Here is a little story with Xan. Post Baldur's Gate, pre Shadows of Amn. Based around Kulyok's Xan mod. Enjoy!

...

The cliff was before him. One mere pace would send him plummeting a hundred feet into the plain below. Everywhere the earth was brown, dry, baked solid as a clay pot under the desert sun.

To look at the sky was pain, so he directed his gaze out over the land. It was barren, nearly devoid of vegetation, and the heat made the horizon shimmer and move like a snake. Where he stood the land was smooth as if it had been levelled with a knife, yet the valley before him was filled with strange towers of earth, daubed in various colours of red, pink and brown. There were bones there, old bones, of what sort of creatures he did not know, and did not care to find out.

It was a hellish place, no place for men to dwell, and certainly not an elf. But that was precisely where he needed to go. The others were picking their way down the narrow path into that valley, but he remained immobile. He felt a sudden sweat wash over him, a burst of heat that had nothing to do with the endless desert that surrounded them.

For he saw death in that place.

It was rising up from the plain; a skull, massive, larger than the cruel sun. The bone was bleached solid white and the empty eye sockets fixed upon him. It opened its fleshless mouth and spoke words he did not understand. The words reverberated around the silent valley like thunder, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. He felt cold and what little strength he had left him. He shut his eyes and felt himself falling down, down without end.

Xan sat straight up. He was shaking. Cold, it was cold. He sat for a moment, trembling, staring out at the night and trying to determine if it was real.

The air was fragrant with growing things, not the parched smell of the desert. Below him was not hard earth, but the softness of his couch. A silk coverlet lay on his waist, and he pulled the thin fabric closer in a failed attempt to get warm.

It was real. He was at home, in his chamber. But his mind was still racing, trying to comprehend what he'd seen. He'd been in reverie. He'd been at peace, such a rare thing. But then…he was somewhere else.

He'd never seen the desert. No desert like that, at least… Was it a dream? To fall asleep in the middle of reverie was either a sign of greatly advanced age, or great illness. And although Xan felt ancient he was hardly of a venerable age, so there was only one explanation left.

He'd been improving. He thought, even dared to hope, that he was growing stronger. Slowly, day by day, baths taken in the temple waters and help from the healers had restored his exhausted body. But restoring the mind was a much more painstaking task.

Xan rose from the couch and slipped his robe over his shoulders, then turned to the stand which held his Moonblade. It was an altar as much as a weapon rack, embossed with mother-of-pearl sigils that reflected softly in the moonlight. The scabbard of his blade shone like quicksilver and the pommel gem glowed blue with ancient light. It was beautiful; organic yet refined, graceful yet strong, burning with a fire that could not be quenched. The spirit of his people forged into metal.

He whispered a quiet prayer into the night, asking for Corellon's protection and the aid of his ancestors before fastening the blade into its permanent place on his hip. Tonight though his devotions were vague. The dream would not leave him. It repeated over and over in his mind, all but the last. That skull; he knew it was there, but somehow his mind's eye would not let him see it again, its horror too much to bear.

He needed air. An odd thing to say; his chamber was open to the garden, the sliding doors drawn wide to allow as much of the outside in as possible. It virtually was outside, apart from the roof which shielded his possessions from the gentle rains that sometimes caressed the city. But Xan could never draw enough of that blessed air into his lungs to satisfy him.

...

He went out into the garden. The grass was damp with dew and made the hem of his robe wet. Up from the ground he felt the gentle pulse of the earth, the heartbeat of nature at rest. But although the birds slept the people of Evereska were awake. Beyond the trees that framed his villa he could see lights, and even hear the faint trill of laughter.

There was life there. All around him. But he still felt separate, a thing apart. What drove in this wedge? It was not awkwardness, or the heavy weight of duty. Not anymore. He'd been touched by something. Something had left its mark on him. And although he feared to speak it, he knew exactly what it was.

He should not be there at all. Xan knew too well he never should have seen his home again. As he lingered in that beast Mulahey's cave he dreamed in vain of rescue, but he never dreamed of what strand of fate was keeping him alive.

