Morgan: All right, here's the first installment of my first fanfic.
Moomba Fanboy: Woohoo!
Morgan: Quiet, Chuchiru! Please read and review this, since feedback early on will help me to give you more of your (hopefully) favorite new characters later. As far as I know at this point, the entire cast of this fic will be OCs. There may or may not be cameos by famous NPCs like Drizzt, Alustriel, Alias, the Lady of Pain, etc., but I'm not sure yet. Why don't you, as the audience, decide? I'm writing this for no other reward than your pleasure, after all.
Chuchiru: Liar! You want fame, money, and a bevy of immoral young women to attend to your every whim!
Morgan: (clamps a hand over moomba's mouth desperately) Nannari! At any rate, this is how it should run: It'll start in the Forgotten Realms, in the Moonwood region, and most of the adventure will take place there throughout the "quest," or whatever. There'll be many a trip into the Planescape setting, though, so be warned: while I don't yet know whether there will be any chapters labeled "Not For Kiddies," the major part of the story will definitely have a rough, jagged, sharp, rusty, tetanus-ridden, serrated edge on it. Now that you've been sufficiently notified... On with the fic!
Chuchiru: Mmrrfg hmpfrumfgr mpf hrfmfrhg... (Translation-- "Air...becoming...an issue...")
Note: * * * indicates section break indicates inner monologue, thoughts
* * * (Tsujitsuma mou! ^_^ )
Illidian Peridruin knelt, wiping the blood from his long, mithril- bladed spear. Blue fire flickered at its edges, dying in the bloody gleam of the setting sun--fading in the aftermath of battle.
The moon elf sighed. The orcs had been pushed back, slaughtered by the Fair Ones of Moonwood, but several brave elven warriors--men and women he had known for all of his three and a half centuries of life--had died in defense of the forest's borders. Now the rangers and their pegasus mounts would be carried back to the heart of the wood by their remaining brethren, to be laid to rest in the ceremonies of their people.
Illidian looked at his reflection in the broad, now-clean blade of the spear: lean-faced, with gray-green, serious eyes; the angular blue tattoos on his cheeks that were supposed to focus his power as a sorcerer gleaming under his fair skin. His nose was aquiline, his chin firm, his cheekbones high, and his expression weary and grave.
"Always they strike again," he muttered. A passerby may have assumed it was only because there was no one within speaking distance that he spoke to himself, but in truth, he had taken up one-sided conversations to keep himself from descending into the madness many claimed had already engulfed him. The blood of silver dragons ran in his veins, inborn magic that far surpassed--both in potency and limitations--that of a normal mage, even an elvish one; however, perhaps because of it, he was chaotic, irritable, and given to visions and eerie trances. The other elves, as much for their own safety as for their peace of mind, had consigned him to a hermitage several miles away from their settlement, remembering the unexplained magical disturbances and troubles that had occurred during the period of his adolescence. They allowed him to visit the city, but not to live there, and to an elf, the separation from the society can sometimes be more painful than any other wound.
"Always they strike again," he told himself more angrily. "Why haven't they figured it out yet? Every time, we slay them, make them flee, and always they return. Do they not know they cannot best us? In our own homeland? Foolishness."
His line of thought was disturbed suddenly by a shriek of terror, followed by a piteous cry, a wail of grief and loss. He unwound himself from his kneeling position hurriedly, listening with his lobeless, upswept ears for the sound to come again. He was taller than most elves, closer to six feet than five, although he still sported a lean, narrow frame, his muscles lithe like a cat under his shirt of elven-forged chain and brown leather clothing. He cocked his head as the cry pierced the dusk once more.
Racing through the foliage, making no sound, leaving no sign of passage, Illidian followed the thin trill of noise. He emerged from the edge of the Moonwood near the road that passed by that section, to see a pair of orcs awkwardly mounting two fine bay steeds by the wreckage of a human wagon. The body of a young woman lay in the dust of the road, one arm thrown out toward the setting sun, and beside her the corpse of an older, bearded man in half-plate armor and riding leathers. The goblinoids spotted him and, kicking savagely at their mounts' flanks, raced off in terror.
