The Shorn Vale: Prologue

The forest breathes.

The forest breathes, my friend. But lo! I speak not of the fauna and other denizens that dwell within its groves or writhe below its roots. Nor do I utter of the restless trees, nor the mosses that flourish nor the creepers that clamber upon the damp earth, in recesses ever shielded from the sun’s penetrating gaze.

No, I avail none of these. For within this darkness lurks a deeper dark, one borne of shadows cast long ago, when the land was an untamed youth. A darkness wherein is stirred what ought be left to lie. And, in answer, it awakens to a new dawn, and scores upon scores of fresh souls to consume.

The forest breathes.

—“The Forest Breathes”
Old Keht Parables
Unattributed
CY -?

* * *

First breath of spring, 1163
The Wraithfens

The solitary white raven perched atop the dilapidated tower, alabaster feathers glistening in the light of the waxing moon. From this vantage point, it could see all: rolling, forlorn hills covered in copses of barren, twisting trees that reached up to embrace the cloudless sky as hundreds of its brothers and sisters flew hither, bespeckling the dark of night.

A great battle was once fought here during an age long past, and when it ended the white ravens descended to feast upon the dead, their crimson-stained plumage taking on a horrific likeness to the bodies they pillaged. Though savage winds and rain had long since cleansed the grounds of blood and bone, ruined limestone walls yet bore the memory of those who had fallen.

As ravens littered the tower, a preternatural aura fractured the chill air, drawing them rapt. A foreboding presence stirred amid the grove, one not known to the world for generations of pale-winged scavengers. The unfettered night crooned to its awakening.

There would be no feasting on rotting flesh, this eve.

* * *

Many miles removed, in the village of Wren’s Hollow, the soothsayer looked down from the belfry, touching a weathered hand to a tangle of gray beard, ignoring the chittering of rats in the rafters above. Much like the crows that haunted the bell tower during the day, the disciple of fates found utility in being able to survey the village from up high. He shivered and drew in his cloak as a cold breeze carried in from the west.

Nearby, plumes billowed from the chimneys of the village’s lone inn whilst the groaning of wagon wheels resounded over the din of its taproom. The wagon itself, pulled by two Kilvaran horses and decorated in the blue and white heraldic pennants of the Blue Banner Trading Company, was encrusted with hardened mud from its travails, the posts framing its bed adorned with disembodied toes and claws, driven into the wood with iron spikes. When finally it wretched to a halt, an armed contingent gathered round, warily eyeing its freight.

Chained to the wagon’s frame were a dozen emaciated men draped in matted hides: indentures from a scattering of hamlets set low in a distant valley to the south, forged eons ago by great seas of moving ice. From under the earth, salt deposits buried in ancient seabeds were excavated through perilous catacombs as valuable trade fodder across the vale.

Their labored, uneven breaths rasped from faces marred with dark stains, the result of incisions cut deep under the skin and cauterized with fire, a process known locally as “bloodmarking.” Likely these men had completed their indentures or grown too sickly to be of use. Dregs scraped away to clean the basin and be made someone else’s problem.

Rid them north to procreate broken sons, thus the never-ending cycle endures. Deliver me of the old gods, once more.

The militia would see that none were let inside. Had the field marshal been present, the slavers would have been routed from the village with quarrels sprouting from their backsides. But, as it was, the wagon would be sheltered out of the way and find passage into the surrounding hills before the first light of dawn—for a few errant coins or spare ingot of iron. Either way, at least the rabble would be gone.

Following a brief exchange with the driver, the wheels bleated again to life and the wagon continued rolling past. The shrill cry of a white raven echoed in the night as it landed on the tavern’s steep-pitched roof.

The soothsayer drew in his cloak more tightly, made a warding gesture across his body, and looked on.

* * *

Amid the prisoners aboard the wagon, one passenger was hidden. Of barely twenty winters, her bone-white flesh peeled beneath tattered clothes. Once-gray eyes were flooded, stained red with blood.

As the guards drew near, no one saw the subtle movements of the salt witch’s hands, nor heard the quiet droning of her incantation as she called upon primordial spirits that lingered in the darkness around them. All around them, unseen...

The Hunted

The Beastlord stalked amid the ocean of departed souls, seeking his prize. Wading in the tide of spiritual essence, unfathomably powerful claws sifted through that which once was, and that which had yet to be. 

Malar found his quarry, feebly bound to the former champion of Mystra, the tethers loosening, dissipating to nothingness.

As if they’d never been.

The Black-Blooded One bore down upon his subject, the Beastlord’s closeness demanding fealty, submission, acquiescence.

What it found was… betrayal.

“The Hunter becomes the Hunted,” a guttural call resonated behind him. The Beastlord turned to face his adversary, his near-equal in stature and power, whose primal utterance crescendoed to a godly roar.

Malar was not amused.

“A priest, abandoned his god at the hour of death—”

Nobanion’s voice was calm, baiting. The Beastlord spat.

“I know well what he would become!”

“A soul that serves no master,” Nobanion continued. “The most wasteful of wastes, what before us you have sown.”

Malar snarled, bearing enormous fangs that glistened with the lifeblood of a thousand worlds, poisoned by the Beastlord’s unyielding malice over a thousand eons. Sentience swirled around them, goading a battle fought thousands of times before, and yet to be waged as many times and more again.

“Claim the soul, then, Firemane.”

All awaited Nobanion’s reply.

“It is claimed.”

The Ascent

The handholds were slick, wet with moss and algae. It took several attempts to find his grip, then he managed to hoist himself upward, muscular arms and legs unburdened by the heavy pack he was used to carrying. Though his eyes had adjusted to the near-pitch blackness, the rock wall demanded naught but his sense of touch to aid his climb.

His senses left him entirely, ere he became innately aware of a wolf. Circling. Then another. Another. Silent paws padding across that which was neither earth nor air. Eyes of bright yellow fading to deep crimson.

Seven.

