From the sticky, "what do you look like"

Quote from: "Wolf"

and people say its global warming the end of the world blah blah, yet you get cold weather like that there.

One year is nothing on any sort of measurement on a planetary level. The records that have been kept since the 1800s show that in most regions the Earth’s climate has warmed overall, in all seasons.

So when grandpa is rambling about “back in my day” we had real winters!! He prolly isn’t lying.

No kidding.

Al Gore Places Infant Son In Rocket to Escape Dying Planet!

Rumor spreads that Ashan Kenneman was killed somewhere within the Neverwinter Wood.  His blade and shield were delivered to his former wife Ariadne.


Ashan faced the man across the small clearing in the forest.  He knew what he had to do the moment the man made his offer—resist.

"Well shall we?" the man said.
Ashan nodded solemnly, and vanished.

The man stood there for a moment as Ashan dashed around him.  The thought of escape passed through his head, but he didn't think the man would give up pursuit.  Best to settle this now.  The man put on a helm, and Ashan knew the time for escape was past.

He raised his blade and lept to the fight.  The other swordsman was quick.  He parried and countered.  The swords of the two blade masters flashed back and forth, turning and crashing together.

Ashan struck the man once, but he was undaunted.  No fear slowed his arm or dulled his wits.  He was good.  Ashan had watched him fight not long before.

The other man took advantage, and struck him twice before sweeping him off his feet.  Ashan rolled, avoiding the other's blade.  He came back on his feet—hard pressed to hold him back.  Ashan saw it now.  The other was simply a better swordsman.  He needed some other advantage to win.

Again and again Ashan parried in the space of a few seconds while his mind raced.  The other swordsman found an opening, and struck deeply.  Ashan fell back grunting as he felt his strength ebb.  He slowed.  The man hit him again and again.

Ashan fell.

There was nothing more to do, he thought, the fight was over.  There was so much more he wanted to do, so much more he wanted to see.

I will, he thought, I will.

The man drove his blade through Ashan's heart.

He walked through camp for the first time, with the young woman who had found him lost along the way.  Her name was Ariadne, and he thought she was beautiful.

No, he stood on the summit of a cliff, sitting with his back against a copper dragon, fully at ease as he spoke with this wondrous creature.

No, he held his first born daughter in his hands.  Showing her grandmother the newborn and seeing for the first time how beautiful, and precious and fragile she was.

No, he stood on the plane of shadow, impetuously reaching for an object of power when something dark reached back.

Now he stood alone next to his forge, hammering the formless metal into his own design.

Now his daughter held him, her long hair hanging down as she smiled at him, his angel, saving again the life of her father.  Dagny!

Now he stood on top of a high hill.  Next to him was a woman gazing out to the horizon, while he watched her instead of the valley far below.  Lauri!

He reached up, or tried to.  His hand only twitched weakly.  He was gazing up at the patches of blue sky shining down through the green canopy.

But it was night.

Part I


The tenth day of the month of Eleint, 1377, D.R. ...


A young woman walked down a dirt road in the small port town of Llast.  She was dressed in robes of violet, and had short red hair that tossed gently in the cool breeze.  Farmers, hunters and tradesmen bustled about among the assorted wooden houses.  The woman made her way to the center of town.  She paused and her bright green eyes took in the market.  She moved to a table displaying a variety of fruits and vegetables.  The merchant, Rens Fetter, watched her and a few other potential customers as they milled about.  She began selecting fruits, and setting them in a sack she had brought.

The market wasn't particularly crowded, but the man seemed to come out of nowhere.  He was a thin man, dressed in plain grays and browns.  He seized the woman.  The sack fell out of her hands as she was jostled back.  Peaches and tomatoes spilled out onto the ground as she was dragged away.

Rens Fetter started at the sudden assault.  He shouted for the guards.  He turned up and down the street, shouting for them.  After a moment, he saw a chain mail-clad guard hustle over.  He turned to look for the red-headed young woman.  Among the people milling about, who looked around uncertainly, he saw no one.  Someone said the two simply disappeared.

A few minutes later, a wizard dashed into town.  It was the wards and magic he was wrapped in that marked him as a wizard, and one who was prepared for danger.  His form was darkened and hazy.  Blue-violet mists surrounded him.  It was an uncommon sight, but the townsfolk understood that there was magic in the world—however strange and mysterious it might seem—though many did stare at him.

The man searched through the town, calling the woman’s name.  He spoke with the guards.  He spoke to witnesses.  He spoke to Rens Fetter.  No one could say where the woman was dragged off to, only that she, and her attacker, seemed to vanish and were gone.

The mage turned and gazed south a moment.  Then, he cringed as if struck.  He struggled against some invisible pain before regaining his composure.  As he rose to his full height again, his blue eyes scanned the horizon uncertainly.

He whispered, "She’s gone."



The tenth day of the month of Eleint, 1377, D.R. ...

The young woman walked down a dirt road within the small port town of Llast.  She was dressed in violet robes.  Her short red hair tossed gently in the cool breeze.  Farmers, hunters and tradesmen bustled about among the assorted wooden houses.  The woman made her way to the center of town.  There, her bright green eyes surveyed the market.  She moved to a table displaying a variety of fruits and vegetables.  The merchant, Rens Fetter, stood at his table and watched her and a few other potential customers as they milled about.  She started selecting fruits and setting them in a sack she held.

The market wasn't particularly crowded, but the man seemed to come out of nowhere.  He was thin and dressed in plain brown and gray clothes.  He seized her.  The sack fell out of her hands as she was jostled.  Peaches and tomatoes spilled onto the ground while she was pulled away.

