Shadows and dust - A glance into the shadows
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((Had some time to kill earlier. I thought I'de give a little bit of info pertaining to Shadowstrider's disappearance, and what he's been up to since leaving. Not going to post it all now, it'll come in small bits.
Text appearing in italics are entries from this journal. Standard text is 3rd person perspective of actual occurences.
Read, skim, hate, love… shrugs))
The north wind rolled off the lips of the Icelace, caressing the rolling curves of the pass. Swaying softly in the breeze, kissing the comforting winds as they passed, southwad, the grass waved to the travellers. A gentle gesture on the clam, oddily warm day in the midst of winter.
Though the environs were welcoming, the "natives" were hardly so. The all-to-familiar purple and orange colors, clearly identifying the "eastlanders." Littering the pass, ugly splotches roaming and accosting all who didn't match their unnatural palette.
Throughout the day many would travel, relying on the soft breeze and sun to maintain the spring-like atmosphere. They were pleasently surprised to see the current climate continue, until the sun began to fade. As the sun sank below the horizon the soothing whispers of wind was replaced by fangs of frost. The waves of grass stiffened and hardened upright.
What started as a pleasent day became a frozen night. Pulsing in surges of strength and rage, the harsh winds carried from the Icelace carrying a bone-numbing chill. It began to claw and bite any who stepped away from the safety and warmth of a fire. Even the "bastion of hope - Sam's Hill" was emptied by the ravaging wind's assaults.
_The past few days, weeks perhaps, have been particularly unpleasant. Someone has been impersonating me, commiting acts which have made my already long list of enemies even longer. I couldn't be bothered to weed through their many-voiced accusations, simply proved my innocence with some help from Krig.
However, that oaf, Chiero has earned a small tribute of attention for tackling me. I'll have to prepare something nice for him. The pair of arrogant and self-righteous trolls, Sam and Rick, their humiliation is enough for the time being. The looks on their faces as Krig confirmed all my denials was worth interacting with them. Some say I should simply end both their prodding, why I don't, I am unsure.
Perhaps my weaknesses are returning, or I have retained some rather unfavorable traits from my past. Time will tell._
The room was dark, except for Selune's silver light shining down on the table positioned beneath the window. The wind could be heard, howling for attention. Despite the loud sound of wind scratching wood and window, his gaze remained fixed. Sitting on the table before him, an exquisitely made black book, opened approximately midway.
His right hand gently cradled the raven-black quill, as the left, perhaps unconciously, toyed with the hilt of his rapier. As the index finger absently tapped the single jewel, a sapphire, his other fingers traced the intricate carving and shaping of the handle. Eventually the ring-finger found the all-to-familiar etching, bringing his writing to a pause, the quill pen coming to perch on his lips.
He glanced down, his ice-blue eyes settling upon the hilt a moment as his thoughts slowly strayed. For an instant, a fleeting moment perhaps, he looked upon the specific marking on the hilt. A wave of doubt, perhaps even remorse. Then it was over, a fleeting whisper, once spoken to loud, quickly silenced.
His eyes quickly moved from the mark, his eyes settling back on the journal, his left hand on the table. His right hand resuming its writing.
The mask on the blade's hilt, however, continued to stare at him.
_Whoever desires to tarnish my reputation has done quite well. They, assuming it is neither male, female, or even a single person, managed to down Uthger. The barbarian, understandably angry, decided to repay me for what "I" had done. As I sat by the tree, a cry of "Strider… run" erupted to my left. Looking up I spotted a charging barbarian, axe in hand.
I stood slowly only to be slammed back down, his axe sweeping my legs out from under myself. Rising again, he claimed "I should kill you!" I said little, letting him stew in his anger. He spouted off a bit, a crowd gathered. Gripping my holy symbol, I rendered myself invisible to the naked eye, and walked away calmly, albeit slightly bruised, I "left." In actuality I circled around and spied upon the fallout.
