coldly when Nocturne had realized what - or rather, who - she’d really wanted from the relationship, and shortly thereafter Shadowheart’s memories were erased for the first time, along with all trace of the person Nocturne used to be. Nocturne hadn’t bothered to remind her of the more intimate and emotional details of their past, once she’d been returned - needlessly inflicting pain like that hadn’t felt right then, and it still didn’t feel right for so long after that it had become a secret she simply lived with in solemn silence, alone.
Metal restraints, dimeterium (2 sets), -90 gp.
Nocturne shuts her ledger with a heavy thud, pocketing a small bag of coins that had been sitting on the desk before she stands and walks over to one of the many shelves of goods in her stockroom. This isn’t one of the more often-used shelves - no sacramental wines, no food, no insidious and undetectable poisons to be found here. She reaches into the shelf and lifts up a heavy wooden box filled with many more empty ledgers intended for her future use, setting it on the floor. She doesn’t open the box, instead reaching back towards the black bricks that form the edifice behind the shelf, fingers searching for a spot where the mortar is missing.
She finds it easily, fingers finding the familiar edges in the gloom behind the shelves and slipping in between to grip the loose brick’s gritty sides. It slides free of the wall with a soft scrape, little flecks of mortar sticking to her fingertips. Nocturne turns it over in her hands, dumping out the little wad of cloth that’s been stuffed inside the hollowed out interior before she sets the receptacle aside on the shelf and forgets about it for the time being. Carefully, she unfolds each strip of the rugged burlap in her hands, making sure the contents don’t suddenly fall out onto the floor. Tucked away inside is an old key fashioned from wrought iron, looped into a simple chain made of tiny silver loops. She slips the chain around her neck, tucking the key down her shirt until it nestles itself between her breasts, cold against her skin.
She folds the small sheet of burlap back into a neat square and pushes it up inside the hollow brick again, returning the hidden compartment to its home in the wall. She could probably risk leaving it out - it’s not like anyone bothered to come by the stockroom this late at night, anyway, but she couldn’t get careless. Order and self discipline kept her safe. Luck, if such a thing existed, had a tendency to act in ways that were not to her favor.
Nocturne hefts the box back in place and then picks up a ladder from where it leans against the back wall, out of the way. This is the riskiest moment of the whole process; the moment where if someone were to walk in, she’d have a lot of difficulty explaining what on earth she was doing. She’d taken great pains to make sure this little hidey-hole remained a safe, secluded refuge away from prying eyes over the years. Without it, she’d have nothing left. She makes sure the wood of the latter is well free of the floor, unable to let loose even the soft scrape of wood being dragged over polished stone.
She’d thought, for the longest time, that all of her feelings for Shadowheart were a figment of her past self. A ghost trying to haunt her that was better consigned to Lady Shar’s eternal darkness, forgotten. She’d convinced herself of it for years and years - until now. Now, as she climbs the ladder up to the very top shelf and slips behind some boxes that conceal a crumbled section of wall, all she can think about is how fervently she wants nothing in the world more than to make sure Shadowheart still lives. Still laughs, still jokes, still drinks too much, still sneers recited teachings of Shar when she’s trying to drown out her conscience.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The air in the cave is fresher, if damp. Water falls from the stalactite and lands in the stagnant pool below, small reflections of starlight filtering in reflecting off the mirrored surface. It never amounts to much, barely more than a fetid puddle a few inches deep, but it is all the water Nocturne needs. This was a stupid ritual to keep up at this point; an obsession she irrationally clung to. She knew it even as she gathered a small volume of the water trickling down from the rocky ceiling. There was no real reason to keep bringing this water across the old cave hideout to the orchids that bloomed in the dim on the far wall, not anymore. She did it anyway, because stopping meant accepting a truth she couldn’t bear.
The mission had failed. That had been Mother Superior’s official conclusion, one she’d seemed almost happy to make just a tenday after Shadowheart and the rest of her team became overdue to return from their excursion to steal from a githyanki creche. Nocturne had not been told where this creche was, only that the infiltration team was to be equipped with enough supplies for a month long journey. She’d supplied them with enough to last a month and a half, just in case. She’d had to go hungry, skipping meals several times to hide the impact this had had on the cloister’s foodstocks - but she would gladly bear some gnawing pain in her stomach for a few weeks to know her best and maybe only real friend was well fed on the road.
Carefully, Nocturne dribbles some of the water out of the old and chipped ceramic cup she keeps up here for gardening with onto the dry soil around deep violet orchids - Shadowheart’s favorites. She’d tended to this space, with Shadowheart’s help, for years before Shadowheart had departed on her mission. She had kept this ritual, alone, for the three weeks Shadowheart was supposed to be gone, and now it had been another four weeks since she was supposed to be returned.