As the attacker dragged the woman back, he crashed into another man who seemed to have appeared out of thin air.  He was robed and hooded and cloaked in black, his face masked.  He stood firm, knocking the attacker to a sudden stop.  

The attacker dropped the woman.  He spun around, the gleam of a long dagger flashed in his hand.  It was raised and ready in an instant.

"Drop it, fool," the black-robed man ordered.

The attacker dropped the blade, which hit the dirt with a soft thud.  He moved from a fighting stance to a casual posture.  He stood attentive before the black-robed man, and didn’t flinch when he was suddenly seized by the collar and pulled forward—face to face.

The robed man’s voice was cold and hard as he drew him in, "You're going to die, but not today."

The robed man let him go and then waved an arm.  The attacker vanished.  A collective gasp went up from the growing crowd which the man ignored.

"What did you do to him?" the young woman asked.  She had risen to her feet and was regaining her bearings.  After a moment she asked, this time with more certainty and determination—looking ready for a fight, "Who are you?"
"A wizard," he answered, "an enemy of your enemies."
She looked around a moment at the growing crowd, and then sized him up, "We need to talk."

She motioned north and the mage began walking.  She followed, watching him closely.  As they made their way north, another man appeared.  Magical wards were wrapped about him, marking him as a wizard, and one ready for trouble.  He approached the woman.

"Sasha, what's going on?" he asked, his voice reflecting the concern of his expression.
"Hanus," she said, relief evident at the sight of him.  Her voice became quiet, with a touch of dread, "I think someone from Thay just tried to take me.  This man," she turned and cast a glance at the black-robed mage, "he stopped him."
"Are you alright?" Hanus asked her.
She nodded.

Hanus' long black hair was swept back under his blue hood as his bright blue eyes regarded Sasha a moment.  His blue cloak was swept to the side by a cool breeze, revealing his blue trousers, high black boots and black tunic.  He was tall and built well enough to leave no doubt about his ability to use the massive two-handed sword that hung across his back.  Though he was a wizard capable of using spells to devastating effect against any danger, he carried it on his travels, using it in moments better suited for swords than spells.  As his eyes moved over the woman in front of him, the hard lines of his face faded and his expression became one of relief.

Hanus turned to the other mage.  "Thank you," he said, emphatically, "This is my wife, Sasha, and I'm Hanus Melkor.  Thank you for helping her."
"A pleasure to meet you Sasha, and you Hanus," the man said politely, giving a slight nod to each.
"Yes, thank you," Sasha said.
Hanus studied the mage a moment.  "I'm glad you were around," he asked, "Who are you?"
"Someone with a score to settle against the Red Wizards," the mage answered, the hooded and masked face turning to regard Hanus.
“Seems we have something in common,” Hanus said.

"I've been watching a band of them in this area for some time,” he said with a voice of indifference, “There is group of them after you, Sasha.  I want you two to know: I have my own fight with them, and my enemies are your enemies.  I took care of that one, and I'll take care of the other two agents.  Then, I'll go to the nearest enclave, and then to Thay until I've destroyed the hierarchy that threatens me and you."

"You're enemies will be destroyed along with mine," the mage said, "You will have nothing to worry about."

Hanus and Sasha exchanged looks.  Sasha was once a Red Wizard, a member of the infamous organization of wizards who ruled over the nation of Thay far to the east.  They were marked by the red they wore, and the tattoos that covered them.  Their cruelty and ruthlessness were well known throughout the lands.  When Sasha abandoned the Red Wizards, both her, and Hanus knew that they would come to take her back—either to bind her again to their will, or to simply punish her with a short, cruel life of slavery for failure and disloyalty.

Hanus studied the mage, "Maybe we can help you, and help each other."
"We have our own score to settle," Sasha added, "Would you come and talk about this?"

"There's nothing to talk about," the mage said.  "By destroying my enemies, I will destroy yours.  That’s all."

"How do you know all this?" Hanus asked, "How do you know who our enemies are?  We don't even know for sure who our enemies are."
"I've prepared for a very long time," he told them.
"You could use some help," Sasha said, "Against the Red Wizards, you'd need all the help you can get."

"I do not want interference," the mage said, his voice grew impatient, "I've planned to do this alone.  All you need to know is that it will be done."
"This is something we’d have to see to personally," Sasha told him, "I’d have to know I'm not being hunted anymore."

The mage seemed to tense in frustration, though his face was covered.  "Damn it," he said, "you don't have to take the risk, simply wait for my plan to unfold."
"Why don't you tell us about this plan," Hanus suggested calmly.

The mage turned and paced for a few moments.  He seemed to struggle with some decision.  Finally, he faced them.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head, "it would only complicate things.  I'll do this alone."

He waved a hand and vanished.

Sasha cast a spell to allow her to see through invisibility magic.  Hanus put a hand on her shoulder.  He asked,  "He shifted into the Ethereal plane didn't he?"

She nodded, "I don't see him."



A few hours later, Hanus was in the kitchen of the home they had recently built.  It was a sturdy stone tower, designed to last.  It stood near the coast where the blue ocean stretched out to the western horizon, and the green wilderness of the lands of the North rose to the east.  

The interior was furnished with heavy wood shelves and cabinets, large padded chairs and thick rugs and tapestries.  In the kitchen, Hanus was trying out a stew he’d looked at in a cookbook.  Sasha sat at the dining table reading.  There were more comfortable chairs for reading, but she liked to be near him.  He liked to have her nearby.  Every few minutes she would look up at him, watching.

Often in their travels, she would pause a moment to watch him cast his spells, or—in the middle of a battle—pause and simply watch him swing his great two-handed sword.  She did the same when he crafted wands—watched him as he worked.  He loved it.  He would often fall back as they strode down some long dusty road to watch her walk, to watch her proud posture, or the directness of her movements, or the sway of her hips.

