Disclaimer: This counts for the whole rest of the fic, as I don't feel like writing these headings anymore: I DON'T OWN FORGOTTEN REALMS. I only own those characters that obviously belong to me, the actual CDs containing the OC and expansions, and the premise for the storyline.
Author's Note: So this is the third time I've written chapter one, and I think this is the best I've come up with yet. For now, I'm rewriting the whole story, and recommend that you read what I've got on a chapter-by-chapter basis. Thanks!
Kaia Moonchild
Prologue…
The tale I'm about to recount, dear reader, is one not for the faint of heart, or those of feeble or small mind. It's been centuries, eons, ages, lifetimes since the events that took place in and around the city of Neverwinter; events in which I played a great, and yet overlooked and underappreciated role beside the celebrated heroes of that age, Lady Aribeth de Tylmarande, Aarin Gend the Spymaster, Paladin of Lathander Kaerion Galadorn, and Lord Nasher Alagondar, Ruler of Neverwinter.
And yet, listener, I do not begrudge my former companions their glory in the tales and legends spun by bards and recorded by lore masters. No, they can keep their places of honor in the annals of history; I have no desire nor need to join them. The day my heart died, froze in my chest for what I felt would be an eternity, was the day I knew I would step back from the limelight.
And yet, that is neither here nor there. Are you ready to hear my tale, inquisitive soul? Are you ready to learn the true fate of the Ever Summer, Never Winter, city of the North? To learn of the single event that's effects spiraled onwards for centuries? Well then, by all means, pour yourself a tankard of ale and settle yourself to hear the story of the Fall of Neverwinter… (Yes, Neverwinter falls )
Lion's Head Inn, Twenty-Four Leagues from Neverwinter
Lying upon one of the more well traveled roadways in Faerûn is an invitation to the weird, the odd, and the completely random, as most of the more experienced innkeepers know. Simply having an inn on the wayside runs the risk strange customers, something that Brent Nalan, Innkeeper of the Lion's Head, had never actually experienced himself. Well, as they say, there's always a first time for everything…
Crash! The low undertone of conversation in the common room cut off abruptly as the oaken door swung open under the gale force winds raging outside. A heavily cloaked figure staggered into the room, dripping wet from the rains.
"Excuse me!" the portly (I know, innkeepers can be thin too, just not in forgotten realms shrug) innkeeper came out from behind his lectern, idly wiping an empty glass with his spotless apron. "Yer dripping' all over my floors, sir! Here, let me take yer coat and sit ye down by the fire, then."
"Don't touch me." The ears of the men sitting at their tables perked up at the sound of the distinctly feminine voice emitted from beneath the deep hood, while their counterparts' eyes narrowed in distrust.
"Eh, sorry abou' that, miss," the innkeeper stuttered, bowing jerkily as the woman swept past him with eerie grace. "Here," he hurried past her and pulled a sturdy chair closer to the roaring fireplace at the back of the room. "Have a seat, ma'am."
"Thank you." Her voice was low and throaty, almost as if from disuse or past injury. A pale, thin hand emerged from the veritable cocoon of cloth to press a heavy gold coin into his pudgy hand. "A meal," she continued, "and some warm mead, if you will."
"Of course," the man bowed again and scurried away, answering the maids' questioning glances with a confused one of his own. Just who was this woman?!
The woman in question quietly thanked the serving girl who promptly delivered a steaming plate of meat and potatoes to the tiny table by her side, and then took a deep draught of mead.
Alcohol and meat? My, my, aren't we being adventurous. I'm looking forward to a repeat of last time, you know. All that bloodshed was….delightful. A passing cleaning girl jumped and squeaked as the mysterious woman uttered an audible, animalistic growl
"Shut up," she hissed aloud, knuckles whitening as her grip tightened around the tankard of sharp liquid. "I don't have to listen to you anymore, not since we left Sigil, so let me be!" she defiantly tossed back another gulp of mead, enjoying the burning sensation as the liquid streamed down her throat to warm her body.
You thought I'd suddenly disappear upon arrival in the Prime Material Plane? The voice scoffed, sending another flash of pain through her head. Foolish girl, you know you'll never be able to get rid of me or what I represent! The chaos and bloodshed of the battlefield calls out to your soul, child of darkness! You know it to be true…
"Shut up," she muttered again, weaker this time. "Please, just leave me alone!" The voice in her head, once a silent companion, had haunted her thoughts and dreams ever since she set foot up Toril's soil, a constant commentator on everything she encountered.
