3/4/1388

I begin this journal only a day after the tenth anniversary of my stay at West Harbor. I've never written a document such as this before. I've kept notes on my tactics, on my troops, and logs during my campaigns, but never a personal journal.

I'll start by introducing myself. My name is Solafae Barrindar, though others may refer to me by different titles. My troops called me General, my enemies referred to me as "The Butcher", and my half-sister calls me "Sol." Or "Thug" when she is in one of her moods and desires something from me. No doubt you have heard of Ilivarra.

But this tale is not about her, for I am quite different from her. I'm not going to run off with a bard, pursue a twenty year grudge against a single mercenary, nor am I going to mother the child of purple-haired rogue sometime in my travels. I am simply going to live this new life that I have been granted, and take whatever befalls me with rationality and practicality.

A physical description is in order. My eyes are blood-red, the identical twins of my mother's eyes. Matron Guliara's eyes were known to smolder like embers when she was angry, and to be as hard and unyielding as priceless rubies when she calculated her actions. Mine are much the same. My skin is the dark shade that accompanies my race, the drow, and my hair is stark white except for two stray crimson strands that lurk just above my eyes. They have been that color as long as I can remember. My hair falls just past my shoulders, but I tie it back for battle's sake. I also braid armor piercing spikes into the thick locks, so anyone who tries to use my hair to their advantage will be very sorry.

I have a very pretty face, despite all the blows I've taken to my skull. My height is five feet and ten inches, far more than average for a dark elf, most likely a product of my devil's blood. I am built athletically, yet I do not look a strong as I truly am. Truthfully, my strength has been said to rival that of a giant's. My armor is meant to make me appear larger than my already sleek and lean form allows. It is not an asset to my vanity, but I am a warrior, not a model.

But enough about my appearance. It is not important. I will not go into great detail, but in my first life, I was the daughter of Matron Guliara Barrindar, and general to her troops. I lived serving under her banner, and I died in a final battle for the Barrindar House. After I died, Lolth abandoned me as a cleric, and my skills as a fighter were put to use in the Blood War. The war is a topic that I am reluctant to discuss, suffice to say that it lead me to ponder upon the point of such warfare. And when one ponders and doubts, one cannot put their full self into the battle at hand.

As it turns out, just as I was start to slip into the darkness of reflection, I was summoned by a wizard on the Prime Material Plane. That wizard was none other than Ilivarra, requesting my help in a war against the very matron that killed our mother and attempted to wipe out our house. I had no grudge against her, but I was ready to do something besides participate in a useless war. So I agreed, but on the condition that Ilivarra not send me back to the lower planes once my task reached a conclusion.

That was a decade previous, and I now reside in the village of West Harbor. Yet, my pondering has not ceased. I ask myself questions now that I never would have considered in my first life. Regardless, such questions lead to nothing. My mind must be focused on the task at hand.

My foster father, Daeghun, approaches me, no doubt wanting my attention. I shall put this journal away now, and see to him.

3/5/1388

The "Harvest Festival" took place today. I had forgotten until Bevil rushed into my room, screaming, "Wake up, Solafae!" at the top of his lungs.

Out of sheer reflex, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards me until our faces were only inches apart. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand." I growled, never releasing my iron grip. Being woken up like the mother of a five-year-old child with attention deficit disorder on Midwinter morning is not something I take kindly to.

Bevil gulped. Ten years, and he still hasn't gotten used to my occasionally violent reactions.

"It's the Harvest Festival." said a voice behind him. Amie. The mage-in-training that Tarmas had taken in recently. She lacks the arrogance, the volatile temper, and the moodiness that seems to plague most wizards, but I'm confident that she'll develop it in time.

Bevil nodded vigourously. "Those Mossfields keep bragging about how they've won the cup three years in a row. But I bet you could teach them a lesson."

"I'm not going to teach them anything." I replied, covering my face with a pillow.

The fighter tried to yank my arm away, but to no avail. "Why not, Solafae?"

I sighed into my pillow. I really am not a morning person. "Because beating someone into the dirt for the sake of pride is pointless and immature. Let them have their glory. It's not hurting anyone."