Zeb came to, one-third of the way up the steep ascent, feeling weightless. Hands and feet continued to move without instruction, fingers clutching the rocks like claws.

Seven wolves in all, circling him in the darkness. But they were not alone. Bipedal figures stalked their footfalls, hooded and robed in shadow. Each brandished the hilt of a rusted knife, the blades outstretched and closing in on their quarry. A wraith to every wolf...

Seven.

Zeb lulled as he found himself closer to the top of the cliff. The air was thick, stagnant, penetrating his eyes, nose, and throat. Somehow, his limbs continued to climb. He closed his eyes.

The wraiths overtook the wolves in perfect synchronicity. Seven pairs of forms each melded into one, black dissipating into blackness. They were gone and, for a moment, Zeb’s mind was empty. Then, from oblivion emerged a lithe figure with raven hair, adorned with fetishes of feather and bone. She drew forward, her image mirrored on either side. Three women, matching stride for stride, pervading the very depths of Zeb’s soul. Behold. Your destiny dawns.

Three.

Zeb awoke, climbing with all his might, feeling again his wet hands and boots as they overcame the impossible, jagged ledge. He crested the top, bringing himself to stand before the trio of keravela witches that he knew haunted his every movement.

And saw nothing.

The Silver Prayer

The wahn lowered her head and bowed, the dregs of her cloak seeping into pools of filth-ridden water run off from the lone dirt road through the village of Pelanor. The man standing before her, sinewy and tall, with copper locks graying from the toil of almost fifty winters, brushed his rough hand past the hilt of the broadsword dangling at his hip to retrieve a threadbare pouch fastened around his waist. From it he produced a tarnished silver coin, its edges corroded and uneven.

He placed it in the woman’s open palm, the long strands of her dark, unkempt hair swaying in the subtle wind that breathed through the village like a hymn. She closed a fist of yellowed fingernails around the offering.

“A prayer for my son, departed into the forest, four days past,” the man uttered lowly, so that no one else around them could hear.

The wahn withdrew a small knife and raised the sleeve from the hand that held the coin, revealing a forearm raw with fresh scabbing and undercoated with old, deep scars. She slowly drew the blade across flesh, whispering words in a language he could not understand while blood trickled down to mix with the stagnant puddles where she stood.

“Llathlu blesses your son’s return,” she replied in a soft voice. “The Pale Hand guides him safely to the forest camp, so long as he remains in the Divine’s true path.”

“Thank ye, maiden,” he answered quietly, taking a step backward, his gaze drawn to the cowled woman’s rose-colored lips as she began to raise her eyes.

He turned and made quickly for the street, ere she pocketed the coin as crimson wept into the folds of her robe.

The Darkness Borne: Prologue

Born to winter’s clutches on a mountain in Icewind Dale,

Raised by wolves of the Beastlord in the vestiges of spring,

Perished on a hillside in the death throes of summer,

And on the first night of winter, reborn.

—Black-Blooded Fables

* * *

The Year of the Scowling Duchess (774 DR)

The High Forest

The raven-haired woman walked lithely amid the ruins, her dusk cloak flowing in ashen waves behind her supple form. Fetishes of feather, gutstring, and bone adorned her body, a chill wind severing the air through which she trod.

She had walked here before, lifetimes ago, had seen a city erected on this site and, years later, reduced to the wreckage that now remained. She had watched its founders traverse the Black Glade, had spoken with he who wrought the city’s ultimate destruction. Even now, as trespassers lurked across these wicked grounds, his essence loomed: unseen, undetected, unknown.

Not unlike her own.

Keravela was the name by which she was recognized, though the true origin of her people transcended continents, worlds, even time itself. Before her eyes would close for the final time, she would bear witness to hundreds of thousands more sunsets across countless planes of existence, to her mere doorways unveiled at the will of the gods.

Scant few could fathom the magnitude of her bloodline. Defier of ages. Defier of death.

That the men and women who traipsed hither and about thought this place a suitable refuge from the forest was a great irony indeed, she mused, watching the unassuming mortals with an idle curiosity. How frivolous it must feel to labor through their menial tasks and dealings, oblivious to the fell shadows that, even now, had begun to eclipse their diverging paths.

For calls to the darkness rarely remained unheeded.

* * *

The Year of the Groaning Cart (1267 DR)

Xantharl’s Keep

The boy rose to his feet, blood from his opened wrist streaming down his crossguard. The injury was superficial, would heal. He snapped back at his attacker, tasting a salty mix of sweat and grime. The ringing of steel echoed across the grounds as blades danced and clashed.

The sparring went on for quarter of a bell, until finally the two combatants lowered their arms, exhausted. A lone man stood in audience, hitherto silent, but watching, ever watching. He nodded his approval, gaze fixed on the dusty-haired boy whose sword hand still bled freely.

“A valiant effort, one to make your father proud. Your fathers, both,” he amended, regarding the second. “Go and clean yourselves, lest your mothers worry overmuch.”

The pair collected their halters and waterskins and tarried off. “Well fought, brother. Ye almost bested me,” said the bloodied boy, markedly. His smoke-gray eyes narrowed. “Almost.”

* * *

The Year of the Blade (1275 DR)

Delimbiyr Vale

Only by understanding the past can we hope to endure the future.

The words, scrawled on a weathered sheet of parchment stowed away somewhere in his pack, resounded in Phelan’s mind as he surveyed the roadside battleground.

A caravan had been set upon here, less than a fortnight past. More than a score men, women, and children, rich and poor, master and servant alike, had been ravaged and slain. Remnants of blood-stained clothing, pikes, and arrow shafts yet littered the site, the victims’ bodies having already been claimed, if not by passersby, then scavengers.

Phelan had studied the history of this land, knew well the cycles by which the road through Delimbiyr Vale, near the outskirts of the High Forest, grew more treacherous as denizens of the Greypeak Mountains pushed their way through the woodlands from the east, much like the waxing of the moon itself.