She sets the cup down on a patch of moss, then scoots over a few feet and picks up the edge of a small circular rug, fraying at the edges from age. The few wooden planks embedded in the dirt underneath come free with ease, little bits of dirt collecting under her fingernails as she puts them aside in a small, neat stack. The planks had protected a lockbox only a little longer than a foot, which she takes out and moves to set on the other half of the undisturbed carpet. The starlight streaming in makes this section almost imperceptibly brighter than the rest of the room, just enough that the key lets off a glimmer as Nocturne retrieves it from hiding under her clothes.
Nocturne looks at the key held between her fingers, stopping for just a single moment to breathe. She can’t give up. Not until she knows for sure. She pushes the silvered key into the small chest’s lock, turning the tumblers until it unlocks with a gentle click. The insides are sparser than they’ve ever been in years - where once the wooden box had held a small fortune, now only a few scant piles of silver and gold hid in the corners of the box along with her secret ledger. She counts out the stolen money from the pouch she brought with her, making sure every last coin is accounted for before making her records.
14 Eleint: +12 gp, 23 sp, 124 cp.
It was a rather large deposit to make all at once. She’d had to significantly increase the percentage she was falsely charging to the cloister’s coffers in order to stem the bleeding, and even then, pushing things as far as she could, she couldn’t keep up with her expenditures. She’d started tapping into the escape funds the fifth day Shadowheart had been overdue. It’d not been much, just a few extra coppers slipped into the thirsty palms of the Flaming Fists she knew had other debts to pay in exchange for any word of a raven-haired half-elf with a long braid passing through the outer reaches of the Gate.
Zhentarim caravan: -30 gp, information on Risen Road travelers for past month.
Nocturne was intimately familiar with the who, what and where of the Sharran information networks. If stealth was a Sharran’s armor, information and leverage were her sword and shield - and the Cloister’s eyes and ears were extremely sharp. The problem was not finding out who to pay or how much to pay them; she knew who these people were from her own logs detailing their many bribes and occasional expenses. The problem was that Nocturne herself rarely, if ever, stepped foot outside the Cloister’s walls. Thieved jewelry, weapons, and art came in, someone would sell them to some underworld fence, and a sack of heavy coins would be dropped on the quartermaster’s desk to be recorded in Nocturne’s ledger.
Faithless: -10 gp, ‘donation’ for information from group of pilgrims from Amn.
She was getting better at so-called field work, even if it had nothing to do with the more officially sanctioned activities of the Cloister. Lying convincingly was still a struggle, but for those who didn’t know her - and nobody knew her - it was good enough. A bigger problem was that she was trying to find one woman, and was searching damn near all of western Faerûn to do it. One woman who was important to nobody but her.
Flaming Fist: -2 gp, expansion of ongoing expenses, see entry 16 Eleasis.
Most of the eyes and ears of the Lady of Loss didn’t even ask why they were being paid more. They simply took the coin and did as they were told, giving Nocturne whatever information she paid for. So far, she was fairly sure that she had avoided having any proper Sharrans detect her activities, and she while it had occurred to her to invoke the Mother Superior’s name to get them to obey, such an action would rapidly find its way back to the ears of a mouth that had not spoken such an order at all. She may be bold enough to steal from the woman, but lying about her desires was a step too far she was not desperate enough to take.
Total costs for week: -42 gp. Remaining Balance: 74 gp, 28 sp, 52 cp.
A noise ripples up from the adjacent room; the door to the storeroom opening. Nocturne freezes.
“Nocturne?” a woman’s voice calls timidly. “Are you in here?”
Nocturne relaxes, but only slightly. It’s Bluenail, searching for her for some reason. The dwarven woman is clearly not cut out for Lady Shar’s service, and not one who is going to be able to weather the storm long enough to find some way out beyond the way that everyone leaves the Lady of Loss. She could simply wait, she figures - Bluenail isn’t exactly the sharpest blade in Shar’s armory, anyway. Quietly, silent as the grave, Nocturne folds her small leatherbound ledger shut, its secrets once more concealed. She sets it back in its box and shuts the lid, locking it again with a deft motion before sliding the key back down her shirt, safely out of view. Even if it’s just Bluenail, she cannot afford to be caught up here, and she’s already loitered too long by wasting time tending to the flowers.
“Where in the hells is that woman?” she hears Bluenail mutter, a tone of distress in the dwarf’s voice. Nocturne hears loud footsteps fade into the distance, then a light creak as the purposely ungreased doorhinge whines in protest. She’s safe again, for now.
She slips the wooden box back down into the hole in the dirt, the coins inside sliding and clinking against each other as the box tilts before leveling out on the ground. The wooden slats go back in place shortly thereafter, followed quickly by the dirty carpet edge before Nocturne stands up, glancing around to make sure she hasn’t forgotten anything; hasn’t left anything amiss. She could swear the flowers seemed a deeper, more vibrant shade of purple already thanks to the water, even though she knew botany didn’t work like that, and certainly not for orchids. Shadowheart’s laugh at her own bad joke about the flowers’ poisonous nature echoes in her mind as she goes back through the crumbling wall, returning to the confines of the cloister.
She’ll hear that laugh again, she resolves as she descends the ladder. Even if it costs her every thing she has.