All around her, curious and distrustful customers were whispering and speculating about the woman seemingly talking to herself as she stared into her blurred reflection in a tankard. One man, surely deep into his cups, decided he was brave enough to approach the cloaked woman, and most likely seduce her into his bed. Such, is drunken logic…
The voice had actually stopped upon her last request, something the woman was ever grateful for as she moved to start her still-warm meal. Wrinkling her nose at the slices of formerly alive animal, the woman moved them to the far side of her plate and set upon the steaming potatoes covered in cheese and spices.
As she chewed, she eyed the meat seemingly mocking her from the side of the plate. Ever since "That", she hadn't so much as touched a piece of meat. Just the smell of it caused her stomach to turn, yet she didn't care enough to call one of those skittish maids over to remove the offending entrees.
Pain flared in her head as the voice made another appearance, whispering a stream of pure violence that made her eyes burn to think about. Oh look, it continued, breaking off its detailed recitation of one of her darker moments to comment about the complete silence in the common room. Seems as though the fun is about to start. Don't disappoint me, girl…
"'Scuse me, Miss," a heavy, uncoordinated hand flopped down on her shoulder, causing her arm to jerk and send mead seeping down her robes. "Oh, eheh, sorry 'bout tha'. I'm Toram Nils, Miller by occupation and lover by vocation." He grinned widely as he bent over where he assumed her face would be. "Tonight would be yer lucky night, m'gal!"
There was an intense hush as the woman turned her head to him and said in a cold voice. "Go away."
The man's friends at the bar roared in laughter at the blunt rejection, spurring their fellow on with catcalls and crude jokes concerning his manhood. "Oi," he ran around so he was in front of her view of the fire and placed his hands on her upper arms. "That's not the answer I was lookin' for, lassie. Let's try this again. Me and you, my room, now." Smirking, he began to rise with her still in his grasp.
"Don't. Touch. Me." The woman growled as she flexed, shocking the man as she broke free of his grip and stood at her full height, a good three inches taller than his own. He quailed as, deep within her hood, a pair of crimson orbs began to burn in anger, piercing his heart with fear.
"Come on boys!" he shouted as he attempted to grab her again. "She's but one woman! We can take care of her together and split her all ways!"
The woman stiffened, though whether in fear or anger the men will never know, as he made his plans perfectly clear with the lecherous expression on his pock marked face. Dark memories of the past surged to the fore; sparking a rage greater than anything the aged common room had ever seen.
As Toram set his hands upon her again, her restraint broke, and a feral roar boiled up from within. She felt a presence at her back and immediately lashed out with a clawed fist, catching the man behind her directly in the chest and sending him flying backwards into a table full of people. She was caught unawares by a man coming up on her left, staggering to the side from the blow to her head.
Where is the innkeeper? She thought as she ducked another wild blow from a drunkard. Why isn't anyone aiding me? I could be raped by these men -indeed that is their intent!- and no one wishes to lend a hand? She landed a punishing kick below the waist to her current enemy, sending him to the ground with a girlish squeak. Was I wrong to journey here? Would it have been better to simply stay where I was? She felt more than saw the knife flash towards her side, but couldn't engage the armed man in time to deflect the strike. Pain exploded in her side, and she swayed a bit before being pushed up against the wall by Toram.
"Looks like yer not so tough now, missie!" he snarled as his friends took her from his hands and held her up, using his left hand to unbuckle his belt. "Yer gonna like this, and ye ain't gonna complain, got it!"
No, no, no, no, no, NO! She screamed in her head as she struggled weakly to free herself. Where were her powers, her abilities, her wings? Why had they disappeared upon arrival in Faerûn?
Hmm, the voice in her head said thoughtfully, ignoring her frantic pleas for help as a rough, paw-like hand fiddled with the catch to her pants. This predicament you've gotten yourself into looks rather familiar, don't you think? Whatever shall you do?
"Help!" she whispered weakly, fighting against the grips on her arms as Toram dropped her pants and leaned into her. "Please, Rekkei, help me!"
Very well, Majandra. Very well. And the world behind her eyes burst into crimson flames.
Toram was seconds away from entering his new conquest when he felt a hand gently grip his member. "Here," the woman murmured, voice low with husky warmth. "Let me."
"Yeah, now that's what I'm talking about!" he groaned as he felt her stroke him gently. "Come on, baby, lemme in!"
In a split second, the sensation changed from pleasure to pain, and Toram could only whimper as she brought him up to face her. "You made the gravest mistake of your life, human," She crooned in a feathery voice, tightening her grip. "Now, you shall pay threefold for it!" in a quick movement, the woman ripped the offending member clear off and shoved it down the man's throat, freeing herself from his shocked companions by tearing their arms from their sockets and crushing their windpipes all in one motion. The heavy cloak shielding her from sight seemingly melted from her body, revealing a being no one in the room had ever hoped to see.