Some years hence, the evil tide would abate once more, but not without the help of those fearless, or foolish enough to counter its advance. And, this time, Phelan and his new companions would find themselves among the worthy or misguided, as they made their way over the southern foothills to the forest camp known as Aryen’s Hope.

As the reddened sun began to set over the trail to his back, he felt a subtle twinge of pain from a scar above his wrist.

Epilogue

The procession through Fireshear’s north gate was silent, unchecked by guards.

Bonie walked with a heavy limp, for two days having refused Vicus’ offer of letting the supply cart relieve her burden. Her right leg had been shorn open from hip to knee after slipping on a foothold making the climb down into the chasm after Zeb, Audric, and Nerrick failed to return. Near the bottom, with a flickering torch in hand, she discovered all that she needed to see.

Her memories of the hours since were tattered, strands of a broken web. Lying sleepless in blood-soaked bandages; the proffering of a bone fetish from a slender hand; high winds and a flash snowstorm battering weary travelers on their descent along a mountain trail.

The remaining party numbered seven: Bonie, Lom, Arcon and Raganok Tunterhorn, and engineers Vicus, Tirynia, and Smedlock, along with their mule and cart. Selben had slipped away into the forest a few miles outside the city. Vonn Wintershade had gone missing shortly thereafter.

Lom imparted that he would seek Revenant, bearing the news of their return. The Tunterhorns saw Bonie safely to Moonmaiden, then took their leave in search of Captain Azurris. Alone, Bonie trudged into the party’s quarter. The beds were unmade, untouched since the morning of the group’s departure for the mine. She collapsed upon the plank floor, clutching a trembling palm over her abdomen.

* * *

In the Captain’s Quarter aboard Moonmaiden, Shantor Ilfaen regarded Dame Azurris with a dour expression. “With Audric and Zeb gone, how fares your planning?”

The captain eyed the walls of the chamber with suspicion, as if scouring them for invisible, unwanted ears. “They were paramount to the endeavor. Honorable, staunch allies, greatly skilled in magic. Qualities not easily found... nor replaced.”

“And of the girl? She’s not eaten in days. Will you speak to her?”

“Aye. Though to what end, I know not. If our intended journey was foolhardy before, it’s naught but a death wish now. Still, I see in her... my daughter.”

The captain lowered his gaze, raised a closed fist to his lips and kissed an iron ring adorning its smallest finger. “Angeline.”

“I take my leave of you, Captain,” said the lieutenant, turning for the door.

“We must set sail,” Azurris answered. “No matter the circumstances.”

* * *

Lom watched from the bow of the merchant ship Vainweather as Moonmaiden’s newly-repaired third mast disappeared over the horizon, still docked in Fireshear’s harbor. If all went according to plan, Captain Azurris would see the vessel launched within a fortnight, embarking on an ambitious journey from which he and his stalwart crew would be unlikely to ever return.

By that time, Lom and Bonie will have safely put into port in Neverwinter, ahead of the winter snows.

The woman at his side was frail, docile, and barely spoke. Gaunt from malnourishment, Lom couldn’t bear to see her left to her own devices, nor could he abandon her in Fireshear whilst signing himself onto a reckless voyage across the Trackless Sea. Azurris had been disappointed, but understood: the collective loss borne by the party cut deep, would change all their lives forever. The captain knew well the shackles of grief.

Bonie lurched forward suddenly, stumbling to the bow’s rail and spewing bile over its edge. Lom reached out and collected her supple body. Shaking, her eyes fluttered, then closed. She crumpled into his arms, unconscious.

* * *

The deadfall around them instilled a preternatural sense of calm as they made their march over frozen earth, along the lightly-beaten trail that forked to the northeast near the site that would come to be known as Minstrel’s Glade. Bonie stepped lithely despite the extra weight she now carried, which had required her to relinquish her trademark dark leathers for a loose-fitting kirtle and woolen traveling cloak. Lom traipsed steadily several paces ahead, the ranger forging their path over familiar ground. Whilst the pair had conversed little in the aftermath of their departure from Fireshear, an unspoken bond had brooded between them, at least insofar as their present course was concerned.

The year had come to a close quickly; Bonie could recall few details of the months past, and fewer still that she cared to recount. The summer voyage christened Mirabar Run seemed an old relic of a forgotten life, and in many ways, it was. She dwelt not upon such things, however, for doing so ushered forth a torment too harrowing to be permitted to draw breath.

As they crested a final hillock, a crenellated tower came into view, and beyond it, a river. Along its banks was pitched a scattering of tents and cottages amid life-giving bonfires and a retinue of would-be villagers. A single word burgeoned its way to the forefront of the woman’s thoughts.

Home.

* * *

1256 DR (The Year of the Dusty Throne)

The cold night festered, and Bonie once again found sleep elusive. She emerged from the tent shared with Odesia and Young Laerch, taking special care not to disturb the latter, and made her way across the grounds, wrapping herself in thick furs. Atop a small ridge stood her quarry: a shrine constructed from worked stone and branches, bearing intricate carvings, symbols of beast, magic, and claw. The site had been well-tended in the party’s absence, and better still since her return. Bonie looked upon its etchings and adornments with a piercing stare.

“How could you!” she screamed, sweeping a booted foot in a high arc and pummeling the sacred structure, scattering its plumage on the snow-covered ground. Losing her balance, she landed firmly on her back, eliciting a deep groan. “How could you leave me, Zeb?” she sobbed, warm tears streaming in rivulets down her frosted cheeks as pain from the fall coursed through her body. 

“How could you leave us?” she uttered, her voice barely a whisper, to the dead of night surrounding her. “I never had a chance to tell you.”

Darkness claimed her.

* * *

(Year unknown)

The vision of the woman lying prone and anguished next to the broken shrine of Mystra and Malar awakened him, awakened them both.

Bonie’s final words echoed in Zeb’s mind.