He did not see it at first. That human boy, so ordinary in every other respect, just one of the random group of adventurers who saved him from Mulahey's grasp. But there was something. He should have trusted his instincts. Maybe it was a sense of gratitude, a debt of honour, that kept him from thinking too deeply, who could say. But then, could he really have been expected to know the truth? The greatest of sages could not have known what he truly was. All but one.

Alaundo. Those long, rambling verses he studied as a youth…elves did not usually bother with instructing their children on the literature of men, but Alaundo was different. He was a seer without equal, even amongst the People. He saw the cataclysm that was to come. And as he sat there as a bleary-eyed boy Xan could never have imagined that he would somehow become caught up in this prophecy.

He paused seeing a slight movement in the flowers near to hand. A spider was there, spinning her perfect web with remarkable grace and speed. She would catch her prey with ruthless efficiency, a coldness worthy of any assassin. Suddenly there was no ordinary garden creature, but a weaver of fate determined to lure her victims into madness. Xan looked away, moving further into the garden.

That madness touched him, it preyed upon him, striking at him when he was most vulnerable. The things he did, words he said…they were not truly of himself. It was easy to blame his injuries. The punishment his body had endured…the pain and exhaustion brought on by stretching his abilities as an enchanter to their limits. He was a Greycloak, but more of an advisor than a warrior, and the endless battles they had faced drove him near to the edge. That's what the healers at the temple thought, at least. And given a normal situation they would be right.

But Xan knew better. He saw darkness rising like a mist from the ground. A thing, alive, let loose when that demon Sarevok Anchev died. And he saw it absorbed into the very being of his companion.

Was he truly evil? Could he be? Finn was a jovial young man, a little too jovial if truth be told, possessed with a coarse sense of humour. But he had fought with a will against those who had brought terror and destruction to the Sword Coast. Not without personal interest; he was motivated as much by revenge for the loss of his father and those who had put a bounty on his head. He could be rash in action and prone to black moods, but those could be credited as much to his youth and inexperience. But in spite of that strange aura which surrounded him Xan never considered that Finn was evil. Perhaps that was a mask in itself, the disguise of a perfect predator.

Xan at last reached the fountain in the centre of the garden. That place had always seemed sacred to him. Made of the purest white marble countless centuries ago, it still was pristine as the moonlight. It did not seem like a thing made by mortal hands. One of his earliest memories was sitting on the edge with his mother, watching with delight as her hand made the moon's image dance in the water. She sang him a song of Sehanine Moonbow dancing across the sky, as beautiful and impossible to catch as a moonbeam.

Now he sat on the edge of the fountain alone and gazed into the water. It rippled gently as it flowed into the pool, distorting the moon's reflection. The vision twisted and for one horrid moment became like a skull. Xan shut his eyes hard then looked up. The moon was bright and full, fair Sehanine dancing across the sky. But she was cold and distant, an elusive and uncaring maiden. She would not comfort him tonight.

...

The sound of a low whistle across the garden nearly made him jump out of his skin. Xan stood up, trying to collect himself enough for his visitor.

"Fair evening, cousin!" the man said, gliding up the path. "I had hoped to find you out of reverie."

"Astaldir," Xan breathed in reply. "Good evening. I trust your family is well?"

He should not have been too surprised to see his kinsman. Xan had few close kin living, and Astaldir was only a distant cousin. But they were near to the same age and had known one another their entire lives. They were not friends as youths; in fact Astaldir used to torment him in a variety of inventive ways. But age had mellowed him, and now he seemed to take it upon himself to look after his strange and solitary cousin.

"Yes, quite well. But Loomi promised the girls a moonlight walk when next she was full, so I thought I would see how you are faring."

"I am…well," Xan said, though he could hear his own voice shaking as he said it.

"Ah," his cousin replied, coming to lean against the fountain. "Is it the headaches again?"

"No, not this time," he sighed. "It is…nothing. Nothing of concern."

