:: Chapter 1 ::

Chance Encounters

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A screaming wail suddenly split the otherwise hushed calm of the fast approaching twilight.

With a startled yelp Tertiam Nailo lost his grip on the small earthenware bowl in his hands, which was filled to the brim with piping hot venison stew that had just come off the camp fire. As a result the molten stuff spilled all down into his lap. The cleric of Corellon Larethian let out a loud cry of pain and disbelief as he shot to his feet, which nearly drowned out the sharp din of more frightened screams and the obvious sounds of fighting that ensued off in the distance . . . nearly.

His supper forgotten, Falin M'or Woodshadow swiftly shot to his feet, piercing gaze swinging about to stare into the direction of where he could hear the battle taking place. His hawk-like vision sifted idly, almost lazily through the darkened forest of Cloakwood, the far off distance further shrouded by a swirl of mist that had rolled in with the setting sun . . .

Currently he and Tertiam were near the town of Dentharel, a tiny little hamlet just off the Sword Coast. Instead of risking the wrath or prejudice of the simple human farmer folk by making their presence known, the two world-weary elves had opted to stay away and rough it out in the wild. Apparently someone else had not come to that same conclusion. Though Falin as of yet couldn't see any actual signs of danger or distress, the elven warrior's finely tuned ears could easily hear it. He caught the sounds of metal clanging on metal, the loud shouts and yelling of many fighters and then the distinct, frightened wailing of women and children.

That made his decision easier for him.

As Falin M'or bent to swiftly recover his weapons and armor, behind him Tertiam began to curse vehemently, furiously doing his utmost to slap the still stinging stew off of his thin black silk pants and costly gold cloak.

"Dammit!" he snarled low, "Always when I'm trying to eat!" The pale-haired cleric released a loud growl then, and whirled to face in the direction of where the skirmish could easily be heard. "Haven't you people ever heard of common courtesy?!" he yelled out to no one in particular, knowing damn well that whomever it was wouldn't be able to hear him. Otherwise Tertiam probably wouldn't have spoken.

The cleric wasn't a cowardly man . . . but the more battles he could avoid the better.

Wordlessly Falin tossed the smaller elf his long sword and crossbow and then, armed with his own enormous greatsword, the taller warrior led his long-time friend and companion headlong into yet another fray.

As the both of them ducked and dodged through the greenery in the pursuit of justice and courage, Falin couldn't help but smile at himself. Here he was, newly titled with lands and riches far beyond his wildest imagination, gifted to him for his great deeds in the aide of Myth Drannor . . . And yet he was still rushing heedlessly and recklessly off into some unknown conflict, having no idea what the consequences of his actions might be. One would think that with a hundred and forty-five years beneath his belt, he'd have learned better.

Apparently not.

Falin and Tertiam kept up their fast pace toward the pale orange horizon, never breaking a single stride as the both of them easily cleared the various fallen logs and small feeder streams that haphazardly littered the forest floor. The closer they got, the more it began to nag on Falin's mind that something wasn't quite right . . .

They were nearly upon their destination before the tall warrior realized that the orange glow he saw was not coming from the setting sun, but instead from the homes and buildings in front of him that were now very brightly ablaze.

The low din of faraway battle had now also grown into a loud roar of utter chaos. The two adventurers broke through the tree line at nearly the same instant and skid to a halt out into the clearing beyond. They both glanced this way and that, trying to figure out what was going on through the insanity that seemed to be reigning supreme. Various people of seemingly random ages and gender were fleeing back and forth, some screaming and crying, every one of them deathly afraid. But of what?

Tertiam saw them first and gasped aloud when he did, then grabbed at Falin's cloak and tugged.

"By the horns of Silvanus!" he hissed "Falin, look!"

The smaller elf pointed with a finger to the large knit of dark-skinned beings currently beating up and throwing to the ground a much smaller group of human men, making short work of running the hapless fellows through with their curved blades. Falin's eyebrows drew down fiercely at the sight of such blatant cruelty, yet still managed to take note of the foreign-looking armor that the male creatures wore and the pale locks that adorned their heads through his mounting fury.

"Drow!"

Unfortunately, Falin's verbal realization came out more of a shouted challenge to the ebony warriors . . . and the challenge did not go unheard. The both of them jerked slightly when the entire troupe of ten Drow abruptly spun around in their direction. The lot of them released collective growl of hatred, raising their weapons and fanning out, preparing to charge.

Falin let loose a faint, grunting groan as he eased back into a fighting stance, raising his great sword in preparation to meet the enemy. Tertiam, eyes wide, gulped slightly and muttered something along the lines of "ah, crap," before he eased himself behind his stronger friend and readied his crossbow.

Falin could only suppress a laugh. This was what he did. It was what he was meant for. A warrior forged and tempered in the heat of battle, washed in the blood of countless foes, he lived and died by the sword. "Well . . . not the dying part at any rate," he chuckled to himself, nearly as an afterthought.

