3. Tacticum Vita

Tacticum Vita


  • Entry 30 - Arrival, Victory, and Loss

    _Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure… than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.

    • Theodore Roosevelt_

    So much has happened in the last two weeks. In some ways, my life is as chaotic as it was during the troubles with the Calculabe, and I had not thought that such could happen again. At least I've not ended up locked away somewhere as seems to happen too often for my liking.

    We made our attempt against Vaxin. Sent'lia gave his life, Aelthas nearly gave his, but we still failed. Perhaps war is unavoidable now, but we have one last chance to stop him, if you could even call it a chance. I've only been to the hells once, and that was to help save Benji, now we may have to go there in the hopes of finding Vaxin and stopping him before his ascension, if it's even possible.

    The trouble with the Illithids seems to be escalating as well, with a group of the greatest heroes of the realm going into the Norwick Crypts to recover something of apparently great value to our enemy. Five died to bring it to the surface, but victory was achieved. I am sad to say that I was not able to go with them on that trip, but I lent what aid I could in the form of spells. Perhaps now we have an edge, with the recovery of the totem piece, but only time will tell.

    The Red Knight has seen fit to lay her blessings upon me. Words cannot describe how pleased I am by this, and humble, that such a person as me could become a holy warrior. Shallyah says that she is proud to be my faith-sister, but I can't help wonder what the Red Knight has in store for her.

    I don't know if I will continue this journal or not. Much I have written on has been history, or topical discussion, and now that I have arrived at my destination of becoming a holy warrior, I'm not sure what I could write that would add to the volume of work.

    Perhaps in time, something will come to me. For now though, I will focus on other things.


  • Entry 29 - To be a Knight

    _Be loyal of hand and of mouth, seeking to serve every man as best ye may.
    Seek ye the fellowship of good men, hearken unto their words and remember them.
    Be humble and courteous wherever thou goest, not talking much, neither being dumb altogether.
    Allow no women or child to suffer by thy default, so that if ye may lift thy hand to assist one, do so. If thou must draw thy sword to defend them, do so unto thy own death.
    If thou come into fellowship with boys or men who speak in a disrespectful manner of any women or maiden, let them know in gracious words that this displeases thou and thy Lord, then depart their company forthwith.
    Thou art to defend and protect those who seek to worship in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and promote faith in Him throughout this earth He has made.

    • The Knights Oath (Circa Middle Ages)_

    I continue down the path I have walked for many years now. The path to becoming a holy warrior, a Knight of the Red Knight. Little steps every day take me closer to my goal, and I can feel it now, like a spark within me growing. I don't know what it's going to feel like, when my Lady empowers me with her gifts, but if it's anything like how I feel at the moment, then it can't be bad.

    Three times I've taken part in the jousting tourneys they have started to hold here in Peltarch. Twice I've won the Duelling tournament, once the Archery, and the last time I came second in Archery and Sir Mariston passed the trophy to me. I'm hopelessly unskilled at the jousting, but I still take part every chance I get.

    I've found a fellow follower of the Red Knight as well, a skilled young woman from Vaasa named Shallyah. She seems to have developed a bond to her weapon, a greataxe, and she uses it with supreme skill. She too, takes part in the jousting tournaments, and although she doesn't win she still takes everything in her stride. I can't help but feel that I'm watching a future champion develop.

    Speaking of Sir Mariston, he seemed very impressed with my skill at arms, after I won the last Duelling tournament. He congratulated me, said that I was upholding one of the finest traditions of knighthood. To be able to compete under the watchful eye of my Lord, and impress him in such a way, meant a lot to me.

    I've been trying to take the time to reflect on what it means to be a Knight, to become something like Sir Rath, Sir Mariston, or Sir Rico. Each of them is a Paladin, although with a different deity supporting them, which means that they each put a unique twist on the way that they live. Having never met a Paladin of the Red Knight, I'm not 100% sure of what I should aim for beyond the standard vows, and the dogma of the Lady of the Lanceboard. In this circumstance though I guess that whatever I do, as long as it follows those guidelines, will be what a Paladin of the Red Knight would do.

    Sir Rico has a great heart for the downtrodden, for women, and for those who can be redeemed. Sir Mariston is a fine student of the law and loves his city with a great heart. Sir Rath is zealous for his god and will die before he lets evil walk away unchallenged. Each of them inspires me in a different way.

    I love Peltarch, and I will give my last breath to see that it stands free and strong. I will adhere to the law where it is just, and fight to change it where it is not. I will protect those who cannot protect themselves. I will serve the Red Knight with everything that I have, and all that I am.

    I have one more test, one last thing I must do before I can complete my journey. I don't know if I will survive it, but regardless of the outcome, I know that I will have done what was right.

    Red Knight, guide me this day, whether to victory or eternity.


  • Entry 28 - Family

    _If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.

    • Thich Nhat Hanh_

    It has been long since I considered my thoughts to record them, although I have been far from idle. My time has been taken up with matters related to my blood, and my ancestry, more specifically my parents. Whilst I spent many years absent from N'jast, they never forgot me or turned against me even when others did. And when I returned to them, they welcomed me with open arms.

    Why did I go home after all these years? Well, I have Troff to thank for that. After the issues with the Shadovar were resolved and we had defeated their general, he and I were talking in the commons in Peltarch. As often happens when one is recovering from a trip to the fugue, I was feeling melancholy and my thoughts wandered to the past. He and I spoke of family and of childhood memories, which made me realise that I hadn't seen my parents in nearly 30 years.

    So, I put my affairs in order. Left the Crafters Union, completed the enchanting orders I still had along with the crafting orders, and asked Sir Thel for a leave of absence so that I could see my family, which he gracefully granted me. The final piece was to put the college in the hands of one I could trust, and so Eowiel agreed to look after my duties there whilst I was away.

    I told no-one that I was going, for I knew that they would simply try and keep me in Narfell. My friends love me, I know this for true, but saying goodbye would have been too hard for them. They'd be sad, and they'd ask me to reconsider, and I know I would.. I'd put it off for a few weeks, which would become months, which would become years, and I would never leave to see my family.

    The trip back home took me through the ruins of Jiyyd which thankfully were quiet that day. I saw the odd undead or imp, but such things were no more than a distraction which I shot down easily. The long road was a little more annoying, with wolves and bandits… although when I took my helm off the bandits ran for their lives. That was moderately amusing and gratifying.

    After some weeks of riding I arrived in N'jast, a city that had barely changed in appearance since I was last there. The guards waved me through with barely a glance, and so after putting my horse into a stable and tipping the stableboy generously made my way through the streets and alleys to the inner district and my parents home.

    At first they didn't recognise me, with my red hair, lack of voice, and the fact that I had barely aged, but after I cast a spell of comprehension on them, they were able to understand my speech and welcomed me back with smiling faces.