"C'mon, Sol! Either way, you have to deliver those furs to Galen like Daeghun said."

I scowled. He was right. "Very well," I freed my face from its fluffy prison. "I'll go. But I'm not going to fight. And don't call me Sol. My sister calls me that, and it's irritating." To be fair, it's not so irritating once I'm fully awake. In fact, I am normally not so irritable when I am fully awake.

"When are we gonna meet this sister of yours?" asked Bevil.

"It would be great if she came to visit some time. Or if she brought some of her friends with her." added Amie. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was eager to learn mage lore from someone other than Tarmas.

I don't understand what it is people see in my sister. Excited whispers always follow every time I mention the name Barrindar. My sister is just another renegade drow stuck on the surface. She and her friends may have gained fame (much to her displeasure) for saving the city of Neverwinter, and parts of the Underdark before, but she's not a demi-goddess. She's just Ili. The little girl that I used as my page every now and then when she was a child. The woman that brought me to the prime material plane. The half-sister that does not see me often, because she has a child and a husband to take care of. There's nothing special about her, or me. We just…are.

"Hopefully, you'll both be spared from her prescence." I replied shortly, standing up to donn a pair of breeches and a loose shirt. I strapped my boots to my feet and my swords to my back. My swords used to be part of a whole, which I wielded as a double sword. Someone once said that when I wielded my blades, it was like watching Hell's Fury unleashed. The name stuck. Hell's Fury was broken in two at the hilt by Sinvyl Barri'tar, the Valsharess. The blades stuck with me in death, and I wasn't about to abandon them either. So, I took them as dual swords.

An hour later, Webb Mossfield's face lay in the dirt, my fist the reason for his fall. It felt somewhat good, seeing the smirk wiped off that smug male's face. But it would not have made much difference to me had he continued to boast his skills. Not much rattles me, and Webb is no exception.

I gave him a cold look and offered him my hand, but he spat at my feet. In turn, I kicked him in the face. Not out of anger, but out of principle. I do not tolerate disrespect in a fight such as that, and I will answer with fair retribution.

Our resident priest of Lathandar was quick to lecture me, but I was not interested in his words. I do not worship Lathandar. I do not know which god I worship. Lolth may have left me, but some deity still grants me power. It is nothing much, but I can heal light wounds. Which is the same as my power under Lolth. I was never a high priestess of the spider queen. I enrolled in the academy for three years, but my mother allowed me to drop out when she saw that my skills were better put to use on a battlefield. My younger sisters, Valquarra and Reloniira, would be the high priestesses of the family.

After the brawl, I delivered the furs to Galen and set off with Bevil and Amie to win the other challenges. The only reason I participated in the fair is because I consider them allies. I've known them both since they were children, and they've grown attached to me. I cannot complain. Allies are scarce to come by and to keep, and one needs all the allies one can get.

I won the archery contest with seven out of ten shots. I am a mistress of blades, not ranged weapons. The other challenges we won with Amie and a rogue boy we recruited for the thief challenges. Georg called us to stage to announce our victory. I stood there, feeling much like an animal on display, but not allowing any of my feelings to show as Georg made his speech.

When Daeghun saw me on the stage, he seemed proud. I am not sure. He is not one for showing emotion. Niether am I, his attitude suits me.

Once the fair ended, I retreated to my spot. My spot is the part of the swamp I discovered two years ago. I go there to practice my swordplay, and sometimes, to think. When I begin my wondering, it is always the same set of questions. Why did I spend my first life following orders and leading my troops? Did I waste my life on something pointless like I did my death? Is there any value in my new life? I try to push these questions to the back of my mind, but they keep sprouting up like the weeds that decorate the small patch of grass in my spot. Questions are pointless. I can't stand wasting my time.

Daeghun has extinguished the torches now. I could continue to write in the dark, but no doubt my pen scratching would wake my foster-father. Many years as a ranger have made his ears sensitive to the slightest sound. Now is the time for sleep, for I already hear him beginning to stir.