3. The Lone Wolf's Peace

The Lone Wolf's Peace

  • L

    “All paths eventually come to this place.”

    The voice was silent but thundering, humble yet commanding. To hear the words uttered from the mouth of a god was a very different thing than to hear them through a human-shaped avatar. A low familiar tone common to both voices brought the sitting figure to her feet though. Even before she cast her grey eyes to the form standing behind her, the ranger knew he was the Wind Rider, the Helping Hand, Shaundakul. The eerie, disconcerting red light of the fugue plane did not touch his broad, leather clad shoulders, nor his grey-brown beard or his flowing cape that seemed to be constantly dancing in a nonexistent breeze. It was only what her mind comprehended as the god, the deity lacking the need to take a physical shape in the fugue, so close to his realm.

    The others clamoured in the background, not far from her spot. They who had died after her, attempting to escape the monstrous bugbears who had called on their god to strike down the intruders. They did not see him, or rather, he did not show himself to them. The dwarves, the elven lady, the hugely muscled man… they waited for the ones on the living plane to call them back to life. Not quietly, not patiently, but waiting nonetheless, since it took time and energy to call one back from the fugue. She had removed herself from them almost at once, a comrade-in-arms however briefly in life, she would not be their comrade in death. Or was it the other way around? They would not be joining her in death, in true death.

    “You realize the truth, my dear ranger,” Shaundakul spoke again, Lo’en having no need to give voice to her thoughts. “You have served me faithfully. You have deserved this peace, this final path to travel.”

    There were no words to be said. The cleric-ranger rose to her feet, as gracefully in the thought of a body as in the physical body. She walked alongside the great deity, whose presence as her mind comprehended, stood five heads higher than her. The others took no notice of the half-elf’s departure, as she seemed to walk into a mist. Or was it that her body was dissolving into mist? No one turned their heads even once to look.

    She seemed to be walking down a familiar corridor of mist. It had been years since she had last traveled through the dream fog, in which she had related her “previous” life to Shaundakul. Despite her willingness to be numb toward her situation, Lo’en hesitated a step, her heart aching.

    “I have been watching, Lo’en Jaspenellar. I know what has come of your past. Do not blame yourself for believing what the wizard had you believe.”

    When she spoke, her voice was quiet, lacking the anger and frustration that had seized her mind when she had tracked down the villain who had stolen her life. “My lord, you had me believe that you came to me because I had traveled to another place, another plane not of this world. I regaled you with tales of false memories, events, people, places that do not exist except in the mind of a demented wizard… and myself.”

    The god shook his head, seeming to become more ethereal as they walked. “They were memories nonetheless. These are the things from your mind, things that have helped mold into you were on my plane. You have kept your sanity upon finding that world never existed, where others, less strong in spirit, would have given into despair or dementia.”

    Her heart eased at his words. The mists swirled at her conceived feet into patterns, slowly taking on a scrying effect. The grey-eyed ranger found she did not need to stop moving as the fog followed, dissipated, and danced around her. “We travel the path of the past now, Lo’en.”

    The mists opened memories locked in a child’s mind as it took on the forms of two dwarves, kindly taking in children of all races abandoned by their parents. The ranger remembered as she watched, the small, homey cavern, her human brother and gnome sister, quickly outgrowing the home and setting forth with the blessing of her parents, to adventure with her adoptive siblings… The fog turned grey, blank, not for as long as her ten years of captivity, though time seemed to have no meaning or span in the realm of mist.

    Surreally, the north gate of Norwick appeared, ever ephemeral, but distinguishable. Images of a younger, impatient half-elven ranger, searching without abandon for the red griffin, depicted above her head. The fear in some way seemed tangible, a fear of losing her best friend, the only love she had known. The likeness of red-haired barbarian Honsa, who later became Honsa the bard, appeared, her earliest acquaintance and confidant. Brief scats and battles ensued as god and mortal “walked”. Entered Balin Troff, the dwarf who dove headlong into danger and more often than not brought his friends into his troubles. But the ranger was reckless as well, images of the red griffin still haunting her. She was searching but her mind, and the mist, was now darkening with despair and desperation to find her old life. Images of Vine Spellsong, the confused but faithful friend; Vino Sten, strong and stalwart confidant; Bruno, the mist conveying a sense of bittersweet regret as the orc had been a good friend of the ranger, but somehow became an enemy of the other rangers; Isaac, the physically weak mage who had incredible insight to the mind and spirit; Horbag, the creative cook who had introduced a new level of rodent cuisine; Myth Redren, hin with a mission… in all these the ranger had befriended. To some she had tried to explain her past, to others she simply tried to lose herself in their quests and lives but there was ever that sense that she did not belong…

    Her grey eyes took in all of the imagery as it stirred memories in a distant fashion, as that of a dream. Detached, she watched her life in Faerun move along with her.