    We spent the next two years together as I re-learnt the business and we shared what had happened since we were last together. Some of my tales astonished them, others left them confused or distressed, but I would hold nothing back from them.

    Of all the people I have ever known, there have been so few who accepted me as I am, flaws and all. Of those people, my parents were the first and I have no doubt that they never stopped loving me, not even when I was announced as a traitor to the crown.

    I went with my father on his last trip to sell silks and cloths, we even employed a translator so that I could conduct business on his behalf. Those days and nights were magical, and I will remember them for all of my days. The pride in his eyes to see the woman I had become, and that I had triumphed through adversity. Even more than that though, I was known everywhere we went that there was a tavern or school, something that only the heroes and villains of the stories could ever claim.

    The second last night of our trip, my father took ill with a cold snap. After checking him over, I could tell that this was not something that would pass, that his body was finally giving in to old age. We skipped the last stops and rushed home so that he could be comfortable before he died, and he spent his last few days with my mother and I at his side. We sang songs, told stories, laughed, and wept together. One night he went to sleep, and never woke up. He was 85.

    My mother took this very hard, they had been very much in love throughout their entire lives and so now she was without her soulmate. Her health diminished rapidly, until only one month later she too, went on to the afterlife.

    I did not mourn their passing, nor do I mourn them now. The living mourn for themselves most often, for if we are true to our gods we will be reunited with those we love when we pass over ourselves. My parents were at peace, and I know they are together in the heavens, so why would I grieve their passing? Instead, I remember with fondness the time we had together before they died, and I know now that I have redeemed myself from where I was once long ago, the Historian of Tempus has become the Singer of the Red Knight.

    Here, in Narfell, I have another family. Troff, Rith, Moonie, Fadia, Caelisar, and others. They are the brothers and sisters I never had... different races, different ages, but all with the same heart. I may have to come and go, but both of my families have a bond to me, and I will do them both proud.


  • _More than four years had passed since the red haired woman had written in her journal. Memories too precious to write now filled her thoughts, a single tear rolled down her cheek. She was back in the Bardic College, although only the gods themselves knew how long that would be the case for. Her estates in N'jast would need her again, in time.

    With her thoughts so focussed on what had been, she picked up a piece of fine charcoal and began to sketch her parents as she remembered them in her youth… her father, smiling and holding her mother close. It had been a rare occasion, when neither of them had needed to be on the road... they'd had a grand meal in a restaurant around the corner from their home to celebrate and her father had given her a silk cap that he'd hand-stitched himself. She still had the cap, although it had been years since she could wear it.

    Time passed, she couldn't be sure how much, but she finished the portrait. It did her heart good to put such a thing to paper, where it would remain even when her memory failed her. With a kiss on the corner, she turned her thoughts to what had been, and what was to come._


  • Entry 27 - The Value of Life

    _Believe that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact.

    • William James_

    As we move through the world, things around us change. Time passes, and the more aware you are of your place in things, the more you realise just how little you can control, how much is in flux. Some people react to this realisation by panicking, and trying to fight against it. Others ignore it, hoping it will go away. Others still accept it for what it is, and work with it.

    The worst response that I have seen to where someone realises that they cannot control the situation that they are in, that what they want to happen will not happen, is to attempt to take their own life. It gave me pause, and left me a little shaken. Of course I have heard of suicide, even seen the odd report of it during my time in service, but I have never had to confront it head on.

    When I think of what I found in that room, the first thing that comes to mind is the blood. Burgundy red, and slightly sweet… it was everywhere. The floor, the bed, and on my hands. The second thing is the faces of those who care for her. Fear, worry, guilt, panic, sorrow. So much sorrow.

    When Corwin brought me to her, I had no time to think. A woman I knew only by name lay dying in a pool of her own blood, my training took over. Stitches, bandages, and healing magics. The most powerful spells I had at my disposal poured into her, sewing the wounds closed and restoring vitality to her body that was teetering at the edge of the brink.

    I do not know what could have happened to her, to leave her so desperate for death that she would try to take her own life. Honestly? I don't think I want to know. I pray that it was simply a momentary lapse of sanity, a plea for help from a lost soul. I know that those who care for her will stay with her, do everything that they can for her.

    In the end though, she is the one who is responsible for her life and death. She must learn the value of life, and decide if it something worth fighting for. For me, that question doesn't even need to be asked. Life is something worth dying for, but even more importantly, it is worth living for.

    We cannot hide behind stone or wood walls and huddle together, afraid of the darkness. We must be bold, we must choose to live, or what point is there to even having walls? Let us show them all the value of life, by living every single day to its fullest.


  • _The red haired woman sat in her room, pouring over plans that she’d drawn in conjunction with some dwarven stonemasons that worked in Peltarch. She had had many places that she could live in since she came to Narfell, from the Dancing Mermaid Inn, to the Legion Tower, and currently the Bardic College. But times were changing, hells, it was her that had changed the most.

    Recent discussions that she had had with others in the College had led her to feel that perhaps she was no longer the best person to lead the other bards. Her own ideals had changed so much from the person she once was that she was almost unrecognisable, and so the bard that she was, was no more. Instead she was a singer, and a loremaster. She may be a warrior, a leader of men… but she was not a bard.

    Three stories of stone… two above ground, one below. By the mastery of the dwarves a tree could be placed in the main living room and with a little magic from the druids, it would live and grow as well as it might in the wild, perhaps even better. Here, an enchanting lab. Here, a library and office for writings to be completed and stored. There, two bedrooms. One for guests, one for her. Maybe in time she would share it with someone, but she doubted it.

    This would be her fortress against the cares of the world, a place where she could relax and look out over the Icelace, to imagine her old home in the distance, to think about everything that she had chosen to leave behind. It was like the person she was, was no more, stripped away by the many, many returns to life that the Red Knight had given her. She was no longer Valerie, the Temposan scholar, but rather, she was Valkyrie, the Red Falcon.

    Now all that remained was to get approval from City Hall for the building to proceed, a process that she knew could take a long time. Thanks to the gifts of the fey, time was one thing that she certainly had._


  • Entry 26 – Honour

    _Honor is the inner garment of the Soul; the first thing put on by it with the flesh, and the last it layeth down at its separation from it.

    • Akhenaton_

    There are many aspects of a person’s character that go together to make up their identity. We are all defined by our choices, by the decisions we make, and these in turn are reflections of our character, but they are also the things that can develop us into the people we are. Kindness, cruelty, generosity, selfishness, honour, dishonour, and so on. One of the most important to me, is Honour.