He finished the stew, and ladled out two bowls for them.  He set a bowl in front of her as he took the closest chair.

“Thanks Bythol,” she said.  She kissed his cheek and set her book aside.

She took a bite.  She seemed to like the stew.  He thought it tasted pretty good.

“I’ve been thinking about what happened earlier—and about that mage,” Hanus said, "I don't trust him.  Or, maybe it’s just the situation—it seems strange."
“This was our chance,” he continued, swallowing a spoonful of stew, “It was our lead into the hierarchy we're up against."
"It was," she said, "Do we go after this mage now?"
"He's now our best lead."
"Maybe he can stop them."
"Do you want to rely on him to do this for us?"
"No," she shook her head.
"Neither do I."

She took another bite, pondering.

"Maybe we could have him tracked," she suggested.  Then, her face lit up, "No, I have another idea."

He looked at her curiously, smiling.  She smiled back, nodding.



After eating their lunch, Hanus and Sasha had gone to Port Llast.  Sasha asked around, until she found the dagger her attacker dropped.  Rens Fetter had taken the dagger.  He offered it to a guard who simply shrugged it off.  For a few hours, it had sat on his food stand, for sale among the vegetables.  Sasha bought it.

With that dagger they were able to scry, a process that allowed them to see the owner of the weapon.  She found her attacker, a young scruffy rogue.  For days he made his way south along the trade road, and then east along a less traveled path.  The whole way he led a mountain pony.  A large bundle was draped over it.

The two had met Ashan Kenneman in Llast.  He was Hanus' friend, and was ready to help him.

It was years ago, back in Amn, a nation far to the south of them now, that the wizard had met Ashan.  Hanus' irritation with the Cowled Wizards of Amn mirrored Ashan's frustration with the nobility.  Together the two had traveled north, out of the border of Amn.  They had been friends since.

Ashan's contempt for the nobility, for all knights and lords who had little other merit than their titles, was reinforced by Hanus, who in his long talks with the former merchant, was able to envision a world without a nobility.  Ashan trained with an old swordsman, gaining the skills to become a 'reasonable trader of force,' as he wryly explained to Hanus.  He went north, and his skill with a blade and in combat had become devastating.

He still liked to dress in the fine attire of a wealthy merchant, but for business he wore dark heavy plate armor and carried a katana at his side.  He was very tall, and powerfully built.  His blond hair was kept long and swept back, his blue eyes often scrutinized everything and everyone, or else contemptuously ignored them.

When Hanus and Sasha set out to go after the rogue, Ashan came with them.  They moved quickly and it wasn’t long before they noticed the mage was also following the rogue.  They used their magic to conceal their pursuit.  They kept their distance as they traveled through the cold northern wilderness.

Days went by as they moved through a rocky stretch of wilderness on the southern edges of the vast Neverwinter forest.  It was an area halfway between Neverwinter city and the town of Triboar, an area many miles to the southeast of Hanus and Sasha’s tower.

When they spotted two other men, who the rogue approached, waiting along the path east, the three of them—invisible with Hanus and Sasha's spells—crept close enough to overhear.  The black-clad mage also vanished from sight, and they were wary of him.

The three watched as, a short distance away, the rogue tied his mountain pony to a tree near the two men.  One was large and carried a variety of weapons—more blades than he could reasonably use—strapped to dark, jagged armor.  The other was thin and loosely dressed in faded robes.

As the rogue finished tying up the pony, the large one stood, "You're the reason we're still out in this icy muck.  The others went ahead with the prisoner days ago.  Left us to wait for your sorry hide to show up."
"What do you have there?" the other asked, looking at the pony and the large bundle that hung over its sides.

"Prisoner?" the rogue asked, "What prisoner?"

"The wizard we came for, you bleeding fool," the thin one said.  He muttered a few curses and seemed to be looking to collect his things.

"She was a pretty one too," the other grinned.  He walked over to the pony.  His hands moved over the wrapped bundle, looking for an opening.  "With nice red hair,” he said, “Had the tattoos, but stopped shaving or something."

He gave a toothy grin.  He asked, "What was her name?" He absentmindedly tugged at the edge of the covering.
"Sasha," he remembered, "Her name was Sasha."  
He pulled the cover back and looked down.  His smile faded.  His thick brows furrowed.
"What's this?" he frowned at the rogue.

The other man noticed the unexpected change in tone and moved to look.  Draped over the pony, now exposed to sight was the body of a young woman.  She was dressed in violet, her skin pale and decaying, yet with dark Thayan tattoos.  Short red hair hung loosely from her head.  Her throat had been slit.  Aside from the damage, she looked exactly like Sasha.

"Another Red Wizard?" the thin one asked, "It looks like her throat was slit.  Did you do this?" an edge of panic was coming into his voice, "Who is this?"

"Sasha," the rogue answered blankly.
"You playing games with us?" the big one asked.
The other stared at him, "Well?"
"What do you mean you've already got Sasha?" the rogue asked.
"Nayth brought her in alive two days ago.  Said he caught her just outside Neverwinter City."
"Are you sure it was her?"
"Of course we're sure, you drooling moron, she said so herself."

The three men stood there, in an uneasy silence.  A short distance away, Hanus, Sasha and Ashan watched in baffled silence as those men stood around a corpse of Sasha, and spoke of another Sasha taken prisoner.

"You're in trouble," the big one said.
"All the Red Wizards and their operatives are accounted for in this area, so, you want to tell us who this is?"

The rogue stood there, passively for a moment before answering, "Your mother?"