"W-what are you?" Brent Nalan demanded weakly at the woman standing before him, eyes shielded by a fall of blue-black hair that ended at her waist. Embedded in that thick hair, to all's surprise, were a set of black, twisted horns. Black leather and chains covered the pale woman's lithe body, offering protection and cover from weapons and yet little from the elements. A tail swayed sensuously around her calves, razor sharp tip scratching on the floor with a metallic sound, and tiny, claws stained red already with blood protruded from her first set of knuckles. Strapped to her waist were two blades, both eastern by origin, and across her back was what appeared to be a pole arm, each blade flickering with it's own eerie magical energy.
She raised her face, and the innkeeper felt his heart die in his chest from the features of the cruel beauty before him. Her heritage was elven down to the pointed ears emerging from her locks, yet it was her eyes that sapped the courage from the man. Crimson cat's-eyes filled with anger and hate glared pure death in his direction, and it was all he could do not to soil himself.
Giggling madly inside at the cliché response, the woman displayed her set of fangs in an insane grin and replied, "Your worst nightmare." And so the screams began in earnest.
THIS IS A BORDER THIS IS A BORDER THIS IS A BORDER THIS IS A
When Majandra came to, she was lying in a lake of blood, nearly smothered by the rain soaked garment shielding her from the elements. Groaning in pain, she pulled herself to her feet, hand clasped tightly over her wound, and took a look at the nightmare she'd woken up in.
Broken, bleeding bodies lay scattered haphazardly amongst the burned wreckage of the Lion's Head Inn, the driving rains and winds giving them the semblance of life as hair and eyelids twitched in the breeze. The smell of burning meat suffused the air, and it was all she could do not to vomit up her dinner of not an hour past.
"Rekkei," she whispered aloud, golden eyes wide in horror at the sight of so much death. "What- why did you do this?" she was covered head to toe in blood, only a portion of which actually her own.
You asked for my aid knowing full well what it entails, half-breed. Rekkei's voice was laced with scorn, dark joy, and a kind of insanity that Majandra was only too accustomed to. What did you think I would do to those bastards, send them home with a spanking? No, they needed to learn a lesson for touching us!
"But," Majandra paused and shook her head. "No matter," ignoring the sharp pain in her side, she took one, and then another unsteady step in the direction of the stables that had been at the back of the end. Surely Rekkei hadn't burned that as well, and there would be at least one horse remaining!
It appeared the gods were smiling down on Majandra, or at least ignoring her for the moment, because indeed there was a sturdy black still in his stall. "Hello, beautiful," She murmured under her breath as she hobbled towards the stallion, careful to keep downwind of his sensitive nose. "I wish you no harm," she paused to choose a name. "Vanwa." Vanwa meant 'lost' in the tongue of her father, and accurately reflected how she was feeling now.
She gritted her teeth against the pain as she lifted a set of tack from the wall and hoisted it over Vanwa's broad back, breath hissing out as she bent over to tighten the catches on his belly. She took a moment to steady herself, and then swung onto the stallions back. A scream tore from her throat as her tender wound broke open again, causing her to sway forward to lean against Vanwa's strong neck.
"Neverwinter." She mumbled, kicking Vanwa out of the stables and into the night as her vision darkened. "Take me to Neverwinter."
Halls of Justice, Temple of Tyr
In the highest tower in the temple of Tyr, a single light burned long into the night. Lady Aribeth de Tylmarande, Lady Paladin of Tyr, sat at a desk surrounded by balls of crumpled paper, pausing in her writing once more to crumple up her current disaster and hurl it against the mirror before her. She couldn't concentrate; even this high up, the screams of the dying reached her sensitive elven ears.
"I need to take better care of myself," she murmured aloud as she gazed at her reflection. She hadn't slept soundly, or even more than 16 hours a week, since receiving reports of the plague that wracked her beloved city. Her auburn hair hung loosely around her shoulders, scraggly and in serious need of brushing before her expected appearance at dawn. Her eyes, a sharp green, had lost all their spark, resting in the shadowed hollows of her face. Even her sharply pointed ears appeared to wilt a little!
With a sigh, Aribeth took out a new sheet of parchment and set her quill to the top. Tomorrow was the grand opening of the Neverwinter Academy for Adventurers. She had been the one to suggest the school to Lord Nasher, and so it was upon her that the success of the venture relied.
She had already recruited teachers, and many men and women from the city and surrounding countryside had flooded in to join the ranks, yet she knew that one more person was required to make it a success. A leader was needed. Someone who could lead the students, none of which were real fighters by trade, and be an example of all they were trying to accomplish. She needed a hero, and she knew exactly who would be able to carry out his duties to the greatest extent of his abilities.