Audric was the first to stir, the crushing pain and sense of weightlessness dissipating as he rose. Wherever he stood was pitch black, though he could feel wet stone beneath his boots and detected the nearby presence of his companion. The horrific encounter with the undead creatures returned to his consciousness, but he noted that, despite feeling utterly disoriented, he bore no wounds. Strangely, he yawned, as if having just woken from a long sleep.

Zeb staggered to his knees, and the pair searched their collective belongings for a torch, finding that those they still possessed were too wet to carry a spark. Instinctively, Zeb entered a trance-like state for several minutes, and when he came to he conjured a magical orb of light, just above their heads.

They stood, alone, in the cave below the chasm. The putrid smell of rot and death was absent, as were any signs of Nerrick, or anyone else. Their weapons and armor were intact, though Audric’s splint mail was weighted down with algae-ridden water.

They regarded each other quizzically, trying to make sense of it all.

They discerned no answers.

Tooth and Fang

Exul’tul.

...

Exul’tul.

I know not that name.

But you do.

...

Wolfslayer.

Zeb’s eyes fluttered open, his nostrils flaring, hackles raised. Smoke from the party’s campfire billowed around him, yet he found himself alone.

Nearly.

Malar has betrayed you, and you him. The Beastlord with his actions, you with idle thoughts. Notions of... abandonment. Would you deny this?

Zeb looked around, trying to gain his bearings. An encroaching haze shrouded a vague presence. Distant, yet closer than arm’s reach. An omniscient force of overwhelming and unfathomable power. It uttered its will into Zeb’s being, an echoing cacophony through his bones, neither mortal man nor mortal woman, silent yet deafening.

Who are you?

Heed my call where the land is unspoiled, untarnished, untethered. Amalgamate my followers where the rivers weep the lifeblood of the unchained. You are bound by no god to follow a path that ill-befits your station.

Who are you?

A challenger to Malar’s throne.

Zeb awoke in a cold sweat, the frigid night air cut by the taunting, flickering flames. Bonie slept soundly beside him, her supple form caressing his body for warmth. Instinctively, Zeb reached out to Malar, seeking a conversation with his deity.

Before the Beastlord would answer, sleep took him.

Summons

On a cloud-covered gray morn amid the death throes of summer, a chill, light rain falls upon Fireshear's harbor, and a messenger arrives bearing a letter, wax-sealed with an insignia of crossed axes. The post is handed directly to First Lieutenant Shantor Ilfaen, who in turn delivers it to Audric and Zeb.

Most Valorous Archguard of Mirabar's Ship, Moonmaiden,

Your presence is requested forthwith at The Gallows, a Resting House. Whalebone Street, East Quarter. Come with haste.

—R

By Candlelight

Chains rattled beyond the threshold as the gate to the hold was raised. The dwarf stepped forward, the meandering gray hairs in his otherwise umber beard reflecting dim torchlight as he trudged along, flanked by two men armed with blades.

A guard met the trio at the entryway and grunted, tilting his head to indicate the direction to follow. They sauntered down a narrow hall, its centuries-old stonework glistening with dampness from the moist air.

“Your escort is to remain here,” the guard said, and the dwarf looked back, nodding to each of his companions in turn before crossing into the drier, arched chamber beyond. An iron-reinforced oak door closed slowly behind him, eliciting a wheeze as a final breath of air escaped the room, which was illuminated by a grandiose, flickering chandelier, a hundred candles glowing from dozens of brass arms.

Three figures waited around an ornate cedar table. Tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of conquest in weavings crimson, blue and gold. His hosts, a dwarf, a woman, and a man, regarded the newcomer with interest, dressed in fineries layered atop merchant garb. The woman beckoned him to sit.

“Welcome... Revenant,” the man started, caressing his elongated, stubbled chin, “Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does the tale of your journey through the ruins of Illusk!" the dwarf host barked, his beard both thicker and grayer than that of their guest. “Your Mirabarran conglomerate must surely be pleased."

“And now,” the woman said, “you seek a new venture, in our city, on behalf of your own. Do I understand correctly?”

“Aye,” the dwarf across the table from her replied gruffly. “A venture for mutual benefit, I’d wager. The taprooms of Fireshear abound with tellings of recent peril within its mines...”

“Confirmed,” the man stated. “A full chartered company lost. Nearly three score men and dwarves in all.”

“My sympathies,” Revenant offered.

“ ‘Tis the danger of the business, I'm afraid. Our miners, along with any surviving families, are paid well for the risks of their toil, whether natural or... less so.”

Revenant nodded. “I propose to sponsor the cleansing of Fireshear's catacombs to help ensure the lasting prosperity of your teams, that they may continue to harvest wealth for the region from the rich veins that run through yon hills.”

The woman rapped her fingernails against the cedar. Rings of precious metals and shimmering gemstones decorated her hands. “For a price, I do not doubt.”

Revenant smiled. “There’s always a price. Or in this case... a partnership.”

The elder dwarf grinned, showing an assortment of gold and silver teeth. Revenant spared him a wink. “Indeed, what manner of threat assailed the fallen? Fell humanoids? Collapsed tunnels?”

The man eyed him grimly. “Neither...”

* * *

The rumors spread like wildfire through Fireshear’s streets and residences. In recent weeks, the frost giant known as Glaumarr had wrought doom upon no fewer than a half-dozen groups of caravaners traveling to and from Hundelstone. Previously, the menace had been driven south from Icewind Dale by a band of adventurers, which had subsequently gone missing.

Hundelstone, a passthrough town populated mainly by stout and small folk who lived in dwellings built into rock and below ground, was in dire need of resources to combat the growing threat. Merchant caravans departing Fireshear were paying high coin for capable guardship to Icewind Dale.

With winter ever looming in the Frozenfar, taking full advantage of the remainder of the trade season was paramount.

