For starters, this is more the tale of Ninde then any other – As any who know me well might know, I'm somewhat infatuated with the Elf, even though she's got more issues then a news stand. I'd always seen her back-story as the most fascinating part of her, so finally I have decided to transfer it to paper – or virtual paper, at least. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'd post Ninde's stats, but at this point in the story it would be rather a spoiler.
Reviews wanted and needed – they encourage me to keep writing. Thankyou.
And also – a disclaimer. I own the characters. Ninde, Respen, Inaed, Aondrial, Vyreena, Rohanna, Sykre, Lirhys, Synrielle and pretty much everyone else mentioned in this story who no-one else thought up first, ke? However. I don't own the setting. Sadly. ;.;
Introduction – A lacing of MistIt was a dewy morning on the wooded fringes of Cormanthor, and the air reeked of moist violets. As always, it was still, damp. One could almost hear the ghostly tolling of the bells of Mistledale in the distance, perhaps intertwined with the soft noises of nature's subtle interruption. The occasional twig snap, perhaps the silky pitter-patter of water droplets rolling from leaf to leaf amidst the thick jaden canopy of trees; all in all, an ethereally beautiful place, tinged with the melancholy of mortality. For the vast forests of Cormanthor, once the haven of the Moon and Wood Elves had been touched by the corruption of the Drow. Pouring forth from the gashes in the hallowed earth of the forest, the malignant creatures brought with them their spider-fiends of Lolth and their dark magics, seeking the ancient treasures of their surface cousins.
And so it was with extreme caution that the line of merchant caravans wended down the sodden dirt track. They were flanked on either sides by armed soldiers, bleary eyed from lack of sleep, but nonetheless extraordinarily alert and gazing anxiously about them through the murky fog that the woods were swathed in, as though at any moment an enemy might leap forth from the purple miasma.
At the front of the convoy, rode a young man, his scarred hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword. The breath of his steed rose before it's nose in pearly clouds, and it picked it's way along the muddy path with the utmost care. This young man had a sharp, concise gaze and a lean, well-muscled body that belied experience of combat and travel. However, despite his somewhat gnarled appearance, he could not have seen more then twenty-five summers, and his clothing was rich in comparison with the other hired mercenaries guarding the caravans, most of whom were unwashed and modestly dressed. And the young man was named Respen Amblecrown of Waterdeep. One might wonder, perhaps, what a wealthy young nobleman from the northern metropolis of Waterdeep was doing, playing the part of a humble hired protector. But Respen was not the only Amblecrown present within the convoy. His father rode further back, a delicately enamelled pipe hanging haphazardly between his cracked paper lips. His expression was as nervous and tired as the rest of the men who travelled with them, although he was trying his very best to distract himself with the study of several parchments he had purchased from a trader in the nearby town of Chandlerscross. His spidery fingers trailed idly through his thin beard.
Inaed Amblecrown took less well to the world outside the high walls of Waterdeep then his son did, and after all, who could blame him – a man of seventy was at no age in life to begin to accustom himself to new places, or to new people. He left the city on business, and that was all, for few had a shrewder eye then Inaed. He had hoped, perhaps, that young Respen may have gleaned some knowledge of magical artifacts in his years working with the Amblecrown Trading Consortium, but sadly, Respen was supremely disdainful and even suspicious of all things magical. To Inaed, his son was little more then another skilled guardsman for his caravans loaded with scrolls and delicate potion flasks.
The air became suddenly more silent, and the trees pressed closer in on either side of the path, the grey bark of their trunks shimmering with dawn moisture and pale green lichen – it had begun to rain. A light, clinging drizzle that settled in the eyelashes and hair of the company, and then Respen heard a sound up ahead; a slight moaning. It soared from the soft forest noises so distinctively… it was so alien in this un-inhabited world of ghostly mists. The young man peered over his shoulder at the company behind. They continued to wade with needless caution through the shallow mud behind him, and had clearly not heard the small sound.
Yes… yes. There it was again. A soft, almost mournful moan. His curiosity overwhelmed his usually strong sense of caution, and without so much as a single call back to the rest of the convoy, he gently tapped his reigns against the neck of his tired mare, urging her through the soft damp earth to investigate that strange small noise. What could it be? An injured animal, perhaps. Yes, that seemed most likely. As he rounded the corner and curled out of sight, he heard his father call, but paid no heed; he was nearly upon the creature, whatever it was. And then he saw it – a black-brown, misshapen thing. A tiny lump of mud and leaves and fur and tattered black cloth, curled, foetal, in a tiny nest of grey-green leaves, on the floor at the feet of his horse. It cooed softly, but did not move. A quasit? A mephit? It could not be a simple woodland creature.
