1.
"My good friend Cyrindelle, I think you have no concept of how insufferably polite an elf is supposed to be." The halfling sorcerer sat on the edge of Nar's desk with her legs swinging. She looked overmuch like a stuffed yellow haired doll that had slumped over with its hands upon it tiny knees, hair braided all up in some ridiculous manner. Nar himself was a moon elf sorcerer with pale, white-sheened skin, eyes of an unnatural shade of seawater green, and an overpronounced chin that made gave his sharpened eyebrows an otherworldly drama. He was slight, with his thin white hair gathered up at the back of his head. His home in the Merchant Quarter of Neverwinter was modest, but it was his own. It worked for him- a typical sorcerer's jumble of strange oddities. With the addition of some comfortable chairs, even his few friends didn't mind coming over once in a while. Cyrindelle was one of the few who truly understood him. After all, who could know the soul of a sorcerer better than another? His friend hadn't blinked twice when he had mentioned that in all likelihood, the wizard Sand was his natural father. What could surprise a halfling sorcerer? A halfling never stayed in one place for long, unless it was home. That she'd chosen to grace him with her presence today when he hadn't seen her for months should have been a cause for tale-swapping, perhaps even sharing a glass of wine or two. Instead, he'd unloaded all of his problems on her at the door.
"You take too much from others without asking anything for yourself," she told him, pulling off her gloves, which were soaked by the too-frequent drizzles of the city. "If it's true what you're saying- and I can see the resemblance right here in the face-" she poked a finger in his direction. "You ought to stomp yourself over there right now and demand an explanation."
"Elves don't "stomp" anywhere," Nar murmured bitterly. "I can hardly see myself traipsing into the man's shop spouting drama about some wayward maid whose face he has probably all but forgotten. It was hundreds of years ago, if it's true. What could she want, sending me this after all of this time? Certainly not a son?"
"It could be gold she's after," Cyrindelle agreed. "But remember, Nar, if he's your father, he's a wizard, and you're a sorcerer. "
Nar looked up, finding himself standing in a shaft of light that was finally making its way through the curtains into his study. "Oil and water."
"Spot on. Now, quit feeling sorry for yourself, and pour a girl some of that elven wine. I'm not getting any younger, you know."
"Where are my manners." Nar went to the cabinet dutifully. "I never liked that man, and he never liked me. A wizard can smell a sorcerer from a mile away. What does he do when he discovers he's sired one?" He poured a stream of the too-warm liquid into a glass for her with a slender hand.
Cyrindelle sighed, swirling the fine vintage around inside of her mouth. "There's always denial."
"That sort of encouraging remark might be useful on one of your halfling friends, Cyr, but it has a long way to go to help this one. I'm not certain yet that this is a secret best revealed."
His musings were interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.
The halfling leapt off of his desk in a blur of movement. In a half second she had her face pressed to the window , barely reaching the edge with the tops of her eyes.
"If that's the tax collector, I'm indisposed," Nar said.
"It's not the tax collector." Cyrindelle turned to him with a large grin. "It's dear old Dad."
2.
Nar felt positively green at the gills. He reminded himself that he didn't even like Sand, so there wasn't any use fidgeting. Besides, this was his home, was it not? He could easily tell anyone who vexed him to shove off. It was a comforting thought, however unrealistic. Adopting his most aloof expression, he casually opened the door, leaning on the doorframe. "Yes?" His bored greeting had all of the charm of a wet kobold. "Did I forget to pick up my order this week, Sand? Are you making personal deliveries, now?" Even as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Sand, while himself quite an intimidating conversational prospect despite his small stature, did not appear to be alone. He wore some monstrosity of a gray robe, his hair braided on the sides, Staff of Command in his hands like some prop he needed to make a proper appearance. Behind him trailed a half-veiled green creature that could possibly be female, a male ranger giving Nar dirty looks, a noisily clanking bear of a man in plate mail with a glowing flail dangling from his belt, and a badger that twittered and chirped to itself from time to time. Nar eyed the badger nervously, wondering what he or she had done to annoy Sand. Sand looked him up and down as though scrutinizing some gem for flaws and finding it wanting. "Ah, yes, the Thursday morning fellow, the one that can never seem to get his own order right," he said at last.