* * *

Dame Azurris thought of his perished daughter and took a deep pull of brandy. As the warmth flowed through him, he noticed a sliver of moonlight casting a pale glow upon the floorboards lining the farthest wall.

The door to the captain’s chamber was ajar. The woman who stepped lithely from the shadows trusted him not to call out, setting down on the table before her a jeweled dagger that could just as easily have pierced his throat.

Unflinching, he locked eyes with her, willing her to speak.

“Forgive my intrusion, Captain,” she offered, untying a braid of auburn hair and letting it fall about her leather-clad shoulders. “I seek passage south to Neverwinter, before the seas freeze over, and not aboard any merchant-owned vessel.”

Azurris studied her, trying to guess at her ancestry. Waterdhavian? “Moonmaiden will not voyage again before winter, I regret to inform,” he replied in earnest. “Care for a drink?”

“You could sail if your repairs were expedited, I don't doubt,” she mused, biting her lip. “What could I do?”

“Convince every carpenter and shipbuilder in Fireshear of the urgency of your departure. Whatever your means...” How many veils of ruse adorn this succubus? Can't tell if she means to kill me, seduce me, or take me for everything I'm worth. Possibly all three.

“I'd see this ship ready for journey before the first frost,” she replied. “Prepare to set your course, Captain.”

Azurris averted his eyes to the brandy jug still in his hand, smirking at the absurdity of this encounter.

When he looked back up again, she was gone.

Trail's End

Bellok watched from a slumped position, three steps up the stairwell of Fort Nechar's west tower, as the ogre raised its spiked club overhead and swatted Dabria to the stone floor in a spattering of entrails. The mercenary could barely lift his head, and noticed for the first time since being revived by the priestess that his left leg was completely numb. Pain coursed through the rest of his body, his armor and underclothes soaked in blood, though the worst of his injuries had been mended by the will of Kelemvor enough to stem the flow.

Moments earlier, Dabria had been dragging him up the spiral staircase when the second of his men fell to a pair of ogres at its foot, leaving Sinjun surrounded and already severely wounded. The creatures had come forth from the wilderness, over the keep's south wall, encircling the courtyard as Sinjun's party loosed arrow and blade, making a bold stand while filing themselves into the inner stronghold.

It almost worked. After all were inside, the ogres breached the door, pushing their way through to the degree that the entryway would allow and wading through bowfire from Bellok, Faolan, and Sinjun whilst Bellok's men assailed the creatures still outside from atop the towers. A grim melee ensued within, ere Bellok's mind was swallowed in darkness.

He came to to the ringing of steel against stone as Dabria attempted to hoist his armored body up the stairs. He watched as Sinjun felled an ogre, cleaving its torso nearly in twain before suffering a gruesome strike from its ally, causing Dabria to leap forth, swinging her mace like a woman possessed.

The second ogre went down at the hands of Kelemvor's servant, but two others battled Faolan for control of the east tower. Bellok's remaining men descended to his aid but were quickly dispatched by the ogres' mighty bludgeons. Sinjun charged forward and, in a haze, Bellok saw Faolan's body crushed into the wall. Suddenly, Dabria had joined Sinjin. Two ogres became one. Sinjun fell, and Dabria screamed. The last remaining ogre raised its club...

Bellok rallied his strength and willed himself up another step, then another, as he heard the ogre below feasting on flesh. He reached the top of the staircase, finding himself mere feet from the upper chamber's window overlooking the courtyard. More ogres patrolled outside. Even if his body was in any condition to attempt to climb out and down the keep's outer wall, he would be spotted, killed, and eaten. Escape was futile.

He collapsed into a seated position on the floor, his armor skidding against the wall as adrenaline gave way to resignation. He'd never have chosen to be last to die.

Bellok silently wondered if the ogres would sniff him out. Perhaps they would consume their fill of his allies and take their leave of the place. With a little luck, Bellok could wait things out and recover enough to chance a venture back to Hundelstone, or Fireshear. Fireshear...

As if in answer to his unspoken question, Bellok heard the guttural snarls of a large creature forcing its way up the undersized stairwell. The stench of blood mixed with rotten flesh preceded a fog of moist breath that warmed the chill night air.

He eyed the window, thinking to rise and jump out, but the ogre was already upon him. 

* * *

Zeb awoke to the jostling of the party's quarters aboard Moonmaiden, as unseen ocean waves caromed against the ship's hull. Bellok's dying perspective was burned into his consciousness and he felt a deep, intimate connection to his god, tasting the iron tang of blood in his mouth.

Malar was pleased.

Selben: A Clean Slate

While Zeb spends his time arguing with Bonie, making up with Bonie, arguing with Audric, or plotting with Zargon and Audric on how to gain entry into Mirabar despite Rale Cotchen's ban, Selben spends his days in isolation, deep in study.

Now that interest in the river keep has dulled, he appropriates the musty cellar of the keep as a makeshift study, scavenging bits of discarded wax from about Dagger's Deep and stuffing it into the recesses of various bits of bone he has collected.  His trophy is a bit of skull from the assault on Dagger's Deep--though unsure, he thinks it may have actually belonged to one of the masons who was working on the keep before he was slaughtered.  "It fits," he whispers to himself, smiling slightly.

Concluding his studies, Selben closes his tome of spells, into which he has been making nearly an entire page of neatly-organized notes, the recipe for a new enchantment.  He leaves his materials, however--the working men of Dagger's Deep have given Selben a wide berth, always feeling a little uncomfortable around the black-robed apprentice, and Selben has little fear that his study will be disturbed.

When he emerges, the sun has nearly set, and Selben looks towards the tents.  He smiles to himself as he sees Seirsha outside her tent, and as if having settled on some decision, walks that way with purpose.  She has avoided him, for the most part, since their encounter at the beach, but something about being around Seirsha makes his chest hurt in a good way.