In the next instant, the sky was lit up in a white blaze of dozens of magical orbs of energy.  They burst from the black-clad mage who appeared out of nowhere.  The white-hot orbs arced out and landed all across the big man's various blades, ruining every one.  As the light faded, the two men stood defensively.  The mage stepped forward.

"Now," the mage said, "You're going to tell me all about the Sasha who left here two days ago. You," he pointed to the large one, "start talking.  You," he pointed to the other, "be quiet for now."

The two men exchanged glances, and in that moment their resolve hardened.  The large man looked the masked mage in the eyes, and snarled once, rolling his shoulders.  He snarled a second time as if stoking some rage.  Then, he charged.  The mage stepped forward, throwing up an elbow and leaning in.  The large man took the blow across the face.  He was flipped backwards as if against a wall.  He dropped to the ground.

The mage reached down.  He seized him by the collar and lifted him up and right off his feet.  Bright blue eyes gazed out from the black cloth mask, right into the face of the dazed man.  To his side, the rogue had back stabbed the other man, and was rising from the limp body under which a pool of blood was quickly forming.

"You have no idea," the mage's cold voice threatened as he held the man, "of what I'm capable.  You'd better start talking, because you do not want to find out."

He dropped the man, letting him go with a violent push.

"Tell me," he said, sharply, "from the start, everything you know about Sasha."

Hanus, Sasha and Ashan watched in silence as the large man, with an occasional knee, elbow or burst of flame from the wizard, gave reluctant answers.  He said the woman Sasha was picked up near Neverwinter City by Nayth, an agent of the Red Wizards.  Then, he gave a description of the woman—one that fit Sasha.

The mage stood, and bound the large man.  The rogue waited off to the side, passively, as if he lacked the will to do anything.

"I'm not finished with you," the mage threatened.  He cast a teleport spell, and vanished.

The large man struggled at the ropes that bound his arms and legs.  The rogue simply stood there and stared blankly until, with a sudden crack of metal on bone, Ashan appeared in mid-strike following through on a gauntleted fist to the head.

Ashan looked at the now limp body, "I think he's had one too many blows to the head already."
"He looked dominated," Hanus said, appearing next to the mercenary.
"By that mage," Sasha nodded, appearing next to Hanus.

The big man looked back at the three and grunted, then pleaded, "Help, I been robbed!"
"Shut the hell up," Ashan warned.
The man closed his mouth.

"Can you believe this?" Hanus said, studying the corpse of Sasha.
Sasha looked over the dead body, "It looks like me—exactly."
"It doesn't make any sense."
"No," she answered, "Unless," her green eyes met Hanus' blue eyes, "No, none of it makes sense."
"We have three Sashas, a man who saves one, doesn't seem to care that another is dead, and is obsessed with finding the third?"

Hanus shook his head.  He covered the corpse he couldn’t stand to look at anymore.

“That mage has answers,” said Sasha.
“Wish I knew where he went,” Hanus sighed.
“Well,” Ashan said, approaching, “I’d think he was going to look for Sasha.”
“Yeah, but—” Hanus’ voice trailed off.  His face lit up.  Both men looked at the redhead.
“Home!” she said.
They nodded.



In the foyer of the Melkor’s tower, Ashan appeared.  He looked around the small entryway.  His hand was on his sword hilt.  He took a few light steps into the den.  His eyes narrowed as they surveyed the dim interior.  Behind him, through the same portal, Hanus appeared, alert.  A moment later, Sasha appeared.

“No one in there,” Ashan whispered.

The two wizards stalked up behind him.  The three paced quietly across the large room, past the large cushioned chairs around the fireplace, and the heavy pedestal dining table, to the stairs leading up.

They heard footsteps.  They froze.  Ashan crouched at the ready.  Hanus and Sasha backed against a wall.  A moment later, the black-clad mage walked down the stairs, not paying attention.  As soon as he looked up at them they all simply stared in stunned silence.  His unmasked face was the face of Hanus Melkor, though it bore a few more lines of age and a wicked scar across the forehead that left a gray patch of hair over a temple.  The bright blue eyes that looked at the three in surprise were the same.

“Who the hell?” Ashan asked, shocked.

“Ashan,” the black-clad mage said in a tone of fond recollection, looking at him.  He looked at Sasha, relief showing on his face.  “Where were you?” he asked, “Where did you go?”

“We followed you,” she said.
“You weren’t taken?” he asked, brows furrowing.
“No, but we saw what happened.  Why are there three of me?—and two of you?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” the mage sighed.  He sat back on the steps.
“Yeah, you’re telling us,” Ashan said flippantly.  He relaxed, standing upright, letting go of his blade hilt.
“We’d like some answers,” Hanus said, then asked, "Who are you?"
“Alright,” the older Hanus said, looking dismayed, “I’ll tell you, because I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”

“I am Hanus Melkor,” the mage began, “What happened here a few days ago, happened to me many years ago.  My Sasha was taken by the Red Wizards—reclaimed.  They broke our bond, and reestablished the compulsion spell that had bound her to their will.  I went after her.  Ashan, Ragnar, Tolrin, Mara, Marx—all our friends went with me.”

“The Red Wizards did not gain a reputation for nothing.  And, they had an advantage I underestimated.  They had Sasha—and she knew me, she knew my mind.  They beat us.  She beat us.  Later, I tried again, and failed again.”

“Years went by as I struggled against them, relentlessly, hiding and fighting as best I could.  Finally, about four years ago now, for me at least, me and an apprentice of mine succeeded in capturing her back."

He now looked off at nothing in particular; his voice took on a distant quality.  "When I freed her, and brought her back, she was changed.  With the compulsion they had made her do terrible things, made her enjoy doing them.  They subdued her will, blurred it into their own vision.”