    … finding a certain feeling of belonging, the dark mist brightening a shade as the visages of Wolves were presented by the fog. Tanin, stern but fair leader, taking the lonely ranger under his wing and into the Pack; Big Six, assuming the mantle of leadership, ever noble and strong and wise; Grivel, gravely dutiful and loyal, the first Wolf she met; Kharbeh, stealthy, playful, sensible sister; Drago Dasher, hin with a heart of a lion; Alandar, fiercely quiet but no less a Wolf than the others. The old Pack melded immutably with those of her own time- Cervio, the little brother; Ashen, always brooding but ever steadfast to the Pack; Shyrae, dark Wolf sister for whom she stormed the bandits’ town; Adlanail, bringing music to the camp when those would think there could be none; Nebril, fiery in appearance and spirit; Thad, dependable and always clear headed. And those who followed, junior only by time in service to the Wolves of Narfell- Arah’, her elven brother she never had; Lof, more dwarf than elf; Equinox, valiant knight of the forest; Tindra, no less a Wolf for her feline tendencies.

    The faces blurred, a continual stream of images, each bringing memories which spanned every emotion. Still dream like, Lo’en watched the mists of time march on.

    A forest floor littered with leaves and blood, wild boars driven mad by a dark secret harbored deep in the Rawlins; a god-like being reached out to a fallen, torn body, saving her from a meaningless death and tying her further to the world of Faerun; another face formed in the mist, a mentor in practice and brother in spirit- Walken who would, and did, walk the world for her…

    And as the mists spun through her life, each event melted into the next, her ties to this land became more and more sure as she allowed herself to bury her previous life by trying to live the present with the Wolves of Narfell, serving Norwick as it would have them, and then serving the rest of the land as need called for the Pack. Images of the well of Norwick, the goblins Skara and Ugog who plagued the Rawlins, battles fought for Jiyyd, bandits of the Nars Pass, and then beyond the land of Narfell to other less familiar places, called by the Wind to roam the wide world…

    The grey-eyed wolf nearly stopped her walk as her mind reached for Ohtar and the mists obligingly formed the elven face-

    Love… Lo’en reached for the insubstantial figure as the mist took on Ohtar’s form. It shivered as her hand passed through. Her bonded one, her reason for living, her strongest tie to Narfell. For his love she returned alive from the bandit stronghold. For his life she dedicated her life to service to Shaundakul. For him she conceived a child…

    And then the painful images of the walls of the Friar’s house surrounded her, forced to look on her own writhing, bleeding form on the bed; Grivel and Arah’ standing nearby, feeling useless; Cordelia’s woman Anne taking the stillborn child from her; Walken attempting to soothe the heartache and bitter tears.

    The ranger could find no tears now, only forced to watch as living continued, though she had not been sure she wanted to…

    Travelling again, this time to Aglarond to find the truth of her life; Walken traveling alongside, helping her to find and confront the wizard who had stolen her in childhood and given her a false life within her mind to torment her. Feeling betrayed, artificial, and forfeit, the cleric-ranger had gone to another servant of the Wind Rider, to cope and adjust to the closure of what had been one of the most important chapters of her life.

    Lo’en sighed faintly. She watched the fog blur her story as she returned to the Rawlins, but a part of her had died. She had lurked the woods somewhat separate from her Wolves, keeping to herself and to Ohtar…

    At last she was able to give her grief expression, tears running silently from the grey eyes that never could dissemble her true feelings. “I am ready my lord. I am ready but I grieve for my love. Will he understand? I would not have him… crazed… into following me… to death… if there are still things for him to do.” The bond that bound her closer than blood to the elf was faint but still manifest in her soul. For a moment Lo’en could not go on, the pain choking her words. “I love him… but for our bond I would have been lost a long time ago…”

    The god did not touch her, no longer a form but a presence, the wind caressing her tear-stained cheeks as soothing and kindly as physical touch. “You gave a part of yourself to become my cleric. It was not an easy adjustment to trade some of your ranger prowess for cleric spells. He knew that you made that sacrifice for him. The elf will choose his own path now.”

    She turned to face the last set of images, the Rawlins sprawled out before her, Arah’, Ohtar, and herself following a large group deep into the Rawlins with dread but a feeling of reluctant duty to help those who had lost their items in bugbear territory. The images moved quickly, but not seeming as rapid and uncomprehending as it had while she lived it… The success of battle to reach the deep camp only to beset by a sudden ambush of the bugbear clerics; the grey Wolf spotting them first, having no time to even shout warning as she aimed her bow at the nearest; a last, pleading look to Ohtar to run for his life; the shocking pain of fire ripping through her soul and body, again and again; staggering forward to place another arrow into the thick hide of a cleric, presenting herself as a sole target; the others scattering from the camp even as she moved impossibly closer to the enemy, allowing them to escape and regroup; and finally white death…

    “All of my faithful may see their lives should they choose. They must come through this path willingly to proceed to the next world.”

    The implications were left unsaid. Lo’en thought of those who would need her, of her role as Wolf and protector of those who would travel the Rawlins unprepared, of the children she would never be able to give to Ohtar, of Ohtar’a himself and how she would never be able to look on him again, feel his arms around her, hear his love in his voice… For a moment it was unbearable and she quailed at the thought of proceeding. But she remembered the loneliness and emptiness the wizard had left her, the knowledge of false memories and no longer was there a drive to find those she had lost since they had not existed.

    “Goodbye, love…” the words drifted on the wind as the ranger became as ethereal and incorporeal as the mists around her, following the Wind Rider one last time.


  • cant help but sniffle