A/N: I
just wanted to sat this is my first fic and tell me if it sucks so I can get
rid of it. Um... read, review, read what I said about reviewing in my biography
thing. Am...Review?
~Lady
Crysania Majere
Reunion
A
dark figure clad in black huddled in an arched doorframe, his attire blending
faultlessly with the shadows that seemed to cling to his hooded outline.
Outside rain fell, splashing heavily on the pavestones, cleaning the streets of
their usual coat of grime, dust and filth.
The arch provided minimal protection
against the storm and soon the man was drenched, a cough wracked his somewhat
frail body, causing him to double over in pain. His only option now was to find
some inn or another, and in this weather that would be like trying to find an
item in one of a kenders pouches, for someone without magic. Almost inaudibly
he whispered words of his arcane art. Not extremely powerful words mind you,
the words were that of a simple illusion spell, one that, 20 years ago, the
most ignorant of mages could've seen through. But this as not 20 years ago. Now
the gods of magic had left the world along with all the other gods- * save Takhisis who stayed, see Dragons of
the Lost Star * -and even the most powerful
of mages would not recognize him through the undemanding spell. His thin lips
curled, as he stood in this downpour all the other mages in Krynn were being
sapped by the undead of The Art. He knew why, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, had
every good reason to strip the magi of there magic, she was afraid of it. She
had seen that power in the hands of a mortal could lead to her demise. So, she
was taking the power, the magic, the Art, from every magical being (including
her own dragons) not because she needed it, oh no, but because she was afraid
of it. Afraid of him. It mattered little. The pathetic spirits could not come
close enough as to brush a cobwebby hand across his long black robes much less
get close enough to sap him, they were sent back to their Queen in failure, and
often with a fewer number than they had had to begin with. He ended his chant
and in the place of a his tall, black clad, sinewy mage leaning on a ebony
staff was a smaller, tanner, slightly more muscular man who was wearing light colors
and wielding a stout, oak, walking stick. The mage/merchant smirked, a sight
both startling and unbecoming on his bronzed face. Now the 'merchant' lifted
the oak stick before him and started the transportation spell.
A/N: I shall now pause my narrative
to give those not familiar with the ways of the magi a brief description of the
spell. The enchantment is fairly simple to the experienced mage it was quite
common before the gods departure but now can be used by seemingly no one save
our black robed companion. The spell is used by simply pronouncing a long sting
of words in the language of magic (be sure to get your ai's and oa's right),
having enough power, and concentrating hard on the place that is to be your
destination. In this our dear friend faulted.
He
whispered the words of magic and felt familiar elation fill his soul, followed
by a wave of giddy delight. He forced his thoughts to an inn he had seen some
two, three miles down the road. It had been a shabby place, but today he had
expended too much of his magic on banishing the dead and on many other
different trifles, to go more than 5 to 10 miles by ways of magic. Not to
mention that the long walk in the rain had wreaked havoc on his already frail
physical body. All in all he would be happy to get in out of the rainstorm to
refuge in a place dry and warm, no matter how shabby or flea-ridden it could
be. As he was finishing up the spell however, unbidden thoughts of the warm
clean rooms in the Inn in Solace came to mind, franticly he pushed them away. A
trip like that would be costly indeed; most likely it would result in at least
a week in a coma and another week sick in bed, and though he had both steel and
time for such meanderings he felt that he would deeply appreciate if he could
avoid the whole situation. The images continued to surface in his mind however
and before he could stop the flow of pictures he felt himself dematerializing.
Next thing he saw before he collapsed was the near empty lobby of the Inn of
the Last Home and then all was enveloped in an inky blackness.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
People
of all races gathered at the inn to mourn the death of the hero of the lance,
Caramon Majere. Hordes of humans, dwarves (mostly hill but three or four
mountain.), kender (who were greeted jovially and later forcefully extracted
when their pouches began to drag to heavily along the ground), and even a small
batch of elves stayed at the inn to swap stories about the hero. Needless to
say the inn was packed. When all rooms (save those of staff and family) were
full, people would collapse on to the hearth and, for the price of one steel,
would be provided with blanket, pillow, and a cup of hot coco. It was only at
3:47 A.M. that most of the inn settled down for the night. Only Laura and two
bickering dwarves (one hill, one mountain) were not secure in the land of
dreams. Laura's thoughts were scattered everywhere, for one second her brain
might be doing the sums for today's earnings and in the next second she would
mull over the thoughts of the funny kender who insisted that he was, in fact,
the original Tasslehoff Burrfoot and not one of his many namesakes. She laughed
silently at the image of the kenders tiny face scrunched up in a look' pleading
her to believe him. He put on quite an act and if it weren't for the utter
absurdity of what he was claiming, she would have believed him, her father
obviously had. That brought her back to her father. Caramon Majere's death had
been a confusing affair. Not the death itself but more the events that heralded
it. The strange and heavy storm plus the arrival of the kender- who had spouted
out stories of Caramon's funeral before the event had transpired, and then
proceeded to give the farewell speech before the 'deceased' himself- were both
foreboding- well perhaps not the kender-, not to mention what Caramon had said
of her uncle.... She was interrupted from her reverie by a sharp knocking on
the inns door. Sighing she got up, ready to tell of the midnight wanderer and
then go get some sleep herself, and strode to the inns door, stooping she
unlatched the bolt and proceeded to swing open the door.