Though he approaches with confidence, that confidence quickly fades as she turns to regard him and he sees her look around, as if making sure others are nearby, before smiling at Selben weakly.  He senses her discomfort, and he nearly turns around and runs away before she breaks the silence.  "Good evening Selben," she says.  "Can I help you with something?"  She cranes her neck as if trying to see beyond the hood of his robe to look upon the face that resides within.

Selben pushes a few rocks on the ground with his toe before responding.  "Yes," he says nervously, then pulls back his hood, realizing how weird it is to have it up during a conversation.  Selben looks a mess--his skin is pale from too much time spent in the cellar or underneath the heavy hood of his black robe.  His facial hair grows in thin and patchy, and looks as if it has not been groomed in several days.  His hair, likewise, is an unkempt mess, hanging unevenly to the base of his neck, with bits of bone braided into it as fetishes.

"I need," he begins before correcting, "I mean I want...can you make me look handsome?"  The question, blurted out, is an odd one, and despite many of the strange requests that may have been presented to Seirsha during the more questionable parts of her past, this one is entirely new.  There's a desperation in his voice, however, that catches her off guard.

What follows is a rapid and scattered explanation of Selben's request, an apology for being so awkward about it, and information about why the request is so important to him.  Seirsha listens on, compelled by the young man's vulnerability and honesty, and once finished, she gives Selben a warm smile, inviting him into her tent.

When he finally emerges, he has discarded the worn, heavy black robes.  She has untangled his hair, cut it neatly, and removed his ghastly adornments.  His face is clean-shaven, his nails trimmed--the finished result is almost unrecognizable.  Seirsha hands him his robe, tied into a bundle.  "Thank you, Seirsha," Selben says warmly.

"Any time," she teases, as Selben leaves her tent with a bounce in his step.

The Words That Bind Us

“You are never to set foot in the city of Mirabar again.”

The statement, spoken by Rale Cotchen but relayed secondhand since he was sprawled out and bleeding upon the ground during its utterance, assails Zeb's mind as Bonie re-dresses his wounds in the confines of their tent in Dagger's Deep.

An idle threat, surely, for all that the guard captain's doomspeak has ever mattered to Zeb and his allies. Yet the terseness in Bonie's hands as she cuts off a final wrap betrays his thoughts, ere she remarks, abruptly:

“I think we should return to the source of all this. Longsaddle. Those were your words. Do you remember? Do you still think that? Now that we're exiled from Mirabar and committed to sailing downriver through orc-infested lands to emerge, if we survive, in the open sea, and then winter over in the Frozenfar? I didn't dare speak my mind against ye when everyone else was decided, but history never told of any ‘Mirabar Run’ that I came to hear of in my life before... before all of this.”

Her gaze, colder than the most frigid winds of Icewind Dale, pierces Zeb to his core.

“I still seek answers,” she says determinedly. “But the longer we go on, I'm fearin' that the only thing you truly seek is death.”

With a huff, she rises and takes leave of the tent, not waiting for any reply. Outside, she makes her way to Audric, newly returned from the Mystran shrine erected at the edge of the encampment. “He'll be ready in a few hours, if ye care to heal him further. Though I'd not begrudge ye if ye didn't.”

The venom in her tone washes over the crusader as he feels its force, though he knows it not intended for him. Since their encounter with Rale Cotchen along the road and subsequent return, the woman has struggled to preserve her normal stoicism. In truth, between them all, interactions have mostly been brief, curt, and matter-of-fact, exchanging details pertinent to their situation but accompanied by few of their usual pleasantries.

Bonie then turns from Audric, heading purposefully in the direction of Seirsha and Edine, who busy themselves tending a pair of young goats whilst Zargon stands idly by, practicing his lute.

In her wake, the tension rests on the edge of a knife.

A History Lesson

Bonie sits perched atop a rocky knoll overlooking the whole of Dagger’s Deep. It is early morn, and the settlement is blanketed in a misty fog that portends rain. The thick air reminisces of the night the friends watched two forlorn travelers searching amid the darkness for something they would not find.

Or had they?

As if to underscore the likeness, the woman’s keen eyes are affixed to the very spot where Wyardt stood, grasping out and calling to her by name. The detail isn’t lost on Zeb as he approaches, though Bonie’s countenance speaks not of sadness nor longing, but of deep reflection and thought.

She doesn’t turn to regard him, but Zeb knows that her awareness is piqued. From Bonie, Zeb can conceal nothing, though to Zeb, the woman can seem impenetrable, as is the case at this moment, her hair tied dutifully back, wearing her customary dark leathers. Her deadly bow rests idly at her side.

“Did you know,” she begins, still without looking up, “that when West Tower was founded, goblin clans had to be purged from the surrounding hills by the Axe of Mirabar? The location was of strategic import to establishing a land route through the Khedrun Valley and accessing its villages. But the goblins that dwelt there were mighty in force: after a great battle was fought at the foot of Rolling Death Falls, a contingent of soldiers pursued the goblin chieftain for many miles upriver, all the way into the lower peaks of the Spine of the World.”

She runs a hand across her hair, above her left ear; Zeb watches with intent. “I know all this from Falinor Daggercross, for I was, after all, stationed in West Tower to observe his dealings, in secret, under the employ of the Abbé Lira. It feels a lifetime ago, so much that I only now have come to remember this recounting...

“When finally the Axe confronted the goblin chieftain and his remaining minions, a bloodbath raged o’er a mountain pass marked by a great boulder which bore twin sunken recesses, like the hollow eyes of an unworldly skull. Upon the chieftain’s slaying and the soldiers’ victory, the site was christened... Death’s Head Pass. That was forty years ago, more or less. Forty years ago, that is, from our time... sixty years from now.”

Finally, Bonie raises eyes to her counterpart, meeting his gaze. “The place has not yet been named, Zeb, though the name is scribed as clearly as the running waters of the River Mirar on the parchment we found sealed in an underground chamber, where it had lain dormant for years, if not decades. What does it mean?”

