Note: This is not a cohesive story at this point. Instead each post is--or will be--a plot bunny or small fragment of what might eventually take place as either one very long fic covering both the NWN2 OC and MotB, or as two slightly shorter fics covering each storyline separately. Also, in case you are curious about the title, it's a very vague reference to The Aeneid, where the Sybil writes words or letters of her prophecies on leaves that are scattered by the winds.
Disclaimer: I do not own NWN2. The only thing I own is the character of Eirylynn Signe, better known as Eiry. This story is written solely for fun and not for profit. I love my stories very much; please do not print or post them elsewhere without my knowledge. Thank you.
Eiry was lost in depths of the Claimed Lands…tangled in snarls of vines and weeds and a darkness that threatened to devour her.
Everywhere she looked, she saw her own face reflected back again…but somehow she knew the person beneath her face, and that person was different in each place she stood.
Here, on her right—that was Casavir, doubtful and dedicated, radiating the determined discipline of the true Paladin, the rock on which she relied.
There, on her left—that was Bishop, burning with rage and despair, smoldering with unwanted hope and unwilling desire, making her sweat.
Khelgar, brimming over with rough and ready joie de viethat made her grin…
Neeshka, impish and irrepressible with all the uncomplicated pleasure to be found in mischief, most of which was innocent enough…
Elanee, quiet and calm, still waters that ran troubled and deep, the nature and wisdom of things that could not be explained but were well worth appreciating…
Qara, ambition and frustration, dark tarnish overlaying golden potential, the bitter gall of being forced to bend in service to someone else's choice, however necessary…
Grobnar, simple and uncomplicated, the satisfaction of things learned and discovered, embodied in a single spoken word …
Shandra, stubborn and slow to change, but slowly growing and maturing, cut down before her time…
Sand, cutting precision and biting wit, amoral and intelligent, inquiring lens through which she investigated the world…
Ammon Jerro, unyielding and unashamed, ready, willing, and able to do what must done, ready to pay the price, no matter what it was …
and there was Zhaejeve, directly across from her, alien and inscrutable, completely unknown, revealing Eirylynn to herself with unerring—if annoying—knowing.
All the parts of her swept into line, fell into place, formed a single, unbroken blade, because she wanted them to…because she willed them to. And she knew, as if remembering, that she was the heart that united, and the hand that led.
Together, they tore through the brush that bound them. The darkness around them flickered…she thought she could see the path that led to the Keep…
And, then, before her eyes…Bishop was fading, dissolving into nothing…Casavir reached out as if to hold him back, but his hands passed through empty space…and, suddenly a woman in red robes was standing where Bishop had been. She raised her hands as Zeeaire had done once, and Eiry felt herself frozen, suspended, somehow encased in pain erupting from her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Neeshka and Qara spiraling away from the line, Khelgar and Sand leaping forward as if to stop them, but it was no use… the shard in her chest was gone, clutched in the red woman's triumphant hand… the blade was shattering…in the Mere, winter was coming… lives falling away from it in splinters, like leaves from the trees …the red woman's lips were moving… "For love," she said… Eiry felt herself retreating, withdrawing from her body no matter how she fought…
And then she was standing in the clearing, alone…no, not alone. Gann stood at her side. He reached out and brushed his fingers along her cheek, wiping away tears she hadn't known she'd shed. Maybe she leaned in toward him, maybe he took matters into his own hands…she was never to know who made the first move…and she never cared to learn. His arms coming around her, drawing the tattered edges of her soul back together, holding her close…were enough…and more than enough. It was like coming home…and she realized with a start, but without surprise, that they were standing on the village green in West Harbor.