"It must be something," Astaldir said, still possessing something of his youthful brusqueness. "You look pale as death tonight."

Xan shuddered at the word, an arrow striking to the quick. His cousin was alarmed enough that he rose to his feet. But Xan held out a hand to stop him before Astaldir could grab his arm.

"I am fine!" he said, a little too loudly.

"Very well," Astaldir said, looking surprised. "Though perhaps some herb wine would do you good. I can fetch you some, if you like."

"No… No, cousin. Thank you. I just need…rest."

Xan resumed his place on the fountain's edge. His feet felt cold from the wet, and his hands were bloodless. Astaldir looked at him in silence, clearly unsure of what to do.

But what could he truly know of the visions which plagued him? Apart from time spent battling orcs on the borders of their homeland Astaldir had never left Evereska. He married the laughing and dancing Loomi with her long dark hair, and had two little daughters he named after flowers. His was a life of ease, one of peace, filled with wine and song and love. He knew nothing of the shadows.

"You rest too much, Xan," he said after a time. "Why do you not come to our house? Loomi and my mother would be very happy to see you. Yet you spend all your days and nights hiding behind the walls of your villa."

"I do not hide here," Xan said defensively. "And I have no wish to be rude. But it is hard for me. I cannot simply…"

"Visit your kin?" he interrupted. "Our home may not be one of the grand old manors of Evereska, but it is warm and welcoming. But you have entrance to the college and the council, and perhaps you find it beneath you."

"What?" Xan exclaimed. "You think it is snobbery? I assure you, that is not…"

Astaldir was of the same clan as him, though some branches of the family tree prospered more than others. It was his line that passed the Moonblade down from father to son, his line that dwelled in one of the oldest homes in the city. But that prestige meant little in the end; Astaldir had wealth that he could never possess.

"Peace, cousin, I do not think that," he replied, laughing a little. "But I wished to break you from your trance somehow."

"You have not changed so much over the years," Xan sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"And neither have you. But I do wish you would tell me what the matter is."

"Forgive me," Xan said. "Tell Loomi I will visit you soon. I lose myself at times, get caught up in other things…"

"Not that," Astaldir interrupted. "I mean tonight. What troubles you so? I have often seen you looking weary, but tonight… You seem frightened. What has happened? Has there been some news? You hear things that most in the city do not."

"No news, though if there is I have not heard it," Xan said slowly. "I…had a dream."

The words were heavy as they left his mouth, but his cousin did not pick up the weight.

"A dream?" Astaldir said, bursting into merry laughter. "What, an actual dream?"

"Yes. At least, I think so."

"Then I can imagine why you must be upset," his cousin said, still laughing. "I cannot remember the last time I slept. I think it was after Vairar's wedding feast, though I do not know if that counts."

"No, I imagine this was not the same," Xan said coolly.

"Forgive me," Astaldir said, trying to reign in his humour. "You are right, it is serious. If you are still ill…have you spoken to the healers about it?"

"It has happened just now!" he said, growing impatient. "No, I… I was in reverie. But then I was not. I saw things…places I have never seen in life. I was somewhere…else. I saw… saw…"

"If you saw strange places then it must be a dream," Astaldir remarked. "Reverie only calls up the past."

"Yes. It was a dream. It must have been. Only a dream."

Xan buried his head in his hands, trying to convince himself it was true. Astaldir was silent for a moment, then spoke.

"Are you drifting again?" he asked, quietly.

"What?"

"Father and mother used to talk about you," he said, hesitant. "I heard them, when I was not meant to be listening. Father said you had dreams in your eyes. I wasn't sure what he meant. But there was one time, I saw you…"

"What do you mean?" Xan asked sharply.

"I saw you," Astaldir began again, himself beginning to look strange. "You were sitting at the foot of the great willow tree, you know the one… You were awake, but you were…gone. Asleep, or… Your eyes were open, but you were not in reverie. I called your name, but you didn't answer. Something… I was frightened. I ran away."

"And you never told me this?" Xan asked.