Zargon and Falaeira

Zargon was not feeling well, his mind engulfed in the fires of painful memories and confusion that is all too common amongst those of the bardic bent. As his friends prepared to leave for their return to the Undercity he let them know he would be staying back in his room at the inn to rest, feigning the beginnings of a mild illness. Once the others left Zargon laid down upon his bed. His weary, anxiety riddled mind could find no quarter in the confines of the room. He could feel the walls closing in on him. Heart racing, sweat coming down his forehead, Zargon felt he was finally going to snap. He had come close to this point after the keravela when he learned of Zeb and Audric’s time travel, but never before had he feared that he was losing his mental faculties as at that moment, trapped alone with his thoughts in a Mirabarran inn.

The bard knew he had to act quickly or he would perhaps permanently become mad. His heart was thumping fast. He got up and went for his bag to reach for an elixir that had been given to him by a drifter friend of his before his run in with the dwarves. The friend owed Zargon a favor and repaid it with a mysterious elixir meant to calm the nerves. The friend warned him however that while it would take him to a place of serenity, it could also have some “other” side effects. At this moment Zargon knew he would have to take the drink. He gulped down the ugly green brew and laid down his weary head in anticipation of desperately needed peace.

Zargon closed his eyes and began breathing deeply. After about ten minutes he noticed that his hands were no longer clenched and his teeth had loosened their grip upon one another. The sweating had stopped and he began to feel his faculties return to him. Whatever debt that his friend owed him was paid as far as Zargon was concerned, and aren’t friends just lovely? Every word out of the mouth of a beloved friend is like the reds and oranges and pinks that make up the kaleidoscope of colors in a glorious sunset. An embrace from a loved one can lift a man to another realm, far apart from the pain and suffering that sometimes finds us all. But is not pain one of the intrinsic beauties of this world? Would the sunshine be as brilliant without the juxtaposition of darkest night? As Zargon lay in his bed he could feel himself becoming one with everything. As a passing troubadour walked along the street outside Zargon was entranced by every elongated note of the man’s lute. Each note leading into the other in a symphony of love and harmony. He envisioned vibrant colors pulsing in rhythm to the beat of the music. After a few moments he opened his eyes and the colorful lights were there before him! He went to the window and his eyes met the glory of the clouds in all their splendor. My how his spirits had taken a turn in twenty minutes! He soon became tired and returned to the bed to rest.

Zargon opened his eyes after laying down and found himself in a small room in the part of Mirabar that is populated by gamblers, drifters, whores, con artists and bards. He looked over to his left and gazed at the sleeping Falaeira. Her peaceful slumber always set his heart on fire with the giddiness of love that he never wanted, or thought he did not want. The rambling man Zargon had spent his time traveling the country earning a good living and quite a name for himself, always able to find company from whatever woman he wanted in a pub without resorting to the paid variety. Like most bards he had no intentions of settling down or starting a family. Part of that was the difficulties in his poor Mirabarran upbringing, stealing bread as a child for a family torn asunder by the demons of the bottle ravaging his father, leaving his mother to raise the four of them alone. Zargon soon escaped into the delights of singing, dancing, gambling, and women to fill the void. In the twenty or so years since he began the life of a bard when he was fifteen he never found someone who lit him up the way Falaeira had over the course of this past year, and he knew that he was not going to be alone for much longer.

Upon her waking Falaeira turned to Zargon and let him know that she would be leaving town for a day or two to visit her sister in a small town to the south. Since Zargon would be doing an important show that weekend he would unfortunately not be able to make the trip with her. The well-off bard had no money saved, but his success in singing and storytelling meant he was never bereft of a good amount of gold. He gave her enough to cover the hiring of an escort to travel and embraced her as she left for the weekend. Every time she walked away from him for a day or more he could feel a thousand daggers cut into him, but when she returned he had a surprise: he would finally propose marriage to the gorgeous young seamstress. After dressing for the night’s performance he too left the small room where they lived and headed for the other side of Mirabar, where he would be performing and sleeping for the weekend.

After the long walk to the pub he was ready to have a few drinks and perform. Much to his shock though the pub was boarded up. How could this be? The bard became confused and angry, this two-night stay was going to make him quite a bit of coin and help him to cement his status as a rising voice in the Mirabarran bardic community. He walked about a block down the road and flagged down a member of the Axe of Mirabar. “Excuse me sir, but why is the famous Silver Serpent boarded up as if it were no more?” exclaimed the puzzled Zargon. “Well friend, when you try to cheat the city out of her due in taxes the city comes out with some wood and a whole lot of nails to teach you a lesson! Now be on your way, bard!” Zargon was infuriated. He decided to make the best of the evening and walk to his favorite local pub in the part of town where he and Falaeira lived and spend the night drinking and gambling. In two hours time it would be about 11, the perfect time to catch the best of the city.

As Zargon got closer to his favorite pub he decided to return to his room and put away his instrument and costume. No need to lug those around since he now had the weekend off. He walked up the steps and unlocked the door. What he saw as he entered nearly blinded him. An overwhelming sense of unbearable, surreal terror and sadness overcame him as he watched his beloved Falaeira in the act of love with another man! She was covered in sweat as the naked lovers were in the middle of their business. Falaeira turned to him and screamed “Zargon! What happened to your show?” The bard was silenced by his sadness, shock, and anger. The tall man who was standing naked behind her with his hand around her hips quickly interjected, “Quiet woman, finish the service for which you have been paid! And tell your costumed friend to leave because if he is still here after I spray in you he will breathe his last breath!” Zargon ran out the door in tears, unable to stand being there regardless of the angry interloper’s words of caution. Five minutes later the man walked past Zargon smiling. “Never shack up with a whore, boy. They will rob you and leave you for dead without warning.”