“When she was free again she still loved me, as dearly as ever, but she'd suffered so much.  Her identity had been stripped away for so many years.  She'd lost so much.”

His head lowered, he seemed to speak to himself, almost as if he had forgotten anyone else was there, "She was so afraid after that.  The slightest upset and I could feel the panic building—or the rage.  She couldn't sleep unless I held her, and even then, she would cry herself to sleep in my arms—every night—or just lay there trembling, awake all night.  She could barely eat unless I sat next to her.  She—" he cut himself off and was silent for a moment.

"Never mind," the older mage said, resolve replacing the distant recollection.  "What matters now is that we stop them this time.  It won’t change what happened to me and her, but it’s the only way I know to come to terms with it all.”

“That’s why I came back through time—to make things right.  I don’t know what went wrong.  I don’t know why there seems to be another Sasha out there, one who’s been captured.”

His eyes fell on Sasha, “I stopped you from being taken.  The corpse you saw out there was a clone.  I made one clone, so that I could make them believe you were dead, so they would give up the search.”

“One clone,” Hanus said, “my Sasha,” he put a hand on her shoulder, “and, is the other your Sasha?”
“No,” the older man said, “that’s impossible.”

“We can track this one,” Ashan said, “go after her, get her, whoever she is.”

Each Hanus nodded.  Sasha couldn’t help but smile at the two of them.  Her expression softened as she looked at the older Hanus, and thought about him being stuck here alone.  She asked, “None of this will change things for you, will it?”

“No,” he acknowledged, “I can’t go back, this is a new and different timeline and I can never return to my own.”

"Why did you do it," the younger mage asked curiously.  He wasn’t sure it was something he would do.

"The Red Wizards stole our future," the older mage said, "Of all I wanted to build and to create—things you well know—things that I love, the Red Wizards stole it through their tyranny, disregarding our rights, all the things at the root of my dreams.”

“If I didn't stand and fight them, I'd be proving to myself that my own values weren't worth defending—that my life wasn't worth living.  If I didn't take the fight to them, and strike and strike and strike, until I destroyed that which hurt everything I held so dear, I'd never be able to respect myself."

"I always hated fighting.  All I ever wanted to do was to study magic, and to create—the true power of evocation.  But damn it, the world was wrong, and I had to take a stand and fight.  I had to spend my life—my only life—to protect a life I was no longer able to enjoy."

"Damn them," he said, the words coming out cold and deliberate as if he truly wished it, "Damn them to hell.  But," the hate left his voice, "that's the cost to heal, to repair the damage done.  That’s what it takes: to see that things can be made right, to show that the suffering could be erased, and that all our hopes and dreams could be repaired, and defended, and not lost forever."

They were silent a moment, then the older Hanus Melkor spoke again, "This is why I'm going after this other Sasha, whoever she is, wherever she came from." Then he added, in recollection, "Mine suffered so badly."

"We're going after her," Hanus agreed.  "We’ll take a couple hours to prepare, and teleport back, and then, track her."

The older mage gave a reluctant nod, "I've been to Thay, and can teleport there.  Sasha could too, but we'll want to get to them before they teleport deep into some Red Wizard compound.  I'm sure they'll have to check in with an enclave at the least, if not find a wizard capable of casting a teleport spell."

"We’ll find her," Sasha said, hopeful.
“I have a spell for flying,” the black-clad mage told them, “Once back, we can search much faster that way.”
"Alright," the younger one said, "sounds like a plan."
"It sure does," the older one answered, "let's hope it works."
Sasha looked at him and smiled.  He almost smiled back.

Ashan set the last few bags inside the wagon.  The southbound caravan was lined up outside the gates of Neverwinter.  Its wagons and carts were off in the green grass along the road.  Armed mercenaries milled around on the other side of the road while merchants and traders were bustling about the wagons.

Ashan’s hands, gloved in fabric dark as night, hovered over the bags.  He looked over all the luggage to make sure nothing was forgotten.  He knew the nanny had done the same back in the city, but he wanted to be sure.  With a sigh he turned and moved to the front of the wagon.  A sturdy, austere woman in her mid thirties sat beside two little girls.  The little girls had their light feathery hair in pigtails.  Their cheeks were rosy in the chill morning air.  Both wore little dresses with brightly colored scarves around their necks.

Ashan grinned as he saw Dagny and Nicola.  The two girls looked up at him eagerly.  He spoke to the nanny, “Everythings’ all set.  I’ll send the papers on the next caravan.  They’ll be notarized this morning.  And also don’t forget—“

The nanny interrupted, “I know, Mr. Kenneman.  You keep telling me the same things.  I took notes the first time.”  She held up a small notebook and smiled politely, “See?  Don’t worry.”

Ashan nodded.  “And the tutors I mentioned.  I’ve had a lot of gold put in those accounts, and I’ll keep sending it.  You’ll get the best tutors in Baldur’s Gate, right?”

“Of course Mr. Kenneman.”

Ashan nodded again, “And make sure you get a good place.  Spare no expense.  I want them in a well guarded neighborhood.”

“Certainly Mr. Kenneman, they’ll have the best that money can buy.”

Ashan nodded again.  A black-gloved hand reflexively reached out to pat Dagny on the shoulder but he paused—he still feared the shadowy taint.

“Are we going home daddy?”
“Will we see mommy again?”

Ashan swallowed.  He took a deep breath.  “You’re going to a new home, in a new city,” he answered.  “You’ll be with your nanny.  She’ll take good care of you.”

Solemn looks filled both the girls faces as sad eyes stared back at Ashan.