    Honour is not just an ideal, it’s a way of life. Some say that they “honour” their business transactions, which is to say that they carry through on what they say they’ll do. Others give “honour” to their god or goddess, which normally means to do things that are acceptable by that deity. But there is another form of honour, the one that defines what I am to be, and that defines the life of the Samurai. I was reminded of this in a very poignant way recently and it moved me so that I had to write this entry.

    I mentioned the Samurai, the noble caste from Kara-tur. I have long been fascinated by their culture, by their way of life. To them, honour is an absolute; everything is done for the honour of their clan, their Emperor, and their ancestors. To be dishonoured is considered worse than death, and wars have been fought over it. Duels of honour are common, with the loser normally choosing to commit Seppuku, ritualistic suicide. Doing this restores their honour in their own eyes, and the eyes of their kin.

    Many, many years ago now, I watched a duel of honour between sworn foes. The man I knew was defeated by his opponent, who had travelled from Kara-tur to find him and face him. After the loss, his Katana and Wakazashi were taken from him, a great dishonour which his brothers swore to avenge, and he committed Seppuku with the aid of his brother. Those who watched the spectacle tried to intervene, to stop what was happening. They did not understand that honour is more than a matter of life and death, it is a matter of the soul. To the Samurai, if he has no honour, he is nothing, a ghost, a restless spirit with no home. His ancestors will not accept him, he is an outcast from his clan. Neither in life or death will he be accepted by his people until he regains his honour.

    By him committing Seppuku and his brothers regaining his weapons to lay to rest with his body, his honour was restored so that he could go to be with his ancestors in the afterlife. If such had not been done, he would have been doomed to wander the realms without cease as a ghost at best, or a Kami (demon) at worst.

    The Samurai are like what we in the rest of Faerun know as Paladins, holy warriors. To a Paladin, their honour is everything, although their honour is normally devoted to their god or goddess only, and sometimes a lord that they may serve. A Paladin’s word is his bond, he is sworn to never lie, to protect the weak and innocent, to fight evil wherever possible, and to lay down his life rather than betray his ideals.

    To see what happens when a Paladin chooses to break this code, one only has to look at the fall of Kara du’Monte, the Paladin of Kelemvore whose armour I now wear. The Divine Shield was captured by fiends, and she was given a choice… to swear allegiance to her foes, or see her friends taken to the hells and tortured for as long as their souls survive. She chose her friends over her honour, and thus damned herself for all time. She would go on to fall completely, become a Blackguard, and engineer the N’jast war that would see me come to these lands for the first time. We know from the time of the Second Great Misfortune that if she had chosen her honour over her friends, that whilst it would have been a high price to pay, that she would have stayed true to Kelemvore and became the force for good that she had sought to be her entire life.

    Tomohiro is a Samurai from Kara-tur, someone who has been in Narfell for longer than I. He has seen much, done much, earnt much honour. He is so dedicated to his role as a Bushi (Defender, I think) that he died to protect me, and upon his return he was crestfallen for he had failed his sacred task. No matter what Eluriel and I did to try and explain for him that he had actually earnt much honour in what he did, he would not accept it, nor would he accept a gift from me for his bravery. Instead, he demanded that he pay for it. Now he has the finest steel platemail and shield that I can make, and a bow of darkwood from Eluriel. These things, I hope, will aid him in his tasks to come.

    Every day I step a little closer to becoming a holy warrior, a Red Falcon in service to the Red Knight. I will model my goodness on the actions of Alexi, my honour on the actions of Tomohiro, my loyalty on the actions of Natalie. Each of them has an aspect that I admire, that I aspire to reflect in my life and actions. The lesson for me to learn now, is that honour is an absolute, that to die in service of those I have sworn to defend is not a loss, but a gain.

    How a man lives is a good judge of character, but how he chooses to face his death is a better one.


  • Entry 25 - Home

    _I feel like I've never had a home, you know? I feel related to the country, to this country, and yet I don't know exactly where I fit in… There's always this kind of nostalgia for a place, a place where you can reckon with yourself.

    • Sam Shepard_

    Often times when I am relaxing in Peltarch, enjoying the peace and quiet, my thoughts turn to N'jast, to my family and my old home. I haven't seen or heard from my parents since before the Narfell - N'jast war, which makes it more than twenty years. I know that their busines is still rolling along, I've received reports as such from the High Priest in the Temple of Tempus in N'jast, but they're getting old now.

    After the defeat of the Shadovar, Troff and I spoke of home, of family and of things lost to the curse of time and decay. It still hurts me to think that he lost his family and farm to the same war that brought me here, that in some way I am responsible for his loss. I know he wouldn't see it that way, that by my actions I've shown that I was doing what I knew was right despite my orders.

    Troff said that I should return home, that he would come with me. I don't know what awaits me there, but he's right. Even if all it ends up being is a trip to my parents graves, I have to go one last time and see them.

    I don't mind saying that I'm scared. I'm terrified of seeing my parents again, after so long. Will they recognise me? Will they even want to see me? Will they be harmed by my visit, either by their own feelings, or perhaps by someone who recognises me from the past and is after revenge?

    The odd thing is, I don't feel like home is "home" anymore. It's the place where I came from, perhaps the one place I'll always feel a tie to. But home is such a complex idea. I think, for Troff, that his home is with me. I know he is in love with me, but it's not something I can return to him in any way but as a dear friend… and that too, scares me.

    For me, my "home" is where-ever I am that I can feel safe. Sometimes, that's curled up in the corner of a dark cave, eating and resting whilst those dear to me keep an eye out for trouble, sometimes it's in the Peltarch Commons sharing a tale or a laugh.

    Home is where the heart is, and mine is with me, like a snail who carries his home on his back.


  • Entry 24 - The Value of Wisdom

    _Wisdom is the right use of knowledge. To know is not to be wise. Many men know a great deal, and are all the greater fools for it. There is no fool so great a fool as a knowing fool. But to know how to use knowledge is to have wisdom.

    • Charles Spurgeon_

    Many of my recent entries have been more of a report on happenings that have affected me, rather than reflections on thoughts and actions. Perhaps this is a sign of my own bias for action, rather than inaction. Perhaps it is more of an indication of where things have gone, and of some of the major events that have helped to shape me.

    In any case, I digress. This entry is to be written, regarding the value of wisdom, and what wisdom is, in as far as what I conceive it to be. What has brought this to the forefront of my mind, is the relentless search that some have for knowledge. I have met many a bard or scholar who lusts after dusty tomes, thinking that between the covers of this or that moldering relic, that the secrets to the Universe and all things will unfold for them like a beautiful flower.

    And yet, I so often wonder that if they actually did find everything they were after, what would they do with it? Do they have the wisdom to be able to discern the true value and best use of said information? Or would it simply be something to have for the sake of having it?