"I was frightened," he repeated. "It was so strange. But I forgot about it soon after. It was just before…"

"Before my father died," Xan said in a hollow voice.

"Yes. Do you remember it?"

"I do indeed," he replied.

His voice had dropped to a whisper, his throat suddenly grown thick. Astaldir made a slight cough.

"Forgive me, cousin. I did not wish to raise a painful memory. I'm not even sure why I thought…"

"Because you see more than you know," Xan sighed. "You were right. I was…dreaming."

"I see," Astaldir said. "And what did you dream about tonight?"

His voice had a delicate tone, something like a healer enquiring about a private subject. Xan shut his eyes again.

"I saw…death."

The words were so hard to force out, but he needed to say them. He had to, he needed to let them out. But his confession was treated once again to laughter.

"Death? Oh, Xan! Do be serious."

"You think I am not serious?" he cried in reply.

He locked eyes with his cousin, who immediately turned away from his gaze.

"I'm sorry," he apologised again. "I do not mean to mock you. But… Death? Really? It seems so…dramatic. Whose death was it?"

"Whose…? Mine, of course! It must be mine," Xan said, his voice still wild.

His hair had grown damp and he pushed it out of his eyes with a distracted gesture.

"Then you saw yourself die?"

"No… I… I do not know. It was just…death."

He felt on the verge of tears. He couldn't explain. How could he explain? Astaldir was silent at least, no doubt thinking that he wished he had accompanied his family on their pleasant moonlit walk. Xan breathed deep and clutched at the hilt of his blade. He could feel the presence of his ancestors, but could not hear what they said to him.

"I have heard that in the human lands, men place great stock in dreams," Astaldir said quietly. "And much effort is made to interpret their meanings. I am no seer or diviner, but… If you fear death so much, I believe I know why."

"What are you talking about?" Xan said.

"You live in this vast house, with not even a servant to attend to your needs. Dust falls like snow, the garden is choked with weeds… You are the last in a great line…but you are alone. You spend seasons wandering in the human lands then return to this empty place. Do you even take communion? These halls should be filled with laughter and song, as they once were. But you are like a spirit haunting this place. No elf should fear death. It is a reunion, the joining of our spirits with the Seldarine. I think it is not death you fear, cousin. It is life. Live…be open…and your fears will fade."

"Is it so easy as that, cousin?" Xan sighed, drawing in breath.

"Yes," Astaldir said, laughing a little. "Drink and sing. Sing to the flowers. Be merry for its own sake, and laughter will follow you. And find a wife, this house most desperately needs a woman's touch!"

"Find a woman? You sound just like him," Xan groaned.

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"Well. Speaking of wives, I need to confess a motive for coming here tonight," Astaldir said, trying to lighten the mood. "Loomi asked me to bring home some nightflowers for the full moon devotions. Your garden has the finest ones I know, and…"

"Do not apologise, cousin," Xan said, sighing again. "Take whatever you wish. They grow wild by the southern wall…I never find time to tend to them."

"Perhaps we may all come some day and help you with your garden, then?"

"Yes…that would be kind."

Astaldir smiled, though Xan could see the worry in his eyes. He touched him on the shoulder then went to gather an armful of the sweet-scented flowers. Their petals glistened like silk in the moonlight, phantom dresses of the ladies who once danced across that garden.

Astaldir bade his cousin farewell and made his way out the front doors, back out into the world of light and laughter. With Astaldir gone the garden seemed even more silent than before.

Xan sat again on the fountain's edge. He drew his sword from its scabbard and held it aloft. Pale blue spirit-flame licked over the blade, silent, cold, a reminder of its hidden power.

But tonight he saw something else. A dream. A vision. The blade falling from his father's hand, the flames on the sword extinguished. A boy dreaming under the willow tree, with dreams that were not dreams. Sehanine had put dreams in his eyes. That was the first, but not the last. And now, the vision had returned.

Slowly Xan sheathed his blade. He knew what the vision meant. It was calling him now, with no escape. It was coming. It was not over. The Child of Bhaal was hammering the drum, and he would have little choice but to follow.