Adriana [There is a strange shift in how this is written. The normally measured, and eloquent writing is replaced, as if written hastily. Even the casual observer could spot the differing amounts of ink, and more sloppy(though still rather elegant) writing.] came to my defense as I "fled." Though she fought bravely, she was brash and no match for the barbarian. . . not this time. I feel I am getting a bit too close to her, for several reasons. I am unsure whether I should remedy the reasons, or simply end the situation itself. Never-the-less, something will have to be done.
Samson and Rick explained their theory of "two Striders." Uthger made the logical offer; he'd simply kill us both and end the problem. A prudent and well-thought plan, were I not myself, I would have helped him.
During the scuffle with Adriana I prayed that Uthger's own thoughts be hidden from him. Though the my will was granted, the barbarian seemed unaffected. I believe he has an item which grants him protection from things which would hinder his movements. Further research into this is required._
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Running his fingertips along the tufts of grass, as his gaze pierced the night. He found himself staring at the crossroads and barely managed to stifle a chuckle. "Bcoming a philospher." A soft whisper, mostly to himself as he pondered the imagery of the situation at hand.
He sat pondering his future, a figurative crossroads. At the same time his sight was locked on the crossroads of the Nars Pass. Lost for a moment in thought and theory, the sound of approaching footfalls in the distance stirred his thoughts.
Glancing down and to the right, he managed to makeout a party approaching from the south. Elves, or mostly elves, at least five. As they closed in the familiar faces of Grivel, Andu and Tala stood out in the small crowd. Perched high on the hill and sitting behind a rock, the dark figure went unnoticed by the party, until they were barely 10 feet from him.
The lone man sitting peacefully in the Nars on a bittercold night drew odd stares and concerned glances. The man in black simply nodded and watched as they passed.
_All is set. My belongings packed, my resources prepared, all I need now is to start out.
Unfortunately, as is usually the case, the first step is proving to be the most troublesome. My thoughts continue to slip, recalling the faces and words of "friend," "confidants," and allies. Yet again that word, the word which was beaten into my head, troubles me.
Duty.
Duty be damned. I continued to repat the words, yet my vows continue to consume my thoughts. Carrion of my thoughts, these lessons and teachings. Once the images of allies I was leaving fade, faces of those I most loathe appear, mocking me as I leave. Though they say nothing the expresions on their faces wreak of victorious declerations, and snide remarks.
I pass by them, walking in a long dark hallway, yet I still see their shadows upon the invisible surface of dark void. I close my eyes, and continue to walk, only to see a new image staring back at me. Comforting me, coaxing me to continue, and stay the course.
A black velvet mask, resting on an invisible face.
It spoke to me. . ._
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The first strike was crippling, a brutal cross-stab ripping deep into the bandit's rusty chainmail. The single-sapphired rapier biting into the bandits chest, punctering his left lung. The shadow-clad man maneuvering around as the terrified bandit spun in a blood-raged frenzy. A second strike came, this one tripping the bandit, causing him to fall flat on his back, knocking what little air remained from his form.
As the bandit lie on his back, gasping for lifebreath, his senses slowly returned in what must've felt like a bloodrush. His eyes widened as what started as a foreboding blur slowly transformed into a heavily cloaked and cowled figure. For a moment he thought himself still deaf, as he couldn't hear the man's approach, but then, hearing his own ruffling in the grass, he realized how wrong he was.
The man in black slowly rose his left boot, bringing it to rest on the panicked priest's orange armor. The icy gaze penetrated the shadows of his hood, firmly fixed upon the bandit's terrified eyes.
"You should be honored, heretic." The cloaked man stated flatly. "I have taken the time to meet with you before leaving."
The bandit pathetically sputtered, attempting in vain to speak. His failing breath escaping from the hole in his chest. The cowled man grit his teeth a moment at the foolishness of his actions.
"Save your breath, or you will die before you hear my offer." He paused briefly, as if waiting for a response in mockery. "Now then heretic, I have a proposition for you. As I said, I am leaving this place. Accordingly, I will require a good set of ears. One that few, if any, would expect." Waiting a moment to allow the felled bandit time to process his current situation completely, he continued again.