Normally Illidian cared little for humans--he'd had little contact with them during his life--but these orcs were wounded and frightened from the battle that had just claimed some of his people those few minutes to the north. The elf snarled and launched his spear with a smooth, professional overhand cast.
The polearm slid into the back of one orc, sliding through bones and organs like a stick being thrust into a pool of still water. Sapphire flame burst from the spear, searing away a large chunk of the creature's side and panicking its already-wide-eyed mount. The horse reared, throwing its dead rider, and galloped off toward the ridge.
The second orc had one hand pressed to its side to staunch an ugly arrow wound there, and was using the other to flog his horse mercilessly in an attempt to escape. Illidian drew himself to his full height with a feral growl and extended one hand, palm out, fingers splayed. The tattoos on his jaws and the backs of his hands flared with ghostly cerulean radiance, a light matched by the gathering strands of power that swirled about his taut hand. Five missiles of energy burst forward in rapid succession, slicing unerring paths in the cool evening toward the fleeing orc.
The humanoid's eyes bulged as the first bullet of magic struck his lower back. He squealed, swaying in his saddle and trying jerkily to turn around. Another slammed into his shoulder blades, another his leg, and the last two toppled him from his stolen equine with simultaneous blows to the back of the head. He lay in the long grass fifty yards from the road, twitching and groaning.
Illidian had no sympathy for the foul, brutish goblinoid. With a wave of his hand, he unleashed another spell, distorting the air around the creature, drawing the moisture from its thrashing form. The grass shriveled and withered for thirty feet in every direction from the orc, who promptly dried up himself, clawing with skeletal hands at sunken eyes and sloughing into dust and bones on the ground. The last rays of the sun washed over the barren circle as they faded away, illuminating the now-dead ground enough to discern the last of the orc's remains being scattered in a whimsical, early night wind.
The elf held out his hand once more, to recall his enchanted spear this time. The weapon slid free of the first orcish corpse, sailing through the air with a whistle to the waiting grasp of the sorcerer. Illidian turned back to the shattered wagon, giving the two bodies nearby only a cursory glance to make certain they were dead. The vehicle held naught but a sack of meager travel rations, a pack of minor miscellaneous gear he assumed had been the possessions of the grizzled warrior, and a tattered blanket that stirred slightly in the breeze.
The mysterious cry caught at Illidian's heart once more, emanating this time from a discernible location: the small cloth lump of the coverlet. He grimaced, pulling back the corner to reveal something that, for some reason, didn't surprise him at all.
"How cliché," he murmured, looking down at the small, frightened human baby. "Just like I read in all the story-books, yes?" The chubby, pink child couldn't have been more than six or seven months old, with curious fingers despite the tight, terrified expression in his huge blue- green eyes. He caught Illidian's prodding finger eagerly, holding onto it as a drowning man might clutch at a straw, perhaps afraid that to let go was to follow Mommy and Daddy.
No, not a father, that man. The elf peered over his shoulder at the male form sprawled near the butt of his spear. The orcish blades of the fugitives he had just slain made the gaping side a mess, but the face was turned to the side, and nothing of the child was there. The mother was not recognizable. Some other man, most definitively.
Illidian gazed into the baby's eyes for a long time, and the young human stared back. When the elven sorcerer raised one eyebrow, he giggled as though it were all a game. The elf sighed. It is good you forget so quickly; but what now?
"I can't leave you here to die, can I?" he said out loud, smiling. He scooped the babe up in his free hand, rags and all, and turned toward the forest. Behind him, the stars winked down on the dark battlefield of the woods' edge, and Illidian faded into the shadows.
Somewhere, far away, acid-green eyes, pupils slit like a cat's and full of fathomless darkness, closed halfway in a lazy smile. A smile of triumph, of success, of benevolent kindness.