    I hear so many rumours, tales, secrets and goings on in my daily tasks. From the latest dating scandal in the College, to the table of the Senate, to the actions of bandits and thieves in the pass. Both high and low society speak of one another with as little value as they might place on an amusing animal… something to be watched and enjoyed whilst it pleases them, and treated like dirt when it suits them.

    Some come to me, in their pursuit of knowledge, and I gladly share most that I know, within limits. Some things are too dark to be shared openly, for wisdom teaches me that knowledge can be used for good, or evil purposes. It was my own wealth of knowledge that led me to the Shadow Plane, in the hands of Nekrathul, and it was my wisdom which saw me refuse his requests, even if it would lead to death.

    Others come to me, asking for help with the locating of knowledge. This is a task which I have proven most adept, through my own natural skills and the blessings of the Red Knight. The notes of the revealing of secrets and the finding of hidden knowledge have been known to me for many years, and whilst I do not call on it daily, when I have had cause to, it has taught me much.

    At what point though, can you draw the line between instinct, insight, and knowledge? One is something felt, one is something believed, and one is something known. I hear the words of others around me, see their actions, and I can understand what it is that is put before me in the form of evidence and proof. Where is this line though? The wisdom of this matter is hard to discern.

    I believe about half of what I see, and even less of what I hear, but there are some who I am called to believe simply because of who they are, and their past actions. My instincts tell me one thing, where my insight says another, and knowledge yet another. When the truth is no longer an absolute, what can be trusted?

    What good is wisdom, if the truth it is based on is a lie?


  • _The brown haired woman looked at herself in the mirror, taking in what she could see. It wasn't vanity, it wasn't a desire to please others… this she knew. It was a beginning, of the shedding of the old self and the putting on of the new self. Another step closer to her destination. Still, it was a hard step to take.

    The crushed rubies that had come with her crimson hair dye many, many years ago would finally be used for a purpose. She knew that if she used them with her magics, the colour change would last almost indefinitely. The colour she was after was a dark red, halfway between the red of her cloak and the dark brown of her hair.

    She crushed the rubies further, until they were a fine, glittering red powder, then added the alchemical cream that passed for a hair dye base, and took up the notes of alteration and beauty that lay within her song, the song that underpinned everything she did. The song, that the Red Knight told her was now complete.

    Several minutes later, she walked out of the College, her hair a beautiful deep red, in honour of her Goddess. Even if no-one else ever asked about it, she would know why it was done, and what it meant to her._


  • Entry 23 - A Worthy Death

    _What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.

    • Albert Pike_

    We have cleansed the realm of the Shadovar. Their General, Nekrathul, died on the end of Rith's Blade, as did the Dark Enchantress. Furlinastis fled our forces after doing battle with the Shadovar, and so we did not have to face him and risk releasing Kesson Rel. The last piece of the Spell Engine has been reclaimed and destroyed by Lathander's Light. This victory is everything that could be asked for, and more.

    And yet, I was not there to see it.

    Long ago I made the choice that I would die for this realm, for the friends and allies I have here, and especially for all the innocents who cannot fight against the darkness with steel and spell. This time, I was called upon to see through that decision, and die I did. It was not a glorious death, it was not a hideous death. It was simple, quick, clean, but painful.

    I should record the whole tale, although I have done so elsewhere. Perhaps it will help put my mind at ease, for there are still some doubts that trouble me over it all.

    After much planning between Fadia, Rith, and I, we called for the heroes of the realm to gather in the Norwick fairgrounds. There, we spoke to them of our plan, of what must be done, and the risks involved with it. After splitting those who had gathered into three groups, we headed to Arnath, through the Norwick Crypts.

    Aelthas was unofficially in charge of one group, Rith, our group, and Helena the third. The third group was for those who were not as seasoned or as well equipped, some of whom seemed to be along purely out of curiosity. The other two groups were powerful and well balanced, our group having more spell power but less physical might due to how things worked out.

    We stayed without spells until the border of Arnath, in case of Magic Eaters… a decision that proved wise when I heard a call from Aelthas that the little blighters had turned up, drawn by all the noise and activity. A song on my lips and steel in my hand, I ran up to aid him, knowing that it could take nothing from me. Indeed, they were quickly despatched once we switched with his group, at which point I took the lead as we went into the Hooked Horrors.

    As we conserved our spells, it seemed to make no difference against the Hooked Horrors. They fell like chaff before the scythe, the might of those gathered was so great. Onwards, onwards, to the border of Arnath. Spells were uttered, and we moved in. Most used bows, but I stuck to the sword, knowing that I was one of the foremost defenders and would need to hold the line.

    The Quaggoths proved to still be a difficult foe, although far from insurmountable. Better organisation of our forces would have helped, but without a voice that most can understand, I cannot guide men in the ways of tactics on the field of battle. Something to consider, perhaps I need to develop a series of battle commands with hand signals.

    Searching around Arnath, we stumbled upon Shadovar mages who had already opened the Rift to the Shadow Plane before we could get there, clearly they were the rearguard left behind to stop anyone who came to meddle. We stomped them into the dirt and left their bodies for the Quaggoths to do whatever it is they do with the dead, made our last preparations, and headed through the Rift to come out in a large domed room, the very air around us dark and suffocating.

    My eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, so much time in the Shadow Plane will most likely leave me with that small legacy. Ahead of us was a series of rolling hills that climbed to the summit of a mountain, and on it's top was a statue of a great Wyrm, most likely marking the lair of Furlinastis. Indeed, the Shadow Dragon himself was flying through the air, dropping off Shadows and their kin in his wake.

    Chaos reigned as our forces were thrown into disarray. The strongest of us were at the other end of the field to where the Shadows were, and so we were forced to break rank and rush to take on the Undead. After a few more passes, Furlinastis chose to land and taunt us, his very presence shaking me to my core. I did what I could to gather my wits and face him, but I could not even hit him with my sword, let alone pierce his hide. After a few spells and some determined weapon waving, he took off again, bellowing for the "Servants of the damned Shadovar" to depart, lest they raise his ire.

    Several of the group called after him, but it was to no avail. When two groups assail the same foe in such a short period of time, what else would he think? He knew nothing of our plight, nothing of our war with the Shadovar, and I very much doubt he would care if he did.

    Hours passed as we slowly made our way over the hills and up the mountainside. Shadows and Shadovar attacked us at every turn, as did servants of Furlinastis. All were determined to leave us dead and broken, but not one soul did we lose. It was close though when we were faced with a Nightwalker just when Furlinastis chose to land and taunt us again. Rith fought without fear, but it was her determination that saw her fall to the ground on the edge of life.

    Sheathing my sword and slinging my shield back into place under my cloak, I rushed to her side with my bandages and herbs, checking for a pulse and any sign of life. Aelthas and the others saw my actions, did what they could to defend me whilst I worked feverishly on her, trying to save the life of my Sunny.