"In return for your swaring allegiance to the Shadowlord, and serving as my agent, I will save your life and give you a few things to "prove" my good will." The cowled figure nodded slightly as he gazed down on the bandit.
"Nod once if you agree. . ."
_I have felt a heavy burden of late. In addition to throwing away the old holy symbol of Torm, the last relic of my past, I had also abandoned my pledge to Adriana. Another attempt by Torm to plague my existence, perhaps.
Irrelevent. The lands of Narfell are fading from my eyes. The people and problems therein fleeing from my mind. Their petty concerns and trivial pursuits will finally cease their incessant intrusions into my mind. I only wish I could say the same for my heart.
A part of me wants to return, slay my "brother," and the meddlers therein. Strike down all my foes and clamly resume living in the small town of Norwick. A part of me wants to go back and stand by Adriana and whatever plagues her. A part of me will forever carry Narfell with me, and attempt to pull me back to this land.
Such ideals and thoughts are defeated, quickly and summarily, once I recover from the folly of these pitiable emotions. Emotions were what got me into this mess. Emotions had caused me to speak of my past and bring my yearning for answers to a head. Emotions are for fools and their folly. Logic and reasoning will get me out of this, in fact have gotten me out of it.
I will go to Telflamm, and face the Shadowmasters and high priest. I will face the trials of Darklight, and my god. Whether or not I succeed, I will emerge no longer a mere agent of the Shadows, but a part of them.
Trust in the shadows._
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Stalking in the shadows forged by moonlight, the shrouded figure crept cautiously through the pass. Despite the flesh freezing cold, there was a bandit roaming the road. Easily identified as one of the bandit's "faithful," the black-cloaked man slowly crept, gripping his sheathed rapier in one hand, his holy symbol in the other.
As he began whispering in a strange tongue, a second - darker - voice emerged from his throat. The soft natural voice of normal speaking in unison with an enigmatic voice resembling the sound of a blade slashing through the air, but forming words. When the bandit finally heard the chanting he spun about to see the fluttering folds of a cloak on flapping on the breeze. Then the world fell dark and silent. The bandit frantically whirled and turned like a tornado before realizing that it wasn't the man who had vanished, but rather his senses. He began to flail wildly with his mace and shield, struggling to maintain balance, and refusing to retreat.
Meanwhile, the cloaked caster slid slowly upon the blinded foe, eventually poised to strike. Eratic in his movements, striking at the bandit would require patience and timing, or the shadowed figure would find the bandit's mace embedded in his torso. Crouching as the moments passed, the man in black waited for an oppurtune moment for the bandit to turn his back on him. Then he was upon the orange-armored priest.
_"Never waiver, never stray, never flinch!"
Spoken some eight years ago, the words had been ever-present in my mind.
"Especially in the face of a for, or in accordance with an oath!"
The addendum, perhaps more prominent then the origin.I can only wonder at the reason. Why do these two sentences, of all the lessons from my swordpatron, ring in my mind? I cannot so much as recall the oathes I took upon ascension, nor the rituals of the sash. Things of importance from that time, my time as a "knight," long forgotten.
Yet these, most basic of precepts, permeate through all my thoughts and actions. Perhaps a part of the affliction I suffer. Or maybe placed upon me by the Divine Shadow to reinforce my sworn words and duty to him. Most likely, as I see it, a torture from Torm, to remind me of how I "betrayed" my vows.
Onething is certain, the words are both distressing and comforting to me. A reminder of who I was, could have been, and what was.
Nay, what still is, and can be._
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A familiar scene, the dark figure emerging from the inn, heading towards the militia barracks. Never really trusted, the mysterious militiamen was always given odd looks in Norwick, despite all he had done to aid the town. Little did they know it could very well be the last time his flowing black cloak would billow through the small town's pathes.
Thankfully, the winter's chill had chased most everyone indoors this night. Though it crowded his departure from the Boarshead, it meant he could walk unharrassed in town. On a night when he only wished solitude, the winter's harsh air was his closest ally.