After the nameless man who destroyed the bard’s world was out of sight, the fallen angel Falaeira came outside for Zargon with a smile on her face. “Why the look of shock and dejection, Zargon. Did you actually think I was a seamstress?” The bard responded “I did Falaeira, and even if you were that kind before, why now when I have given you all the coin you could ever need, would you continue to live this life?” She responded, “I did not want to tell you as it was not of your concern, and I did not stop because I enjoy it for what it is. Until I actually find one I love, if I ever do, I will continue to enjoy all the pleasures of Mirabar.” With those words the bard felt the agony of a thousand heartaches. He had been used. As she gathered her things and left for the last time, the bard could feel his world ending, destroyed by the lies of the snake Falaeira and the nameless John.

Zargon quickly drank more than six or seven men’s share of booze and headed to the pub to gamble. He could not bear to stay in the room that still smelled of the harlot’s lovemaking and lies. He chanced upon a group of dwarves in the corner of the bar. The dreaded, hateful, avaricious little mutant men who won’t die. Zargon’s mind twisted by rage, unbearable sadness, and alcohol he was soon many gold coins down to the head dwarf. Sensing the bard was not in a good way, the dwarf made an offer to Zargon “Before you wind up in the mines, bard, perhaps we can make a deal. I see that beautiful gold and diamond ring you have been handling all night. Why not just give me that and we can call it a night?” Zargon’s eyes turned red with the fires of hell as he lunged at the dwarf. “You mutant little fuck! How dare you! That was for Falaeira. I’d rather spend a lifetime in the mines with your awful kind than see her ring in the gnarled, disgusting finger of what you call a “woman.” I wouldn’t seed one of your women even if she shaved her beard! The one on her face!” The dwarf smiled with delight, as a host of his companions grabbed the drunken, crying bard. “Then you shall spend a lifetime with us, boy. Your debt is enormous, many years worth of gold, and you have slapped away my kindness. I will take the ring for starters and you will come with us to the Undercity tomorrow.”

Zargon awoke in his bed drenched in sweat with tears running down his face. His body ached and the sheets were torn into pieces. He noticed blood coming from his chest where he had scratched at himself. His head throbbing, he walked to the window of the room above the Mirabarran pub and noticed the same lute player from before. He realized slowly that the hell that he just went through was but a vision of his past, a shockingly real, painfully vivid one. At this point he knew what he must do: he had to remain in Mirabar and earn coin to start repaying the devil’s debt, a debt that was only transferred never settled. He would tell the others of his full story, not in such vivid detail, and he would begin to take jobs to settle the score with his friends. He would also find Seirsha, because maybe a night with a woman would ease his troubled mind.

Interlude: Tent Talk

The sounds of labor awaken me early in the morning, of hammers pounding and saws tearing at timbers near the water wheel.  Ever since the snows first broke, the men and women of Dagger’s Deep have been busy at work making repairs on structures damaged during the long winter and pursuing new construction projects all around the burgeoning village.  Chief among these projects are repair of the water wheel and reconstruction of the river keep, a building which could very well be the keystone upon which the rest of Dagger’s Deep is situated.

Unable to get back to sleep, both due to the noise and due to an errant ray of sun which has found its way through one of the seams in the tent, I leave Bonie’s side, stepping just outside the tent flap and stretch, taking in both the last remnants of winter’s chill grasp on the air and the refreshing scent of spring growth soon to come.  My arthritic joints complain as I raise my arms to the sun, and the myriad scars stitched along my shoulders and torso strain against the effort.  “I’m getting too old for this,” I complain to no one in particular.  On cue, Jakke pads around the corner of the tent and throws me an expectant look, which he sustains until I dig a strip of dried meat from my pouch and toss it to the hound.

Bonie’s gentle snores stop a few moments later, and I can hear the sounds of her shuffling within the tent, gathering bits of clothing and armor.  Jakke peers into the tent, taking a few hesitant steps back as Bonie emerges, her brow creased and eyes pinched tight against the morning sun.  “That’s quite the look,” I chuckle, helping her arrange a few out of place straps on her armor, taking a few more moments to untangle a string of fetishes that have become entangled in her hair.  She curses at me quietly, though gently, but doesn’t interrupt my work, instead waiting until I have finished before leaning on me slightly, her arms around me.

“Nice weather today,” she says, though the tone in her voice speaks otherwise.  Ever since the snows first broke, something has weighed heavily on Bonie’s mind and I, not one to pry, have left it alone.  Perhaps she fears for the friends we’ve made in Dagger’s Deep, knowing that our intent is to take to the road again before long.  Perhaps she dreads returning to Mirabar, fears who or what she may find where she once lived.  Almost certainly, she’s worried about what lies beyond Mirabar—our pending meeting with Odesia and Laerch, and the fulfillment of her promise to guide us to her people in the Khedrun Valley.  Most likely, however, I think she fears what the coming spring may mean for the relationship which has kindled between us.

Sharing many of those same fears, I find it hard to reply at all, instead just pausing to take it all in, enjoying the moment while I can.  For sure enough, we’ll be on the road again soon, suffering the dangers of travel as predators emerge from months of hibernation to hunt and feed, trying to navigate these familiar surroundings in an unfamiliar time, towards an end that is still largely undetermined.

“I should see to the shrine,” I say reluctantly, pushing away from Bonie gently, unwilling to force the conversation, hoping desperately to hang on to what has been a peaceful and deeply satisfying respite.  Unwilling to confront the future, and what change it may bring.

The Secret Travelers

It was a cold morning in West Tower, though the frost coating the rooftops would vanish well before highsun. Bonie's nimble feet padded silently from the lodge where she'd slept, finding Audric and Zeb alone in the village, the pair having just convened with Erathmar to ensure that preparations to depart remained on schedule.

The girl wore her customary dark leathers and roan overcloak. Her blond hair, as always, was tied back, her longsword sheathed at her side. Sapphire eyes bore into her companions with urgency. She spoke to them in whispers.

"Jent and his family must accompany us to Mirabar: the man, his wife, and their babe, an infant. No one but the merchant can know."


In-character replies are welcome.