    Blood was everywhere, but with a constrictant I was able to reduce the flow and bandage it, binding her other wounds as best I could before I tried to breath life into her chest. The kiss of life, they call it… and this day, it was. Rith coughed to life to the cheers of my allies, and I thank the Red Knight that she guided my hand in that hour. For it was she who was pivotal in the battles to come, and looking back, I know that bringing her back from the brink was my role in this whole trip.

    We continued on, and finally made it to the summit, and the entrance to the lair of the Wyrm. There, the Jester met us, and spouted some nonsense that I can scarcely remember, save that it seemed odd to me that he would appear again to us, much like he did during the battle against the Dracolich.

    Inside, we faced off against several Darksteel Golems, more Shadows, Shadovar, and other dark fiends. Where my own experience of this ends is here, due to my death on the blades of the Shadovar.

    There were four doors to choose from, each going a different way. None were marked any different, and so we started with a process of elimination to find the correct path. The third would prove to be the problematic one.

    As we continued searching each section, our resources grew thin. Many were running low, or out of, healing potions. I myself had used all my Spellcrystals of Stoneskin and Negative Energy Protection, my spells had run out, and so I decided to stand back and use my bow. Down the corridor we went, I was probably near the middle of the group, the three party idea having been abandoned by most due to the chaos that had reigned thus far.

    Into a large cavern we emerged, swords and bows ready. At first, nothing, then a barrage like the Hellmouth had opened. Those at the front stood strong for a few moments, but the tide turned and I remember Aelthas calling for retreat, Raryldor casting his most powerful blessing to save the lives of at least five people around him. As the strongest warriors tried to retreat to the hallway for some cover, those who had been at the back just stood there, confused and dazed by what had happened.

    The Shadovar, seeing that their enemy had turned tail and was retreating, looked for a soft target. They found me, in the corner, with my bow. The only way out of the room was bottlenecked with five people at a time trying to fit two abreast, I knew I would not make it out past the all. So, I called for the Red Knight to guide my sword, drew steel and shield, and stepped forward.

    Without my spells, I was no match for them. Rushing me back, they pinned me to a wall and ran me through whilst others tried in vain to retreat. Some of my allies soon joined me in the Fugue. Helena, one of my bardic apprentices. Mooncandy, the hinnish barbarian. Dondiah, the dancer of Ellistrae. Cray the potion merchant. Zach the trapfinder. And of all the people I did not expect, Raryldor the priest of Corellon. All died in that one horrific retreat, victims of poor tactics and miscommunication.

    From what I have learnt, after the deaths some of the group seemed to lose hope, where others became more determined. They regathered and reorganised, Rith marching on to avenge the deaths of our allies. It seems that none other than the Dark Enchantress herself appeared to the heroes and after some talk or other, went on ahead and slew all of the Shadovar between them and the Shadovar General, Nekrathul. Not willing to risk her own life, she then retreated to watch and wait.

    The group took this last chance to rest and prepare themselves, something that was very badly needed. Spells were re-cast, armor straps tightened, and some order reinstated. The fury of those who remained burnt white hot, and Nekrathul fell before it almost like he had never been. That final battle took place in the hold of Furlinastis, large pools of his blood staining the ground, yet he himself was nowhere to be seen, having retreated to avoid death.

    They searched and gathered up what they could of the dragon hoard, eventually locating the last piece of the Spell Engine. As they went to leave that cursed and despicable place, the Dark Enchantress appeared again before them, demanding the artifact piece that had been bought so dearly. Rith refused her, and charged without fear, the arcane power of the Dark Enchantress offering nothing agsint the combined forces of the light of Narfell, and finally she was slain, a great evil removed from the land.

    From here, the tale is far less exciting. They returned to our plane, and to Norwick. Rith raised me to life, returned my belongings to me and Troff filled me in briefly on what had happened. After that, there was the splitting of the loot, where I gained a most wondrous belt to protect me, with any luck, against any such future trouble like I had encountered.

    I took nothing else bar some gold from the hoard and departed, less than I had been. Returning to Peltarch, I went to my room in the College and knelt down by my bed to pray to the Red Knight, asking for her guidance and instruction. I felt so weak, like a piece of my soul had been ripped from me. It was then that I heard her, speaking softly in my mind.

    Your song is complete as it is, my child. The notes that you can no longer call on are not needed, for you have completed your testing. Your selfless actions and sacrifice for the good of others, your adherance to strategy and tactics, and your honour in the face of defeat have not gone unnoticed. You will be one of my Red Falcons, one of my Beloved.

    It was a worthy death. I pray it will be the last, but I know that that is unlikely.


  • _The brown haired woman looked tiredly through her wardrobe, searching through it for something she had put away for when the time had come. That time was now, and so the suit of armour that had once belonged to the woman who had imprisoned her so many years ago, would be her defence in battle.

    Or rather, a version of Kara that had never fallen. It still boggled her mind how that whole affair had occurred, with duplicates of people running around the realms, including Marty and Eluriel. Even more confusing was how the random nature of chaos had been sifted through to locate a version of the Paladin of Kelemvore, Kara duMonte, who had never fallen, despite the cost to her allies. And then, that woman who had been responsible for the destruction of so much of Narfell, was then responsible for saving it.

    The whole thing was so very circular, that it left her wondering what her fate would be in years to come, if she would end up back as she once was, a soldier for hire following the tides of war. The thought shook her a little, but it was quickly dismissed to focus on the task at hand.

    Take the golden armour, put it on. Feel the cloth and steel against your skin, test it out. Then, go to the tailors and get it adjusted to fit, and recolour the tabard for the Red Knight.

    She would make no further changes to it, to honour the memory of a good woman who fell in service to the land she loved. Despite what had been, and what was, she knew in her heart that Kara had been a woman like her. Determined, faithful, devoted to her friends and allies. Her only failing had been that perhaps she cared too much.

    The walk to the tailors was short, one of the joys of living in Peltarch. She turned heads as she walked, her armour was likely infamous for the one who had once worn it… she hoped in time that she would be able to change their opinion about it all, to see the same truth that she saw.

    And yet, something still echoed in her head, words she heard when she first touched the suit, spoken in a voice that she knew.

    "Hopefully you will have better luck than the first owner".

    She didn't believe in luck, she believed in fate and destiny, and in choosing how you will walk the path ordained for you in life... and yet there was something of a warning in what was spoken.

    Words to think on, as she spoke with the tailor about adjusting the steel to fit._


  • Entry 22 - The Quest for the Singing Sword - Part 3

    _One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.

    • Joan of Arc_

    We travelled north, away from the town and its scared inhabitants, seeking out our enemy. Frozen Zombies blocked our way, but our blades were sharp and our minds focussed on the task before us. After clearing them from our path, we continued on until we came across something most unusual.