Strolling casually into the militia barrack, he passed two pairs of guards as they changed shifts. Two on-duty, two coming off. Nodding politely from behind the shadows of his hood, he entered the officer's lounge and pulled a set of keys from his belt. Immediately set upon the nearest table, he then removed a small black mask and drapped it over the keys, then left, without so much as a word.
_After some internal deliberation and prayer, I have decided to return to Telflamm. Though I will likely be subject to a punishment, likely death, I feel it is my duty to do so. Such a strange feeling, especially for a Maskarran.
Duty?
Is that a term a Maskarran should even use? Probably not. It is more likely a personal failing, retained from my past, and my service to Torm. A failing which will likely cost me greatly.
This "duty" has brought me to the brink of destruction far to often and now, likely to my death at the hand of those who are my allies. My "loyalty" to the shadows has made me many enemies, even among those who call themselves my "friend" I am watched. What foolish notions these have proven to be.
Yet I hold to them still._
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The moonlight played with his shirt like a child rolling in a field. Selune's gaze caused the many-colored metals, ranging from deepest purple to a glacial blue, to dance and ripple. With each movement, or shift in light, a new strand of metal was lightened or darkened, the appearance of his shirt resembling the dancing of a flame.
His writing, like most his movements, were graceful and methodical, if not blatantly calculated. Each stroke of the pen seemed weighted a certain way to ensure the right amount of ink transfered to the paper, each letters stroke length and tilt measured. Even the act of dipping the quill into the inkwell seemed cued and timed.
Eventually, however, the writing ceased and his left-hand fingers began a rhythmic drumming on the soft, tan-toned pages of the journal. Confident there was nothing further to write, he slid the silver placemarker between the pages and gently shut the book's covers. Running his fingers along the black-velvet binding, carefully dusting it off, he then tucked it away in a side pouch of an enchanted bag. Tying the pouch closed, easily and securely, he took the remaining strands of the knotting cloth, and fastened another knot to one of the back straps.
With a reassuring nod to himself, he tucked the magical bag away in a larger, mundane backpack, then slowly rose to his feet. Briskly brushing any dust or stray hairs from his lap and shirt, then sliding the chair under the table before he turned towards the bed. Swiftly drawing up a folded cloak, drapped over the foot of the bedframe, he then wrapped it around himself, drawing up the black cowl and starting for the door.
Reaching for the handle, a sudden thought occured. Tapping one of the pouches along his belt, he let out a brief inaudible sigh. Glancing over his shoulder and spying the raven-feather quill on the desk, he quickly spun on his heels and snatched the pen up before departing the room, and the Boarshead.
_Despite our cross words, it seems Khaya was attempting to learn of my past. Possibly to learn of information for use against me, or worse, to attempt and pull me from my faith. I cannot be sure. Whatever the case, she managed to track down an apparent neighbor of mine from Waterdeep, or so the woman claimed. Luckily, I stumbled across the woman before Khaya arrived to meet her.
The woman says I have a younger brother, Thyrm, additionally the two of us are nearly identicle in appearance. Why this memory, like so many others, was hidden from me, I cannot be sure. However, I believe he has been causing the trouble for me in Narfell and has proven to be more then a petty annoyance. He was the one who had been defaming my name, murdering animals, like Uthger and the bandits. He had been spying on Khaya, Sam and the young Hightower boy. He had gone so far as to bring a sash from the old order, and "dropped" it.
I cannot help but think Khaya's investigations into my past brought this nightmare of kin upon me, and Narfell. Blame does not lie with her, or Anrianeara, or any other. Fact is the events have come to pass, and he has come and is here now.
As I think of the events, I am left with three options;
1 - Stay, but slip from sight, allowing the others to handle my "brother."
2 - Stay, seeking out my "brother" to attempt and end it myself.
3 - Leave this land, and travel elsewhere, allowing the self-righteous to deal with the monsters of the past._
