Please feel free to criticize anything from grammar to D&D canon (3-3.5 Edition). I will likely make changes to and/or extend material already posted. Some dialogue is from the game. Starts off on a serious note.
~Chapter guide~
Loss: A Shandra memorial. Bloody.
Responsibility: Elvarien prods Casavir. Not with anything sharp thankfully.
Drink: Good times? Perhaps.
Auras: Something uninvited visits the keep.
Mt. Galardrym: Fire giants, elves, a dwarf, and a cranky paladin.
"Shandra," she said as she looked on to her grave in the distance.
A flat, square stone lay on one of many green knolls surrounding the wheat fields. The stone came from Neverwinter's quarry, a fine cut of granite. Her name put simply: "Shandra Jerro" and underneath "Beloved Forever." Small flowers and ivy were carved into the corners.
No one was there to urge her to return to the keep, to continue with daily life as well as one could with the King of Shadow's lurking in the Mere. She came alone to see Shandra a month since the Haven, despite the risk, against the protests of those she led. Right now, she preferred isolation to crowds, loneliness to the suffocating needs of others. Days, months, time mattered little. She wanted to stay until she repaid the debt of blood. Yet it could never be. On these hills, as the sun disappeared and the day died.
"You stray far from your keep Knight Captain," came a low voice behind her. She slowly moved her hands towards the rapier at her side, flames licking upward from the blade.
A deep, throaty laugh seemed to issue from the forest, creeping into her mind. A shiver ran through her shoulders; however it was one of anxiety, not fear. "Don't even think of moving that sword an inch, or I will take your head clean off."
"I have heard that threat often enough." Elvarien turned slowly with her hands held loosely up. "Rogues... Assassins... A half-orc? How interesting."
"They never said you had the filthy tongue of a racist, whore," the fighter hissed. "Although I can hardly be surprised – you are responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of my mother's kindred." He came forward and stopped a couple of meters away.
The half-orc stood nearly seven feet tall, numerous heads over her. His face was a greyed skeletal mask with deep scars about his eyes, cheekbones and prominent forehead. Black greasy braids hung like ropes from his scalp. A vicious looking heavy crossbow pointed at her throat. The smell was... Her eyes followed the half-orc's outline. Many men, perhaps half a dozen in dark leather garb, hid close in shadow.
"You smell of Luskan. The docks. I'd know that stench anywhere. I've dispatched enough of your kind… And indeed, I have the greatest respect for people of your heritage."
"Before I kill you, enlighten me."
"The Champion of Neverwinter's companion, I have heard the stories of him ever since I was a little girl. He was one of the greatest and most honorable warriors that ever walked Faerun."
The personal aside checked the fighter's rage for a moment. A distraction, though every word of it was true. Elvarien wondered how she could offer such an intimate detail of her life to killers. Then again, she'd been bled and gutted by them countless times before. Was this so different?
They advanced, teeth bared and bloodthirsty eyes focused on their prey. If only Bishop was here. He was their reflection.
"Luskan dogs!" The dwarf roared as he plowed through the shadows with his axe. Daggers stabbed at him from all directions but the stout fighter fought them off like insects, hacking away. Not far behind, the flicker of a tail announced the arrival of Neeshka as her own daggers sliced open throats with enviable grace. And Casavir, stalwart and following the tail of the surprise attack, held his hammer high to smite the half-orc a moment too late.
There was no time to cast stoneskin, the most important spell in her repertoire. Elvarien's constitution wasn't as poor as it once was, yet she needed those few seconds to ensure her defense and concentration; to blast the bastard to the hells. She almost never took a step in hostile territory without invoking it. However coughing dust during rest periods and looking like a statue most of her life was tiresome. After settling the peace with the lizardmen around Highcliff, the spell seemed unnecessary.
A bolt stuck in her throat and she choked. She had indeed underestimated her assassin, careless of her own safety, without a sacrifice like Shandra's to justify it. The mistakes shamed her as she lunged forward, rapier in hand, and stabbed the half-orc in the belly.
Got a bit of the slime, crossed her mind as she crunched gasping hopelessly for air into the ground. Battle cries raged about her. Her face flattened and mouth full of dirt and blood, she saw nothing but spiraling whisps of light in a black void.
"Do something Casavir!"
"You'll tear her lungs out if you pull it!"
"Lord Tyr-."
"Zhjaeve! Gods we need Zhjaeve!"
"HURRY!"
The sky was quiet. Elvarien felt she'd experienced the most pain in her life, all in an instant that had only just passed. Yet no dull ache remained. A warming sensation filled her face, feeling out to her cheeks. Silence, the beautiful hush of the trees about Shandra's farm fed her soul.
"My lady, wake. Please."
He would save 'please' for near death experiences. Her eyes were open but they did not see anything but sky for a while. Khelgar and Neeshka shook in turn, slightly disturbed.
She sat up and anger spread over every part of her face. Her voice shook, like a mother gathering herself into a rage. "You –"
"It was all my doing, my Lady," Casavir cut her off nervously. "We never meant to make our presence known unle–"
"Risking your necks for nothing! Fools! I should have known I was dismissing what I thought was my imagination to be treacherous footsteps! You gave your words. All of you."
Khelgar responded with a 'humph.' Neeshka looked guiltily at the ground. Casavir's face froze in expression of shock. He blanched, stood up and looked away.
"We… we just lost Shandra…" Neeshka whispered.
Elvarien fell onto her hands and fought the urge to cry. She would not grieve in front of them. Weakness in a leader undermined even the strongest army. After a minute, she said as softly as possible: "I know."
Their group had become so fond of Shandra. She complained continuously, judged Elvarien's actions almost as often as Casavir. But no one was as brave and determined in a fight, or as gentle and good to them. Now she had been sacrificed on an already gory, blood-soaked altar, for a cause she didn't even understand.
"I am… so sorry," Elvarien faced them with dry, tired eyes. "I shouldn't blame you for what you did. I have endangered the lives of countless people. I shan't do so again."
"Don't be so hard on yourself lass." Khelgar stood by her shoulder.
Elvarien spoke slowly. "I've lost no trust in any of you. In my anger… I only hope that you have not lost your trust in me."
"Never did," Khelgar smiled.
"You can count on me, er, except maybe this time," Neeshka half laughed.
Elvarien looked up at the paladin. Casavir was staring at the wreckage of Shandra's barn and house. Then he turned away, his back facing them, and began to walk towards Highcliff.