    A small boy, sitting by a campfire with a mandolin. My heart jumped, why was he here in this dangerous place, alone? And why was he practicing, instead of trying to get away? He spoke with us, said that his name was “Pumpkin” and that he liked it here, but if we could, he would like to know how to play his mandolin better. Of course I took the time to give him some instruction… music is at the centre of my being, and there is no way that I could not share it with someone who was willing to learn.

    There was something very strange about Pumpkin though. As he played, the wind seemed to swirl around him, responding to his music. I pondered over it for a time, but put it down to perhaps him having a tie to nature, much like some druids I have met. Fadia thought him to be something other than he appeared, but I dismissed that notion, preferring to accept at face value what I saw.

    I offered the young boy a place at the College… fully paid for by myself. Room, board, meals, tuition, all supplies included. He politely refused it, stating that he preferred to stay at his campsite despite the risk, and who am I to try and stifle the artist in the wild? He did ask one thing of us though, after his lesson. The Zombies had stolen his music book, and he wished it returned if possible. Of course we agreed, and were quickly on our way again.

    Moving through the cold hills, we fought Zombie after Zombie, all of them seeming to come from the same place; a cave further north which looked dark and foreboding. If there’s one thing that I had come to know, it is that whatever evil is found outside of a cave, whatever is inside it will be worse. After a check of everyone’s battle condition and supplies, we headed in, prepared for the worst.

    We were not proven wrong.

    Inside the cave, made of stone walls and floors, covered in a thick sheet of ice, was a veritable horde of Frozen Zombies, all of the lurching about purposefully. Their purpose, as could easily be assumed, was to destroy anyone who dared to enter their masters cave. Small Zombies, large Zombies, even animalistic Zombies moved about, sniffing the air to search for their living meal.

    Vanderkaus and Troff set about them with their weapons, blades singing as they cut through frozen flesh and bone, hewing limbs from bodies. There was no concern for our enemies, all that they were was remnants of the living, grotesquely forced into unlife to do the bidding of someone twisted and dark. No soul, no spirit, no will but that which was enforced upon them, they fell before us like chaff.

    Room after room we cleared, each time no sight of the kidnapped villagers. Occassionally we stumbled across a trap, but Marty and Troff made quick work of those, one way or another. Helena sang to raise our spirits, and Fadia aided with spell and scimitar. Together we were a mighty force, and it wasn’t long before we found our goal, the Necromancer behind it all. She spouted the typical evil Necromancer spiel, but she was no match for Troffs fury and he gave her no chance, no quarter.

    We found a chest, full of the things that the Zombies had collected. It seemed utterly random, almost as if they had been told to bring back anything shiny, and had done their best to do so. We were fortunate though, in that the sword I had come in search of, was there and intact. In fact, the fates had smiled upon us, and there was an item suited to each of us, perhaps the Red Knights way of rewarding my allies for their aid in my darkest time.

    As I write this entry in my room in the College, I look back on all that has been in my life. All the sorrow and heartache, all the joy and success. Every time, the difference between one and the other, has been the grace of the Gods, and those I call my friends. And so, my will is set. I am going to complete the path that I have started down, to become a Holy Knight in Her service.

    When I have been so blessed, what other response can there be?


  • Entry 21 - The Quest for the Singing Sword - Part 2

    _Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.

    • Marcus Aurelius_

    We found ourselves standing before a small Icebreaker ship, set with odd ornamentation and manned by an unusual crew. More leg-breakers than sailors, then ignored us for the main part… except for Helena. They regarded her with what was either disdain or amusement. Big Bert himself was a large fellow, large in build and large in the words he chose to use... he would have seemed quite the gentleman, including his moustache, except for the men who worked for him.

    The fair was ten gold each, but twenty for Helena for some reason none of us bar she knew... it seemed she and Bert were familiar with one another. She didn't seem willing or interested in explaining it, so I simply paid the fare for everyone, and we boarded the Icebreaker, "Big Berts Basher".

    The trip north was uneventful, but cold... a chill in the air that got worse the further we travelled. In a matter of hours we arrived at our destination, a small town nestled in the snowy hills that seem to mark the north of Faerun. No wonder the Nars barbarians were all horsemen in ancient times, it would be hell on the legs to run up and down hills all day.

    As we looked around the town, we could see that something was wrong. The church was partially collapsed, no people walked the streets, in fact, no sound at all came from the stonework that surrounded us. Eerie, and very wrong. My eyes sought out some notable building, perhaps an inn or town hall, somewhere that people would shelter when the church is no longer safe. We did find an inn, the door unlocked and fresh corpses littering the floor.

    A quick search found a locked room, inhabited by some locals. The man guarding the door from the inside seemed quite mad and determined that everyone outside of the room was an enemy. It took a lot of convincing to get him to open the door, and give us information. Children were huddled in there with their parents, from the look of them they were all that remained of the towns inhabitants.

    The doorkeeper told us that the mayor, the man we sought, had gone north to fight off the "beasts" that had been killing the townsfolk. And so after leaving some food and water with the survivors, we headed out to find him. He was only a short ways north, a dwarf with an eyepatch and their normal sense of gratitude... told us that frozen zombies had stolen his sword, and several other things from the town, including people.

    His sword was Asira's sword... the blade we had come for.


  • Entry 20 - The Quest for the Singing Sword - Part 1

    _The longest journey is the journey inwards. Of him who has chosen his destiny, who has started upon his quest for the source of his being?

    • Dag Hammarskjold_

    It is something that I have idly considered for years, whether the rumours were true that there did indeed exist such a wonderful thing as a Singing Sword. In my spare time, I would read through books where I could find references to a blade that could harmonise with music around it, speak to people who swore that they had met a bard with the ability to speak without her lips moving.

    Now I know that it does indeed exist, and I am its owner.

    Eowiel had taken a personal interest in my plight, and told me of a true tale she heard many years ago… that of a bard much like myself. Her name was Asira Swiftblade.

    Asira fought for the goodly people of the realm, constantly putting herself in harms way to defeat the evils that plagued the realms. In one of her battles however, her vocal chords were severed magically, and could not be restored. Her career as an adventurer seemed over, until Sune Firehair, moved by Asira's loss and the loss of such a beautiful voice from the world, created a sword of power that would allow her to sing once more.

    The last that Eowiel knew of the blade, it had passed on to a mayor of a small town not far from Narfell. And so, she organised a ship to take me and five companions there, a small icebreaker to travel north. Many offered me their aid, but I could only take a few, and so Vanderkaus, Helena, Marty, Fadia, and Troff were each asked to pledge their swords to my quest.