“Be good now.  I’ll visit you soon.”

A few minutes later, the caravan pulled out onto the road, and began making its slow way south.

Through the Travail of Ages
By Valraenar of Elengard



100 years ago…

From among the clouds, the battle below seemed muted and calm.  Two armies maneuvered around two hilltops.  They were two crawling masses of sparkling metal and streaming banners amidst the green fields.  One army was far larger, though its many fallen now dotted the hillsides.  The smaller band had fought with exceptional skill and valor.  Yet that little band was now ringed in around the higher hill.  Those men faced the slow steady advance of superior numbers.

None of them were aware of two observers, high in the clouds.  Many of them, mortally wounded had gazed up into the sky.  Their weakened voices had cried out to the gods for mercy.  Eyes now blind from mortal wounds pleaded to the heavens.

The two angels watched.

The celestial sight of one focused on the leader of that small band.
“There many things startlingly familiar about their leader.”
“He is a true man of faith, a most devoted follower of Tyr.  Such as him are rare, and yet quite similar in their valor and quite common in other things as well.  Such simple creatures men are—even the most noble among them.”
“The way he speaks!  The way he moves!  I have seen it before.”
“I do not care to guess what you may mean.”
“Do you think he may have lived before, in another life, and at another time?”
“You once wed a man such as he.  Do the memories of that short-lived love still trouble you, even after so many thousands of years?”
“Is it possible that this man has lived before?”
“There are far more important matters for you to concern yourself with.”

With that, the celestial vanished while the other continued to watch.  Her eyes followed the man as he fought.  His band was overwhelmed, and each died in turn, until he was left alone—and finally overcome.

She became invisible and fell like lightening to his side.  As the victorious army cheered with the roar of three thousand voices, all shouting to the heavens—she knelt beside the man and wept.



Not too long ago…

“Gather ‘round everyone!” the young knight shouted.

Among a few dirty tents, a small band roused itself.  The morning sun was low on the red horizon, and the final scrapes and clatter of a quick breakfast could still be heard.

“Gather ‘round!” the knight repeated.

With a few more moments milling, the twenty men, two dwarves and an uneasy half-elven woman gathered around a flimsy field table.  A man leaned over the table—a tall man, with fair skin and dark hair.  His blue eyes were set in a face that radiated calm confidence.  His name was Flynn Aelfric.  He studied maps that covered the table.

The young knight, the one who had called everyone to gather—a young man named Ervin, made a count and then frowned.  In a lowered voice he said, “Twenty-three.  There’s one missing.”

Flynn straightened to his full height.  His head turned to Ervin.  Something registered in Ervin’s mind and he spoke quickly, “including me, twenty-four.  Everyone’s accounted for, sir.”

Despite the disapproving look he gave the young knight, Flynn looked amused.  He turned to address the group.

“I’d like to welcome you all here.  I’m glad that you made it safely.  I am Flynn Bragol, and these are my two knights Ervin and Brenn.  They will serve as lieutenants for this company.  While you are a part of it, you will obey their orders as you obey mine.”

“Now, some of you already know the details of our voyage.  Many do not.  My purpose—our purpose—is to find the site of an ancient vault and retrieve the artifacts within.  There will be no gold or precious gems, nor even relics of any power—only tomes and mundane manuscripts.  These lie several hundred feet beneath where we now stand.  In order to retrieve them, we will have to enter an old mine not far north of here, and tunnel our way in.”

“I’ve gathered both miners and mercenaries because of the dangers within the mines.  Recently goblins have been spotted creeping in some of the abandoned tunnels.  It is most likely that they’ll leave us alone, but you should all be ready to defend yourselves.”

Flynn continued speaking.  He covered every detail of the planned journey.  He wanted them each to know exactly what they were supposed to do—it was the best way to ensure everything went according to plan.

“Are there any questions?” he asked after he had summed up their purpose once more.

“Aye, lad,” one of their two Dwarven engineers stepped forward.  He was old, but strong, with a hard face ruddy and creased, and bright steady eyes.

“Yes, Glendur?”
“Are ye sure the vault’s even down thar?  How d’ ye even know?”
“I’ve studied the history of this area, and I am certain it is there.”
“Aye, but I’ve done so meself, an’ I’ve never ‘eard a anythin’ like ye say.”
“I believe that there is.”

There was a moment’s silence.  The dwarf seemed unsatisfied by the answer.  Finally Glendur waved a gnarled hand, “Bah, if ye wanna tunnel for naught it’s yer own money lad.”

Flynn was expressionless.  After a moment, he addressed the company, “Any other questions?”



When the meeting ended, the company dispersed.  Each went about his work: breaking down the tents, packing their gear and provisions.  Once they were ready, they lined up and made a final check of everything.  Then, they turned and marched towards the mines.  The young woman started to sing a marching song.  Soon, the whole company joined in.

The sun hung over the trees to the East.  Ahead were green sloping hillsides.  The dark opening of a mine was set in one of the hills.  As the company came to the mine entrance, the men divided into two groups.  Each was led by a dwarf and followed by a knight.  The groups were marching into the dark opening when Flynn turned and noticed a rider approaching.

Ervin was behind the last group.  He looked to Flynn, and followed his gaze.  Ervin told the last man, a particularly large mercenary, to follow.  He told the others to continue.  He and the mercenary turned back and waited to see who was coming.

After a few minutes, the rider came near and reigned in his horse in front of the three men.  His eyes fell on the large mercenary—tall and muscular with a stern face and cold blue eyes.  The mercenary’s hand rested on a katana sheathed at his waist.  The rider’s eyes passed over the young knight Ervin, with his rosy cheeks and curly brown locks, and fell upon Flynn.