A smile that promised this was only the beginning.
Moomba Fanboy: Woohoo!
Morgan: Quiet, Chuchiru! Please read and review this, since feedback early on will help me to give you more of your (hopefully) favorite new characters later. As far as I know at this point, the entire cast of this fic will be OCs. There may or may not be cameos by famous NPCs like Drizzt, Alustriel, Alias, the Lady of Pain, etc., but I'm not sure yet. Why don't you, as the audience, decide? I'm writing this for no other reward than your pleasure, after all.
Chuchiru: Liar! You want fame, money, and a bevy of immoral young women to attend to your every whim!
Morgan: (clamps a hand over moomba's mouth desperately) Nannari! At any rate, this is how it should run: It'll start in the Forgotten Realms, in the Moonwood region, and most of the adventure will take place there throughout the "quest," or whatever. There'll be many a trip into the Planescape setting, though, so be warned: while I don't yet know whether there will be any chapters labeled "Not For Kiddies," the major part of the story will definitely have a rough, jagged, sharp, rusty, tetanus-ridden, serrated edge on it. Now that you've been sufficiently notified... On with the fic!
Chuchiru: Mmrrfg hmpfrumfgr mpf hrfmfrhg... (Translation-- "Air...becoming...an issue...")
Note: * * * indicates section break indicates inner monologue, thoughts
* * * (Tsujitsuma mou! ^_^ )
Illidian Peridruin knelt, wiping the blood from his long, mithril- bladed spear. Blue fire flickered at its edges, dying in the bloody gleam of the setting sun--fading in the aftermath of battle.
The moon elf sighed. The orcs had been pushed back, slaughtered by the Fair Ones of Moonwood, but several brave elven warriors--men and women he had known for all of his three and a half centuries of life--had died in defense of the forest's borders. Now the rangers and their pegasus mounts would be carried back to the heart of the wood by their remaining brethren, to be laid to rest in the ceremonies of their people.
Illidian looked at his reflection in the broad, now-clean blade of the spear: lean-faced, with gray-green, serious eyes; the angular blue tattoos on his cheeks that were supposed to focus his power as a sorcerer gleaming under his fair skin. His nose was aquiline, his chin firm, his cheekbones high, and his expression weary and grave.
"Always they strike again," he muttered. A passerby may have assumed it was only because there was no one within speaking distance that he spoke to himself, but in truth, he had taken up one-sided conversations to keep himself from descending into the madness many claimed had already engulfed him. The blood of silver dragons ran in his veins, inborn magic that far surpassed--both in potency and limitations--that of a normal mage, even an elvish one; however, perhaps because of it, he was chaotic, irritable, and given to visions and eerie trances. The other elves, as much for their own safety as for their peace of mind, had consigned him to a hermitage several miles away from their settlement, remembering the unexplained magical disturbances and troubles that had occurred during the period of his adolescence. They allowed him to visit the city, but not to live there, and to an elf, the separation from the society can sometimes be more painful than any other wound.
"Always they strike again," he told himself more angrily. "Why haven't they figured it out yet? Every time, we slay them, make them flee, and always they return. Do they not know they cannot best us? In our own homeland? Foolishness."
His line of thought was disturbed suddenly by a shriek of terror, followed by a piteous cry, a wail of grief and loss. He unwound himself from his kneeling position hurriedly, listening with his lobeless, upswept ears for the sound to come again. He was taller than most elves, closer to six feet than five, although he still sported a lean, narrow frame, his muscles lithe like a cat under his shirt of elven-forged chain and brown leather clothing. He cocked his head as the cry pierced the dusk once more.
Racing through the foliage, making no sound, leaving no sign of passage, Illidian followed the thin trill of noise. He emerged from the edge of the Moonwood near the road that passed by that section, to see a pair of orcs awkwardly mounting two fine bay steeds by the wreckage of a human wagon. The body of a young woman lay in the dust of the road, one arm thrown out toward the setting sun, and beside her the corpse of an older, bearded man in half-plate armor and riding leathers. The goblinoids spotted him and, kicking savagely at their mounts' flanks, raced off in terror.