    The first four gladly agreed, but Troff was a harder matter. His death in Mintas Rhelgor had left him broken in spirit, and he had not returned from the dead. I knew of no mundane or magical way of reaching him, and so I placed my trust in the hands of my Goddess. Three days and nights I prayed by harp in the Temple of the Triad, three days and nights I did the same in the Temple of Lathander. On the sixth night, Raryldor the silver haired came to the temple in Norwick, and upon seeing my face and hearing the music, he smiled and laid a hand on my shoulder.

    I will be forever thankful for what he did that day. He joined me in prayer, his own words in elven to his god, asking for strength and the ability to restore Troff to life. I continued my playing and prayer, until Raryldor completed his incantation, and Troff breathed again, his life restored to him.

    He had heard me, in the Fugue. He had heard my call for him, and had come back for me.

    Several days passed, whilst Troff recovered and we gathered our supplies. I had no idea what to expect on my Quest, but I knew it would not be easy.

    The day came for it to begin. We gathered in the Temple of the Triad, and offered our last prayers for guidance and protection, then headed to the Peltarch Docks to find our ship, "Big Bert's Basher".


  • Entry 19 - The Voiceless Songstress

    _A painter paints his pictures on canvas. But musicians paint their pictures on silence. We provide the music, and you provide the silence.

    • Leopold Stokowski_

    It's been a long time since I've been able to write here. So much has happened… and a lot of it I don't want to write about. Whilst searching for some kind of sign or information about the Shadovar, I was kidnapped by them. The next nine months was spent in a prison on the Plane of Shadow, where amongst other things, I lost my tongue.

    It was a choice I made. It was not forced on me. The Shadovar General, Nekrathul gave me two options... aid him willingly and betray my people, or he would cast Domination spell after Domination spell until I eventually fell under his control. I took a third option and bit my own tongue off so that I could tell him nothing.

    Unfortunately, whilst in that prison cell my tongue wound became infected somehow with negative energy. It won't accept healing magics of any sort, and so I am now a bard that cannot sing. At first, I thought I would die from the loss of my voice, but now... now I know that there is more to live for.

    A brave group of heroes came to where I was, and freed me whilst stopping the Shadovar from one of their many evil acts. Amongst them was Troff. He swore he would always come for me, no matter what. And he did... even though it cost him his life. He has yet to answer the call to return.

    The adventurers of the realm, from what I have been told, struggled without me to find the motivation to face the Shadovar, to stop them. Fadia did what she could to get them moving, but it wasn't an easy task... now her and I are working together. We have plans, good plans. Plans to move things on, to stop the Shadovar and defeat the evil that plagues our realm.

    Currently, in order to stop the Shadovar, I'm searching for information on the location of a sword that will allow me to cast spells and sing through it. Using it, the fabled Singing Sword, I will be able to step onto the Plane of Shadow once more, to defeat them and force them from our home.

    Before I can do that though, I have one more thing I must do.

    I have to speak with Troff.


  • Interlude - Time in the Shadows - Part 3

    _Months passed. The brown haired woman got over her pain, steeled herself. Her fate would not allow her to die here, alone and forgotten, she would not be permitted to fall without some sort of final victory, even if it wasn't the victory she was truly hoping for.

    Every night, before she went to sleep, she prayed to the Red Knight for guidance, for strength, and for courage to stand against her foe in the days to come. Every day when she woke up, she would wash her face and dress at what was as far as she could tell, the same time. She tried to keep a routine, to give herself a pattern to follow, so that she would be able to hold onto the hope that one day she would be free.

    So she kept her mind in order, she tried to stay fit. Push-ups, sit-ups, free weights with whatever she could find in the cell, and jogging backwards and forwards in the small area she had. The guards laughed at her at first, but over time, they grew used to her antics and just ignored her.

    Until one day. A priest turned up, told her that she was being moved. The time had come for a ritual to supress the Weave, so that they could get around Mystra's ban. If the first ritual went well, she would be used in the next one, and so they wanted her with them so that they wouldn't have to make another trip._

    A few days later…

    _The sounds of battle came up to her, in her cell at the top of the abandoned keep in Mintas Rhelgor. She heard battlecalls, and recognised some of the voices. Troff had kept her word, he had come for her. Fadia was there as well, Ronan, Maria, Jerrick, Shannon, Fadia, Yng'dir… they had all come for her.

    She didn't do anything though... there wasn't much she COULD do. No tongue meant no spells, and the ritual that the Shadovar mages and priests had completed would have negated that anyway. She couldn't sing either, so there was no way to let her friends know she was there. So instead, she watched the stairs through the darkness, waiting to see a glimpse of the people she had been hoping and praying would come for her.

    They rushed up the stairs, and she waved to them, jumping about to try and get their attention... she wasn't sure they'd see her through the darkness, but she had to try. Some of the Shadovar casters weren't impressed with that though, and began casting spells onto her to knock her out. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, they quickly left her to go and cast spells against those who had dared to come and try to stop them.

    One by one her friends fell... Troff, Maria, Jerrick, Yng'dir, and Fadia. Shannon ran down the stairs, holding his stomach in place, and Ronan ran, bleeding profusely. The brown haired woman collapsed to her knees, crying, and offered up a silent prayer to the Red Knight.

    The Shadovar laughed and went back to their places, ignoring the dead to continue the ritual. An hour passed, then suddenly, a colossal Red Dragon appeared in the middle of the room, and on its back was Shannon and a pair of Kelemvorite Paladins. It was obvious to her that they were spelled up, and less than thirty seconds later the Shadovar were dead.

    It turned out that the dragon was Ronan. He had used the scroll of Shapechange that he had saved from the defeat of Ogremochs herald to bring him, Shannon, and the Paladins in as quickly as possible after spells had been cast. Clearly, it had worked.

    A dragon is definitely not challenged by a set of iron bars, and so in moments she was free... less than an hour later they were all back at the Shrine of Kelemvore and the dead had been raised.

    All but Troff. He refused the call._


  • Interlude - Time in the Shadows - Part 2

    _The darkness around the brown haired woman moved quickly past her, blurring as the General travelled with her as his prisoner. Other Shadovar were with him, warriors and casters alike, all wearing the same livery, each of them with the same markings on their shoulder. From what she could tell in the dim light, they were part of the same unit, probably an honour guard for the General.

    They spoke in a tongue that she did not understand, probably Netherese. Some of them sounded pleased, others were unaffected, and yet the General himself sounded amused by something. Maybe they had found her mewling pitiful… she had no way of telling.

    After a time, the blurring stopped and a hole in the darkness appeared. The Shadowwalk spell was ending, they had most likely arrived at their destination. The spell that had held her had long ago ended, but she became instead bound with some kind of rope made of shadow-stuff. With a hand on the shadow-rope, the General gave her a tug to pull her along, and she followed him silently, trying to take in all that she could around her.