Flynn’s voice was calm and loud “Greetings!”
The rider’s back stiffened as he asked, “Are you Flynn Bragol Aelfric?”
Flynn answered, “I am.”

“I am Haril Galvan, servant of Tyr.  I have been sent to bring you back to the closest temple—where you are to be confined indefinitely.  You are acting outside the authority of the church, and by your deviant ignorance threaten to unleash a great evil upon us all.  This cannot be allowed.”

He paused looking straight into Flynn’s eyes,  “If you do not agree to come with me, I must take you by force.”

The rider dismounted and then drew a sword and shield.

“What?  What great evil?” Flynn asked incredulously.
“It is enough for you to know that such will come about,” Haril replied.
“I can’t come with you,” Flynn answered.
“Then I must take you,” Haril said.
“This is not right.  I assure you, my cause is not evil.”
“Then come with me.”
“In a few days.  I cannot delay.”
“I cannot allow you to proceed any further.  I will stop you now, and by any means.”

Flynn felt a rush of adrenaline as he marked the absolute sincerity of Haril’s words.

“This is madness!”
“Defend yourself!”

Flynn grasped his shield and drew his sword.  His eyes met Haril’s own gaze as he tried to get a sense of the man’s heart.  In a voice of astonishment Flynn realized, “He is indeed a follower of Tyr.”

With that Haril’s blade came down, and crashed against Flynn’s hastily raised shield.  He parried two more blows as he saw Ervin and the mercenary draw their weapons.

“No,” Flynn shouted, “do not interfere!”
“I was told you were a man of honor,” Haril said approvingly.  His blade came crashing against Flynn’s.
“This cannot be!  I am a follower of Tyr, on a holy quest!” Flynn parried, stepping back again and again.
“You have been deceived,” Haril nearly knocked Flynn off his feet.
“Can’t we discuss this,” Flynn asked.
“Would you change your mind?” Haril asked.
“No.”
“Then no more words!  My faith guides me, and that is sufficient!”

Harils blade pounded again and again against Flynn’s shield.  He knew, as surely as the force of the blows, that the faith of both men would not allow them to relent or be reconciled.  This cannot be right, Flynn thought.  Those thoughts were silenced by the force of the battle, and the weight of his own duty.  Flynn fought back.

Ervin and the mercenary stood watching, stunned by the speed and brutality of the two knights.  As shields and blades met, they turned and grappled then leaped away only to do so again—each trying to get at a vulnerable point, trying to land a lethal blow.  Suddenly, Flynn’s blade swept low and rose up, cutting Haril from hip to chest all the way through.  The wounded knight fell back to the ground with a crash.  His sword and shield lay still.

Flynn cast his own sword and shield aside and knelt next to the stranger.  Haril was taking short quick breaths while his eyes gazed ahead unfocused.

“I did…my best…to obey…to stop you from…”
“But, what? Why?”
“Duty…is…the right…”

The knight let out one last breath, and then his body was still.

Through the Neverwinter Woods a man strode.  He was tall: his muscular frame was wrapped in dark jagged steel.  Over a shoulder he held the limp body of a tanned druidess—her arms, and long dark hair hung limply down his back.  He held one arm around her legs, while the other hung at his side.

He moved quickly, though suffering from many wounds.  His armor showed signs of recent battle, blood trickled down his fingers, was smeared across his face—sweat drenched hair hung over his eyes.  Approaching the camp, he continued to stagger along in a daze, his mind focused on one goal: to save Ariadne.

A tall, hulking barbarian, Borcha, stood by the fire and glanced over only briefly as he passed.  Two others, Hannah Willoud and Chilie Krown, took greater interest in Ashan Kenneman.

“Gracious!” Chilie Krown’s eyes widened as she saw Ashan stagger by—bloody, and near death.  Hannah jolted up from her haybale as she and Chilie moved towards the man.
“Hold up there,” Chilie called out.

“Must get,” Ashan’s voice trailed off as he pressed on towards the cave.  He approached the mysterious, yet immensely popular old hermit.  Ashan set the body down carefully, wavering for a moment as his blood loss became more severe.  Behind him Chilie and Hannah approached.

“I could aid your fallen ally, if you allow me.  And, you as well,” Hannah offered, “why don’t you sit down.  You’ve strained yourself.”
“Sit down, sir, before you pass out,” Chilie advised.
“How much?” Ashan asked, turning to face Hannah.  The priestess gave him a look of confusion at the question.
“I’ll pay you three hundred to help her,” Ashan told her.
“Why would I charge?” Hannah asked, “It’s my duty sir.”
“I despise altruism,” Ashan answered, “Take my gold.”
“Offer it to the church, if you are so eager to part with it.” Hannah answered, “I will not take it for my own.”  With that, the priestess knelt by the druidess.  She closed her eyes, murmuring a prayer.

“NO!” Ashan shouted, his face grim, his voice echoing across the cave, “Stop!”
“She would be remiss in her duties to take gold sir.” Chilie informed him as Hannah was too lost in her prayers to hear even his shouts.

Ashan thought briefly about drawing his blade, and striking the priestess down as she prayed.  She was calling upon the power of her god, against his will and the wishes of Ariadne.  This was power—force—violence—initiated by her in disregard of their rights to refuse.  Ashan thought of one last alternative and paid the popular old rock counter to raise Ariadne.

The druidess would now feel the pull of two powers on her life—both to bring her back—one from the fair exchange of wealth, one from the self-sacrificing act of a priestess.