"A demon!" Cried Respen, drawing his sword with a metallic whistle and swinging deftly from his saddle, reaching down for the small furry bundle. It offered no resistance, he noticed with a little surprise, as he grasped it by what he assumed was the scruff of its neck. But then, as he harshly tugged it up to the level of his face, two tiny white arms shot from the bundle and began to scrabble at his armour with sharp, filthy nails. In surprise, Respen promptly dropped the dirty wriggling creature and backed away, only to find his curious gaze met by an equally inquisitive pair of eyes. They were a blue almost as pale as the mist that surrounded the pair of them, and as wide and moist as an ocean, framed with dark, damp lashes.
She was more creature then child; her hair was thick with dirt and twigs, and her small body was swathed in filthy, baggy clothes that were in dire need of repair. Her skin was also coated in mud and other debris of the forest, but in some areas flesh of the palest alabaster shone through the grime. She stood perfectly still, observing him with a strange intelligence that unnerved him substantially, exuded as it was by one who was apparently so young. The pair stood in a complete, almost tangible silence, the smoky grey air swirling about them and the whisper of breeze stirring the mucky tendrils of her dark hair. Almost instantly, Respen sensed there was a certain strange electricity in her manner, an edge to her gaze – this child stared at him through the eyes of a woman. Perhaps it was fate; he knew at that moment that he was meant to find her. It was simply meant to be.
Cautiously, he knelt, lowering his face to the same level as hers, but still maintaining a prudent level of distance from the feral looking girl. She did not move, but observed him suspiciously, raising a tiny hand to chew at her thumb. Carefully, and not removing his steady eyes from her face, he extracted a semi-stale travelling biscuit from his knapsack, and held it out to her, without saying a word. The child watched him warily, but made a move to grab the biscuit from his hand and crush it hungrily to her mouth. Respen's gaze softened as he noticed the fervour with which she consumed the biscuit – the poor bedraggled creature must be near starving. As she swallowed the biscuit, he noticed tiny trails of silver leading from her eyes – silent tears. They smudged the mud that covered her face. Suddenly, the familiar rattle of cartwheels and familiar cry of Inaed shattered the hallowed silence of the clearing.
"Respen!" He barked, his voice tinged with irritation. He did dislike it so when that foolish boy went wandering off. Not because he was concerned for the boy's welfare – oh, definitely not – but because the convoy was much more open to attack in this dangerous area if it was missing a guardsman. Inaed had hurried the convoy along as soon as he noticed Respen was missing, as he was sure the half-wit could not have gone far. As they rounded a corner, Inaed irritably urging on the mule that tugged along his caravan, they came to a glade in which the prevalent mist circled eerily, and at the centre of this glade, swathed in pale fog, knelt Respen. But he was not alone. Respen turned and stood, his usually solemn expression one of complete peace, and yes, almost happiness. He clutched a small bundle of grubby fabric to his shoulder, and his sandy brown hair was thick and frizzed from moisture.
"Ah, there you are boy." Began Inaed. "I was beginning to think you had been-" Inaed cut himself short as he noticed that Respen was carrying something. Inaed was nefariously nosy and, being Inaed, rather hoped Respen had finally proved himself to be of just a little use, and stumbled across some of the valuable elven treasure of the wood.
"Say, boy, what's that?" Asked Inaed, poking his small spectacles further up the bridge of the nose and hopefully inspecting the bundle. He was most alarmed to notice it was breathing.
"Ah! Disgusting child – have you picked up an injured animal again?" He said with disdain to Respen, taking a few steps back as though being in the mere presence of the creature was unhealthy. Respen pursed his lips, vaguely, and lowered the bundle in order to show Inaed.
"I suppose you could say that." Respen sighed, softly, and Inaed squinted at the small, sleeping face, utterly aghast. His expression changed however, when he noticed the protruding white ears nestled between the locks of her raven hair; it was an elf. An elven child. She seemed serene and fragile, and upon seeing her dainty, sleeping face he felt the same un-nameable sense of duty to her as Respen had.
The Amblecrown Caravans continued along their roughly beaten track, although now with a new addition to their party. The child rested snugly, sleeping, beside Inaed, wrapped in Respen's silken cape. The younger of the Amblecrowns rode on ahead once more, whilst the elder sat musing, a smug smile plastered across his wise old face as he observed the elf. "I suppose we must give you a name." Inaed chuckled, adjusting his spectacles again (It was a habit of his).
"You are such a skinny creature… I suppose your name should be elven. Skinny… thin… slender…" Inaed bit his lip thoughtfully, and then the perfect idea struck him.
"Ninde! Yes. We shall name you Ninde." Ninde was elvish for slender – he thought it fitting. Then, Inaed smiled a crinkled, affectionate smile at the small sleeping bundle of child. It was perhaps the first time he had smiled affectionately at something that was not made of gold and easy to sell.