"Laura"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A
hazy figure strolled down the road; large droplets of rain running down her
white mantle, then sliding down her pale face. Wet hair clung to her neck and
shoulders, while her drenched cape and robes hugged her curves as their
waterlogged weight hindered her already slow amble. She walked (even in the
down pour) with movements that distinguished her as a person of power and
dignity yet also of kindness; for her nose was turned slightly up, her back was
tall and straight, her shoulders resolute. Yet her gait was graceful and a
smile played about her rosy lips. Her eyes, as the scanned the landscape about,
held the wonder of a child and she looked upon the world around her as if
seeing it for the first in a long, long time. Those gray eyes also showed both
immeasurable grief and happiness as they blinked back both the heavens crystal
rain and her own salty tears.
After
several more minutes of her wandering, she stopped at the foot of a huge valley
wood tree, and a spiraling staircase that lead up its enormous trunk. Swiftly,
her footfalls silent in the falling rain, up she crept the winding flight of
steps pausing only when she stood before the door to the inn of the last home.
Deftly she reached out her hand and knocked thrice upon the door. Had her
hearing not evolved through her years in darkness, knowing only through sound,
touch, smell, and taste, she would not have head the sigh of irritation though
the oak door and falling rain. But she had been through the shadows created
through her own lack of sight and she heard it, a soft exclamation of breath
and words mumbled softly and irritably, then footsteps. To light to be of a
man, but a pattern she recognized, then the soft *click* of a bolt coming out
of a lock and then the great door swung open and she was greeted by the face of
a scowling woman. A woman she had never before seen but had met a good number
of times, "Laura," she breathed, her voice muffled by her dripping
hood. The frowning face took on a slightly puzzled expression.
"Scuse
me," she questioned, a slightly puzzled note in her voice, squinting
intently at the hooded figure, "do I know you?" The white robed woman
only took a step forward and drew back her hood. Laura continued to squint for
another two or three seconds when a look of recognition and astonishment
crossed her slightly freckly face. "Lady Crysania!" came her loud
exclamation, "What on earth happened to you?!.... You're...well...you're
younger!" a brief silence and Crysania nodded her head.
"How?" Laura inquired,
scrutinizing her guest. She had seen the Reverend Daughter many times in her
life and though she admitted that Crysania seemed not to age rapidly she was
certain the lady did not decrease in age. She noted lady Crysania staring at
her with alert gray eyes, she reeled her thoughts back in and did a small
double take. The lady was blind. How could a sightless woman stare at her? No
matter what her powers. Peering back more intently Laura noted that the lady's
eyes were, at least now, clear and aware, whatever had happened to make her
younger had also given her back her sight. Laura was utterly and completely
perplexed, and in her confusion her befuddled wits noted that Crysania was
soaked. Not knowing what else to do she stepped back and invited Lady Crysania
of Tarsis inside.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Crysania
sat back in a wooden chair beside the glowing fire, she was wearing the white
blouse and long white pants Laura had provided, though the gods were gone she
still preferred the white garments of her god, Paladine, and white skirts are
often ruined when one runs and inn, so slacks it would be. Besides, she
figured, her own clothes would dry before anyone was up to see her. Now dry and
moderately warm, sitting across from what looked to be a very impatient Laura,
she reclined and began to tell her story.
"On
the night of the mammoth storm we had about three weeks ago I was inside the
temple passing out food and blankets, helping with the city's people when a
young child came in, saying her kitten was stuck up a tree and would I come
fetch it for her? The little girl had no idea that I was blind or who I was but
she had such faith that I, a Reverend Daughter of Paladine, could save her
kitten how could I refuse? All life is sacred to those of our order. Without
thinking I let myself be lead out in to the hail and rain to a tall maple will
many branches. It was when I placed my hand on the great tree's trunk that I
realized what folly it would be for a blind woman to climb a tree during a
lighting storm. I almost laughed then, but hearing the girls pleas in my mind
reason was not such a big issue. I began to climb." Lost in her own
memories Crysania shrugged her shoulders ad continued, "By who knows what
miracle I reached the cat without incident, save two bruises and a slip on one
of the lower boughs, getting the cat was an easy matter for the poor feline was
making a racket in the storm and had no objection what so ever as to being
pulled down from her perch. On the way down I slipped on some wet moss,
dropping the kitten, lucky for it the small lass was waiting under the tree and
caught cat as she feel calling up thanks all the way from the ground. It was
worth it then, so I was less careful on my way down. It would not have mattered
if I was careful or not. Lightning struck the maple. I fell then and remembered
not hitting the ground, for when the bolt struck I saw of vision of...just a
vision," she corrected herself. Laura would, heck, Caramon would've, believed
her crazy if she went into what saw, she finally ended with, "So, when I
woke up, I was as you see me now." Tension filled the air and silence,
save for the voices of two, very tired, very drunk, dwarves. On Laura's face
was a look Crysania took to be intense curiosity.
"The
vision was...?" Laura prodded. Crysania opened her mouth to reply but was
saved the trouble of making an excuse by a swooshing sound. Both women whirled
around in time to see a merchant with a look of sheer defiance on his face go
into a dead faint on the carpet, still clutching an oak staff.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