    The area around her seemed like a darkened echo of the Material Plane she knew.. it looked distinctly like Faerun, but everything was in shades of grey and black, all the buildings and plants looked twisted and somehow wrong. She'd only ever glimpsed it before, but now she was bang in the middle of the Shadow Plane, a fact that was reinforced by a mage she saw nearby practicing his use of Shadow stuff by hurling it at a target roughly a hundred feet from him.

    The General barked some orders, and the Shadovar that were with him formed up into a unit with him at the centre, her right behind him. As she peered through the gloom, ahead she could see a large stone castle, built much like the fort outside Ormpurr, but larger, and sharper. Even stranger, the taller the towers were, the more they seemed to curve and twist to keep in check with some unknown rule of geometry that applied here.

    They forced her on, into the castle... through corridors and doorways, large rooms, and so on, until eventually they arrived at a large stone room. It looked clean, if a little cold and dark, with a bed set into a corner behind some bookcases for privacy, a table, and various writing implements and books. The only source of light in the room was a torch set above the bed, it burned with a yellow flame which looked quite unusual amongst all the gloom.

    After the others had left, and the door closed with guards set on it, the General spoke with her... told her that she had been brought here for a few reasons. She was knowledgeable about Narfell, and could therefore aid them in finding the location of the artifact pieces they sought. She could cast Legend Lore, which would reveal even more information, and she could step between the Material Plane and the Shadow Plane... something they did not wish their enemies to be able to do.

    She swore an oath before him, that she would die before she would aid them in their tasks, she would die before she told him anything of her home. He seemed amused by this, and tried to break her will with magics, but she had already steeled herself and resisted his attempts.

    The General left the cell and her, promising to return shortly to revisit their discussion. Over the coming days and weeks, food and water was brought to her, along with word of how the "expedition to the wastes of Narfell" was going for the Shadovar. Every time they killed a hero, they made sure to tell her of it, every time they attacked and caused terror, they told her. They spoke of how they had tricked her friends with an illusion of her, how they had forced their hand and taken a piece of the artifact from them, and that resistance in the face of such power was pointless.

    For her part, she listened to them and their idle chatter, which they carried out in common so that they could be sure she'd understand it, and read all the books she could by the yellow torch light. She learnt much of their intent, much of their actions and the structure of their forces... learnt about their tactics, how they conducted themselves.

    Eventually, the General came to see her again. Said that resistance would earn her nothing but a broken spirit, that she would either tell them what they wanted to know willingly, or they would cast domination spell after domination spell until her mind broke. And so, she took the best option left to her. The brown haired woman reached into her mouth, pulled her tongue as far forward as she could, and bit down on it as hard as possible.

    The pain was intense, the sweet taste of blood welled up like a fountain in her mouth... it was all she could do to hold her teeth together and stifle the cries she wanted to make. Bright colours flashed before her eyes as her mind tried to cope with the pain and intense anguish that she felt, the loss of such a beautiful gift from the gods.

    Holding it all back, she swallowed the useless muscle and opened her mouth to show the General her ultimate act of defiance. He would not be able to dominate her, to have her tell him her secrets. She could no longer cast spells, she could no longer sing, or even talk. Shocked and confused, he turned on his heels and left the cell without a word, the guards on the door watching in silence.

    She waited until he had left and the guards gone back to their talking before she went to her bed and cried herself to sleep. No one person was more important than the realm, no one thing worth more than the lives of others. She had paid the price of freedom willingly... but by all the gods, it hurt more than anything she had thought possible.

    The greatest pain was not in her mouth though... it was in her heart._


  • Interlude - Time in the Shadows - Part 1

    _The brown haired woman stood in the commons, wearing her Bardic College outfit. Much was in flux, as always, and she had new allies to help and protect. Ael'que, the blue elf had asked to investigate the Peltarch Barrows, and so she put aside her own misgivings about going there. Troff, her own elf in blue would be with her, and he always brought the light with him. Others came as well… Maero, Ama'bael, Elsbeth. A solid party, although no healers or mages.

    As they moved from the Commons to the Sewer entrance, there was a rumble, and darkness struck. Shadows appeared and attacked, but they were easily dispatched before Guards arrived to look over the scene, confused. No matter, she knew the truth and would report it to Sir Mariston. Continued on, gave their names to the Guards on the Sewer entrance, who thought it likely that some or all of them would die deep beneath the streets.

    She continued on with Troff after casting spells of protection and augmentation on everyone. Down into the Sewers, nothing out of the ordinary until they got deep into the Barrows themselves. Ael'que said he was searching for clues relating to the Shadovar, or what they were after.

    It turned out they were after her.

    The standard undead in there fared no better than they normally did. All fell before them, and she barely had to do anything. It was reassuring that the future would be in good hands, should something happen to her. Once they had gotten to the point of the exit to the Residential district, she had them stop and rest so she could treat what wounds there were.

    Prepared again, on they moved. Cleansed the Crypts as far as they could tell, then moved into the Ashald Tomb. Nothing out of the ordinary, until a Blade Barrier appeared out of nowhere, then a Wall of Flame. Another and another appeared, until she was boxed in. Panic from the others, but she was calm, she knew that to move would be death, but to stay still was to live.

    The spells faded, and she gave the order to retreat. She knew in her heart that the spells weren't random, that something was after her. She had been taken here once before, and she would not have it happen again. They made haste, running for the exit to the Residential district. Troff didn't seem to understand, but so often that was the case that she wished she could just order him like she once could.

    Then, they struck. The Shadovar General hit her with a Bigbys spell, freezing her in place. Unable to move, unable to cast, unable to do anything other than speak. He cast again and again as the others poured into the same room, hoping to free her. They were met with powerful Shadows, and spells of disablement.

    The General walked over to her, seemingly pleased with his prize. Troff cried out for her, and she called his name plaintively. The General laughed, and raised his hands to create an area of utter darkness, into which he stepped, dragging the brown haired woman with him. The same area of darkness that she recognised as belonging to the Plane of Shadow.

    She was his prize._


  • _There was a time for all things, a wise man had told her. A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up. Now, it was her time to build up.

    The brown haired woman worked through her notes, sighing a little as she did. It wasn't that she didn't want to share her knowledge, or that she disliked spending time with others, but more that she knew that there was always a limit to what she could accomplish. Whilst she was teaching, she would not be out in the field, fighting to defend the land.

    She had to trust that others were up to the task, and knuckle down to do what needed to be done. The students would come in shortly, their young minds eager to be filled with the knowledge of those who had come before them, and it was now her task to ensure that they could learn what they needed to be able to make their own paths in life.

    In a very real way, it was simply another weapon in the arsenal of the warrior. The Red Knight would be pleased with her work this day, and in the days to come, even though it would not involve any swordplay._