Normally Illidian cared little for humans--he'd had little contact with them during his life--but these orcs were wounded and frightened from the battle that had just claimed some of his people those few minutes to the north. The elf snarled and launched his spear with a smooth, professional overhand cast.
The polearm slid into the back of one orc, sliding through bones and organs like a stick being thrust into a pool of still water. Sapphire flame burst from the spear, searing away a large chunk of the creature's side and panicking its already-wide-eyed mount. The horse reared, throwing its dead rider, and galloped off toward the ridge.
The second orc had one hand pressed to its side to staunch an ugly arrow wound there, and was using the other to flog his horse mercilessly in an attempt to escape. Illidian drew himself to his full height with a feral growl and extended one hand, palm out, fingers splayed. The tattoos on his jaws and the backs of his hands flared with ghostly cerulean radiance, a light matched by the gathering strands of power that swirled about his taut hand. Five missiles of energy burst forward in rapid succession, slicing unerring paths in the cool evening toward the fleeing orc.
The humanoid's eyes bulged as the first bullet of magic struck his lower back. He squealed, swaying in his saddle and trying jerkily to turn around. Another slammed into his shoulder blades, another his leg, and the last two toppled him from his stolen equine with simultaneous blows to the back of the head. He lay in the long grass fifty yards from the road, twitching and groaning.
Illidian had no sympathy for the foul, brutish goblinoid. With a wave of his hand, he unleashed another spell, distorting the air around the creature, drawing the moisture from its thrashing form. The grass shriveled and withered for thirty feet in every direction from the orc, who promptly dried up himself, clawing with skeletal hands at sunken eyes and sloughing into dust and bones on the ground. The last rays of the sun washed over the barren circle as they faded away, illuminating the now-dead ground enough to discern the last of the orc's remains being scattered in a whimsical, early night wind.
The elf held out his hand once more, to recall his enchanted spear this time. The weapon slid free of the first orcish corpse, sailing through the air with a whistle to the waiting grasp of the sorcerer. Illidian turned back to the shattered wagon, giving the two bodies nearby only a cursory glance to make certain they were dead. The vehicle held naught but a sack of meager travel rations, a pack of minor miscellaneous gear he assumed had been the possessions of the grizzled warrior, and a tattered blanket that stirred slightly in the breeze.
The mysterious cry caught at Illidian's heart once more, emanating this time from a discernible location: the small cloth lump of the coverlet. He grimaced, pulling back the corner to reveal something that, for some reason, didn't surprise him at all.
"How cliché," he murmured, looking down at the small, frightened human baby. "Just like I read in all the story-books, yes?" The chubby, pink child couldn't have been more than six or seven months old, with curious fingers despite the tight, terrified expression in his huge blue- green eyes. He caught Illidian's prodding finger eagerly, holding onto it as a drowning man might clutch at a straw, perhaps afraid that to let go was to follow Mommy and Daddy.
No, not a father, that man. The elf peered over his shoulder at the male form sprawled near the butt of his spear. The orcish blades of the fugitives he had just slain made the gaping side a mess, but the face was turned to the side, and nothing of the child was there. The mother was not recognizable. Some other man, most definitively.
Illidian gazed into the baby's eyes for a long time, and the young human stared back. When the elven sorcerer raised one eyebrow, he giggled as though it were all a game. The elf sighed. It is good you forget so quickly; but what now?
"I can't leave you here to die, can I?" he said out loud, smiling. He scooped the babe up in his free hand, rags and all, and turned toward the forest. Behind him, the stars winked down on the dark battlefield of the woods' edge, and Illidian faded into the shadows.
Somewhere, far away, acid-green eyes, pupils slit like a cat's and full of fathomless darkness, closed halfway in a lazy smile. A smile of triumph, of success, of benevolent kindness.
A smile that promised this was only the beginning.