“I told you not to,” Ashan shook his head, anger rising on his grim face.
“Stubborn man,” Chilie murmured, then added, glancing at the hermit, “Either way, she lives.”
“I only answer to Tyr, sir,” Hannah told Ashan, “I will not neglect my duties for your word alone.”
“You holy types are all the same,” Ashan said to her, “you don’t respect a man’s wishes, and try to force your ways on others.”
“What about hers?” Hannah asked.  “I will not heal your wounds if you don’t want me to, but if her soul answers my prayer, then you’ve no say in the matter.”
“Hers are the same,” Ashan told her, knowing very well Ariadne’s wishes.
“Then why did she answer my call?” Hannah asked, as the druidess took a breath.
“I paid the Hermit,” Ashan answered, his patience wearing thin.
“After I was done with my prayers,” Hannah said, shrugging slightly “He just took your gold.”

With a swift motion—and a practiced, deadly grace—Ashan drew his katana, leveling it at the priestess who continued to flaunt her use of force in violation of their wishes.

“I OWE YOU NOTHING!!” his voice boomed across the cavern.
“Ash,” the druidess said, sitting up.
“You don’t owe her anything, ‘tis true,” Chilie said.
“You certainly don’t,” Hannah replied, turning to Ariadne.

Ashan stood there, with his blade leveled at the priestess, wavering as he continued to bleed from his nearly fatal wounds.

“What’s going on here?” Ari’Kavain asked, after clearing his throat, having entered out of curiosity.
“Ash, lets go home,” Ariadne said.
“Relax sir,” Chilie added.
 “Welcome back,” Hannah offered to the druidess, “looks like you had a rough journey ma’am.  Please take a moment.”

Ariadne pushed herself up, ignoring the priestess and looking over Ashan’s wounds.  He turned to her, sheathing his sword as she touched his face.

“You’re bleeding all over the place,” Ariadne said, “sit down.”
“Here, patch yourself up, if you don’t want Tyr’s aid,” Chilie said, setting down a bundle of the highest quality healing kits.
 
Ashan sat down as Ariadne began to mend his wounds.  Hannah looked them both over briefly and nodded respectfully before heading out.  Ariadne gave Hanah and Chilie both brief, apologetic looks as she tended to Ashan.  As the others left Ariadne finished with his wounds and wrapped her arms around him.
 
“Ashan,” she asked, “why did you draw your blade?”
“She did not respect my wishes,” he answered, “She initiated the use of force, by calling upon the power of her god.”
“And you would have killed her?” the druidess asked.
“No.  I was just dazed,” he answered.  His gaze fell on the bundle of healing kits, “Give those back to her.  I don’t take the unearned.”



Later, as the mercenary and druidess walked out of the camp they passed a knight of the Blade.  Flynn Aelfric and Ashan Kenneman’s eyes met, and they held each other’s gaze for a moment.

“Come on,” Ariadne tugged on Ashan’s arm.

Ashan and Flynn were both struck by something they saw in the other, some disturbing quality, some vague danger neither could name.  For now, they both put the thought out of mind, and went on about their affairs.

Sara Galerian comes from a small wilderness settlement near the city of Loudwater.  

Her mother was an elven archer and adventurer of the Delimbiyr, and her father was a knight of Torm.  Her parents were never married, although her father Jashar did ask the hand of her mother Alindrinith.  Alindrinith was attracted to Jashar, yet was not truely in love with him, and found his ways, and the code of honor by which he lived something she could not accept.

She bore their child and together they raised Sara, living in separate homes built by Jashar.  Sara favored her father, who loved and cherished his half-elven daughter.  From her mother she learned the secrets of Elven archery, but from her father she learned the tales of valor, and love and chivalry that inspired the heart of man.

Duty called her father away for months at a time, and she would often run down by the road to see if he would come riding up, sitting upon his warhorse, armed in gleaming mail.  Whenever she saw him she ran out, and he took her up upon his horse where she would sing a song in her high voice.

On her tenth birthday, her father came into her small room, and gave her a beautiful little dress.  He told her that he had been called on an errand, but that they could celebrate upon his return in a few weeks time.  She said that she would wear the dress when he came back, and sing a song she had written just for him.  Sara stood at her mother’s side as Jashar rode out, arrayed in his brilliant armor and tall helm, with sword and lance at his side, and horse as white as snow.

Every day at the afternoon she ran out to the road, and looked down its empty miles.  As the weeks turned into months she went out less often, yet always expected to see Jashar one day ride up, smiling at his little girl.

As the years passed by, Sara sat in her small room, with her beautiful dress hanging on the wall, a dress that would no longer fit her womanly form.  She would read for days on end of the tales of old: of knights, and romance, and of the great battles, trying to find the cause for such sacrifice and valor—trying to find what made it all worth the cost.

She wrote many songs, both of tragedy and triumph, singing them to herself.  The power of her songs grew beyond the mundane, stirring even her own heart, leaving tears to fall across her fair cheeks while her solitary voice carried melodies out her window.  Yet, she wept as often for the glory of hope and perseverance as out of the loss of brave heroes.

There was nothing she loved more than the hero who would never relent, and—despite confessing weaknessess—would never give up final hope.

Her mother told her that she could not remain hidden away forever, staring at the pages of old tomes.  Sara often hated her mother, being irritated by the elven condescension, and all the differences that had kept her father and mother apart, differences that now drove apart mother and daughter.

She rose, and spoke bitterly, “Then I will go away, and you can go back to the wilderness where savages belong, and never give a care for things beyond the thoughts of primitive beasts.”

In haste she departed, leaving all things behind.  As she came up to the road, she took one last look across the length and breadth of the countryside, and one last look down the miles of empty road.

She smiled to herself as she said aloud, “And now, the greatest adventure of all will begin!”




[...this'll be my first true Bard]
alias: Telandune and Valraenar