My Lord Kaerion Galadorn, she paused, carefully considering how she would proceed. She had decided against using the formal template for such an important letter, but how informal was too informal? I do not know if you have received news of Neverwinter's plight wherever you are, but I must inform you that we are nearly at our last gasps. Why do I tell you this, you wonder? It was my honor to attend your knighting ceremony five years ago in Silverymooon, and you were the first person that came to mind for this request. An Academy of Adventurers has been created here in Neverwinter in hopes that a person will come that will be able to aid us in curing this plague and reviving our dying city. Will you be this person, master knight? Will you be our hero? If you choose to aid us, come with all haste to the city. We have been quarantined, but showing this letter of invitation will get you through the gates. Please, Kaerion, Aribeth stopped, staring at what she'd just written. She'd never thought it would ever come to this, begging foreign paladins, not even those of Tyr, for help. Another sigh, and she quickly finished up the note, sealing it in an envelope with her seal waxed to the side.
Just as she was about to summon one of the messenger birds to her office, someone knocked on the oaken door. "Come in!" she called, hiding the letter underneath some books. She didn't know why she felt the need to hide, but she knew something more than the plague was wrong with Neverwinter.
"What are you doing still awake, my love?" her fiancé, Fenthick Moss, Cleric of Tyr, entered the door with his usual quiet manner, calming her racing heart and bringing a bit of warmth back into her eyes.
"Writing letters," Aribeth smiled and rose, crossing the room to fall into the lean elf's open arms. She felt him nuzzle her head lightly, and tilted her head back for a kiss. Instead of her lips, Fenthick kissed her cheek and then pulled back a bit.
"I think I deserve something better than that!" Aribeth said coyly, pulling the man closer to her even as sorrow and confusion wracked her heart.
Why is he like this? She thought as they shared another cold kiss. Something had changed in their relationship at the onset of the plague, and Fenthick was no longer as warm or loving as he had been before. Oh, she knew he loved her as much as she loved him, but there was a measure of resistance in his actions whenever they were together, almost as if making love to her were a chore or duty.
When they broke off, Fenthick released her from his arms and immediately bent down to recover one of the paper balls rolling on the floor, unraveling it and reading it without a word. "Kaerion Galadorn?" his eyebrows rose upon reading the name. "Isn't that the lad who gained his knighthood at eighteen? Why would he be an asset to your academy?"
Aribeth winced inwardly at the hint of scorn she heard in his voice when he mentioned the school. "I believe he has what it takes to be a true hero," she replied finally, crossing her arms and moving back to gain more room. All of a sudden, she really didn't feel like being near her fiancé. "He'll inspire the other students without arrogantly lording over them, help them without embarrassing them, and lead them honorably."
"Sounds like you want him more as a teacher than as a student to me," Fenthick grumbled as he stretched out on the cot she'd had installed in her office, not even kicking his boots off first.
Aribeth watched all this and said not a word. This was the Fenthick the public never got to see: the slothful, lazy, arrogant, hateful man that only showed himself to the woman who loved him most. Whenever they were in public, they were the perfect couple. The honorable, kind-hearted cleric destined to become High Priest of Tyr, and his beautiful wife to be, the most powerful Paladin of Tyr ever to grace his church and avatar of justice herself.
"Perhaps," Aribeth replied finally, seating herself at her desk once more. "But regardless, he would be an asset to the establishment.
Fenthick simply shrugged and got back to his feet. "Let's go to bed," he stated, holding out an arm for her to take. "You have the inauguration of the academy tomorrow, and I won't have you looking like a plague-ridden commoner out there."
Aribeth smiled weakly at the backwards compliment and grasped his arm, allowing him to lead her out of the study. Her gaze lingered on the pile of books concealing the finished letter and she sighed inside. She'd just have to send it when she finished her duties tomorrow.
Just as she was about to start down the stairs leading to the temple proper, a vision of such magnitude hit her and she staggered against Fenthick, holding her head as images pounded into her skull.
"Neverwinter," the words echoed in her head even as the images faded. "Take me to Neverwinter."
"Aribeth? Aribeth!" it took her a moment to orient herself enough to realize Fenthick had been calling her name for the past couple minutes. "Aribeth, are you alright?"
"Yes," Aribeth replied slowly, eyes still unfocused as she stared at whatever it was she had seen. "Yes, I'm fine." Fenthick shrugged and continued on, careful to place a cheerful expression on his face as they entered the main temple.
Aribeth couldn't make the effort though, and remained lost in thought. Something is coming, she could feel a presence moving through the dark countryside, coming ever closer to the city by the second. Something that will either aid us, or be party to our destruction. Shaking her head, she fixed a serene expression to her face and allowed her fiancé to lead her to their shared chambers. Now wasn't the time to muse on what will be. Now, it was time to sleep.
Author's Note: Go to chapter two! Or drop a review