"I usually get it right," Nar grumbled.
"You sent it back twice last week, and once the week before," Sand said, putting a ponderous hand to his cheek. "I received your letter, sorcerer, and I must admit that you have an unusual way of attempting to draw attention to yourself."
The green female walked up from behind Sand in the street, her voice echoing strangely as she spoke. "Know that the truth is not often what it seems," she said mysteriously.
"When I need an extraplanar opinion, I'll ask for it," Sand replied, pushing his way past Nar into the little house. "I often wondered what kind of haven one like yourself would build. It lacks a certain something... yes, of course. Books. You sorcerers seem to believe that somehow all of the knowledge in the universe ought to come groveling at your doorstep. Take this letter, for example." He retrieved a very familiar looking scroll out from one of the packs at his waist. "Poorly phrased. Incorrect spelling." He brought the parchment to his nose, where he took a long draw from it. "Low grade calfskin. You might have spent your coin on something that at least holds a rune for more than a year at a time."
"I didn't write it," Nar said, spreading his hands. "I got one of my own." Cyrindelle sat happily in a nearby chair, legs crossed, watching the proceedings. She moved her leg aside as the badger poked at her ankle in order to find a place to stand when the strange party poured into Nar's living room.
"Haven't we got something better to do than look up your lost relatives, Sand?" The dangerous looking ranger, who had been paring his fingernails with an unfriendly looking dagger, snatched away the letter that the white haired elf held up. Nar was about to protest such manhandling of his property but thought better of it when he noticed the unrelenting scowl on the scarred face of the one who'd taken it. "To the Esteemed Sorcerer Nar, from your loving mother," he read in a mocking tone. "This ought to be entertaining." As the ranger unfurled it, all eyes were on him, even those of the silent knight, whose steady gaze looked more than a bit unfriendly as it fell on the other man.
"Many a year has passed and many a tear has fallen since the day that you were taken from me." He paused for effect. "How touching." Nar and Sand studiously avoided even a mere glance at one another, though one of Sand's eyebrows was slowly rising.
"Read the letter, Bishop." The knight's rolling voice filled the silence.
"If you'll give me a minute, paladin, I'm just getting to the best part." Bishop licked his lips and then resumed reading aloud. "If this is what you wait to hear, you will be disappointed, I fear, for I am nothing touching on what a parent should be, nor have I ever cared a whit for squandering tears over the loss of some burdenous squalling brat at my knee. Be assured that it brings me great pleasure at this hour to reveal the truth to you. I am the sorceress Elisa Bel'Juazra, your mother. Your father, dear son..." Bishop allowed the last words to seethe with the sarcasm they deserved. "...was an indiscretion of mine that goes by the name of Sand. It is my duty, after all, as a mother to see that her child has the proper mentor, is it not? I am certain that the two of you will have much to say to each other." Bishop handed the letter back, scratching absently at the sparse hair on his chin.
"A woman I rather like, I think. Why don't the two of you have it out once and for all, have a wizard's duel." He'd made the question a statement with the ring of finality. Sand, who could usually be counted on to sling the proper jab, was gnawing on his lower lip.
"Bel'Juazra. Yes. The red veiled Lady. I admit that it has a certain poetic justice to it, if you take into account that I got much use out of that wand of wonder at the time. "
"Sand, I'm surprised at you," Bishop smirked. "I didn't know you had it in you. I hope you at least gave her a night to remember." He laughed heartily, while the paladin simply glared.
"You seduced my mother for a wand?" Nar's jaw hung at the implications.
"It was a rare wand. A very unique thing to get one's hands on in any case." As if sensing that this defense was a thin one, he shifted to a defensive position, his arms crossed. "And she was no Lady. As you can see, she took delight in kicking a man's knees out from under him and then giving him up to the Hells." Cyrindelle was clapping her hands with glee. "What does your letter say?" She looked to Sand with anticipation.
"Your unlucky offspring, the sorcerer Nar, wishes to make your acquaintance at your earliest convenience." Sand looked over his newly acquired son with a curled lip and a wilting expression. "A truthseer would be able to settle this, I believe. Zhjaeve?"
"Know that the letter speaks the truth," said Zhjaeve.