The characters that belong to Bioware are the property of Bioware. The rest are mine including canon tweaks. Forgive me.
Prologue
Jomíreth took a sip of wine and observed her companion over the top of the glass.
He was a strange figure. His ageless elven face was crowned with a mass of curly brown hair that no amount of combing could fix and against his silver-tinged skin, the contrast made him look wild. From neck to waist he was clothed in silk of the finest thread-of-gold, but in colors that almost pained the eyes. Checkered red and yellow provided a garish background for the black and gold ferret sigil which adorned his chest and the silver-trimmed midnight blue cape he had pulled about him. Several rings bejeweled his hands that lay folded upon his lap: a moonstone from Amn that reflected light as brightly as Selûne's Tears set in pure silver, a gold ring exhibiting sardonyx from far Thay, even an irregular chunk of crystal that looked like quartz in a setting for which Jomíreth was at a loss to identify.
His eyes were closed as he reclined in the overstuffed chair to the right of the fire and his wine sat untouched on the small table beside him. It had stayed untouched for three days though her butler had wasted several bottles in replacing it with fresh.
But Jomíreth knew he was not asleep.
At the clink of her wine glass against the stone top of her side table, his eyes popped open, piercing blue eyes that regarded with an intensity suggesting he could see to her very soul.
"Why always blue eyes?" Jomíreth thought for the thousandth since he had arrived. All tragic heroes seemed to have electric blue eyes as if it were a character trait: Tarlin Misonere, Daehir Istmaernon, her brother, and now… him.
"And so what happened next?" he asked, his voice almost sing-song.
"Next? You mean after Elminster left the Fallen Lands with Dernhelm?"
He nodded as he raised his left eyebrow as if to indicate his statement was obvious.
She was taken aback. "It has been eight hours! Don't you think a repast is in order after all that?"
"Not if it stands in the way of knowledge from a worthy source," he added. The tone of his voice said he was being truly sincere even though he had a penchant for flattery. And then he winked at her, a jovial wink that could have been interpreted as a suggestion for favors had she been a younger lass, but which she knew was to put her at ease.
Jomíreth's smile was the perfect mixture of blatant amazement and ruddy-cheeked abashment.
In 237 years as a Harper, collecting, recording, and retelling stories, she had never met a more perfect listener. She had been talking for over three days at nearly twelve hours a day, and though the man across from her lounged in the chair with one leg over an arm as if bored with the world, he looked fresh and ready for more.
The exploits of Dernhelm Arcorthon had been in high demand these last two-and-a-half centuries, but she had always been forced to augment them with her magic, creating moving tapestries of shadow and form to keep her audience enraptured. Not so this man: he just sat there with his eyes closed, wearing a small smile, laughing at her occasional joke and letting his mind create the pictures in concert with the sound of her wan voice.
He could have afforded her father no greater honor.
"Which part of history would you like to hear then," she asked after a moment.
He smiled, noting how she had carefully avoided the use of the false-sounding word, "story."
"Tell me how a half-elf, raised between Semberholme and the Deepingdale in an area staunchly devoted to the elven pantheon comes to follow He Who Is Not Worshipped."
"But surely you know it was when Dernhelm was lost in the Plane of Shadow-"
Her companion cut her off with a look.
"Right. The whole story, then," she said.