The Drow warriors waited not another second longer before they simultaneously and with practiced ease charged straight at the duo. Tertiam realized that he had only seconds before his crossbow would become useless, and so took careful aim at one of the closer ones. He let loose the bolt with a loud thwack! and watched with measured satisfaction as the steel shaft slammed home into the right eye socket of the Drow. He grinned triumphantly as the shot killed the dark-skinned elf before he even had the chance to scream, the deadly tip burying deep into the drow's brain.

Hah! Top that, Falin, he thought to himself as he unsheathed his long sword from its scabbard.

Falin, who had seen the entire exchange, smirked and soundlessly replied to the silent challenge, Gladly. He dropped his far leg back a bit and crouched down slightly, eyes narrowed, waiting for his opportunity to strike. And, just as he had hoped, one of the Drow became a little too overeager to kill a surface elf and had sped ahead of his companions. Falin's smirk returned tenfold.

"Perfect." That word, nearly purred with an almost catlike satisfaction, would be the first, last and only thing that the Drow would ever hear the elven warrior say.

Falin quickly lunged forward with a loud war cry to meet the Drow warrior still charging full tilt in his direction. The dark elf's reflexes warned him that a powerful force would soon be slamming into him and he braced himself accordingly. The Drow did not expect, however, that the wily surface elf had something else entirely up his armored sleeve. Falin jerked back right at the last second, and this set the drow's charge horribly off balance. The pale eyes widened as the dark elf stumbled, then they widened even further as he was therefore unable to keep from impaling himself upon Falin's greatsword.

The rest of the Drow party reached Falin just the last signs of life slipped from their companion's body in a strangled gurgle. In one fluid motion Falin tore his enormous blade from within the gut of the now-dead raider, shoving it away from him with a boot to its chest before he used his forward-stepping motion to swing down upon the head of another fighter.

The new foe attempted to parry the descending blade, but Falin moved with a nimble grace and speed that seemed best suited for a rapier, not a greatsword. Though unlike a rapier, however, the greatsword cleaved through the drow's skull with relative ease, the enchantments on the blade crackling with a holy energy. Falin barely had time to blink before he almost met a similar end, but ducked out of the way just in time, allowing the dark blade to pass through the area where his head used to be.

Two down . . . but they were still greatly outnumbered. Falin and Tertiam had been lucky so far . . . Unfortunately, luck was a two-sided coin.

Tertiam couldn't help but watch in awe at the speed, power, and sheer combat experience of his friend. He had seen Falin fight hundreds, no, thousands of times before and yet no matter how many times he witnessed the feat, Falin never ceased to amaze him. Tertiam blinked slightly and then abruptly pulled himself out of his stupor with a slight shake of his pale-haired head. The time for admiration could come later, he quickly decided as he suddenly joined in the fray, loosing the long sword from the scabbard on his hip. He knew he couldn't hold his own in combat like his companion could, but he could at least make the Drow contend with two targets instead of one, which might give Falin the upper hand they so desperately needed.

Falin dodged another cut of a sword, deflecting the serrated blade from the course it had for the vulnerable wall of his stomach with the flat of his own sword. With only a split instant to reflect the battle-hardened warrior saw his opportunity and went for it. He followed through with the swing that had blocked the sword, bringing the blade in a low arc at the slightly off-balanced drow's right leg. In the next instant the Drow found his leg severed at the thigh and he let out a howl of pain to announce the fact. Yet the drow's cries were abruptly silenced as Tertiam stepped in and thrust the tip of his longsword straight through its throat. Gurgling blood and clutching hopelessly at his neck, the Drow dropped to the ground and then quickly passed onto another plane of existence.

Falin and Tertiam began to feel the effects of fatigue as the minutes of continuous fighting ticked on.

We can't keep this up for much longer, were Falin's thoughts as he prepared to face off with yet another Drow. His body was starting to falter with fatigue, sore from the places where the occasional lucky swing had gotten past his defenses and left their mark upon the warrior. The inevitability of this echoed like a death knell in his brain, giving the elf a slightly desperate look. Tertiam was equally affected if not more so, the cleric's state of fatigue far more severe. They managed to somehow fell another two of their cursed kind but that still left five more of them. They had only killed half their number and it was doubtful they would be able to stand through the second half. Even as this thought crossed through his brain, Falin was caught off guard by another lucky strike . . . but this one did more than just scrape him.

White-hot pain lanced through his shoulder and seemed to jar down through his whole body as the drow's longsword hit home, ripping through flesh and tendon in his shoulder and slicing down clear to the bone. Falin M'or screamed aloud with the pain and desperately tried to swing at his opponent but it was no use. The Drow had severed the muscles needed for such an action, rendering Falin's left arm hanging useless at his side.

Before the surface elf could act again the same Drow pulled back with his longsword and then swung it towards him. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion to Falin . . . and the elf couldn't react in time to prevent the fist clenched tight around the hilt of the long sword from slamming full-force into his face. Falin's head snapped back with the force of the blow and he felt himself falling backward. He heard Tertiam scream his name and then, darkness consumed him.