Although it was most beautiful to behold, night in the wilderness of the Silver Marches could be a deadly thing. Many an adventurer had met their end in the vast wilds that stretched from the Spine of the World in the north to the High Forest in the south. The wildest lands were populated by goblins, orcs, giants and the occasional dragon. Even the more tame regions boasted ferocious wolves, lycanthropes, and the occasional vicious barbarian band.
Given the considerable dangers posed by the creatures that lived in the Silver Marches, there could be found and even deadlier adversary, the weather. Avalanches and rockslides often killed would be bands of adventurers and merchants as they attempted to make their way through and around the Nether Mountains.
If one managed to survive against these many challenges, they were either incredibly lucky, or became very wise as to how to survive in the region. Many foolish adventurers had died chasing their dreams straight into an angry dragon's lair, or directly into the path of an oncoming avalanche or rockslide.
Fletcher Ravenmane shook his head sadly and stamped his hooves. Too many of his kin had perished recently. The tribe of centaurs had unluckily stumbled upon a cavern near to Moonwood that lead to the Underdark. While attempting to close the rift in the earth, they were attacked and slaughtered by the drow that used the tunnel as an exit to the surface. Fletcher rubbed a hand over his face and looked back over his shoulder in the direction of the centaur camp. There were several fires going, and he easily made out the shapes of the centaur sentries as they circled the camp, staring out into the night.
What they were searching the night for, Fletcher had heard stories of only when he had been a small colt. The drow were merciless killers whose only thoughts were to prolong and increase the pain of their victim's death. He had not believed the tales until he had accompanied his father, Chief Astaldo, to the grisly scene to help collect the slain bodies of their kin. The manner in which his fellow tribesmen were killed sickened him. The dark elves had viciously slashed at the centaurs' vulnerable legs, and in doing so, had crippled the horse-men. With their most powerful weapons useless as they crumbled beneath them, it was easy to see why his tribesmen had fallen, and fallen hard.
The bodies were returned to their families, and were burned on a funeral pyre, as was centaur custom. Fletcher had stood stoically at the ceremony at his father's side, comforting his younger sister Runya, as the tears ran down her cheeks. So sensitive his younger sister was, and Fletcher did everything he could to spare her delicate feelings.
Barely a week had passed, yet it seemed to the young centaur prince that it had been an eternity. He turned and looked back across the lands that had supported him and his tribe for years untold. He took a deep breath of the night air, easily distinguishing the differing smells of the various trees that comprised the forest that stood a short distance away. His gaze turned skyward, to the blinking stars. It was the centaurs' belief that the great chiefs of the past became the stars and were able to stand watch over their children, even after they themselves had died. Where had the ancestors been that night? He shook his head in frustration.
A strangely familiar echo drifted across the open fields. Fletcher smoothed back his unruly mane of raven colored hair, and strained his eyes to look for the apparent cause of the sound. He cited the silvery bird and offered it his gloved hand, on to which she lit gracefully. "Good evening Remmirath," the centaur said to his avian friend. At the sound of her name, Remmirath shook her silvery feathers, and craned her neck to gaze at her master. Fletcher had been given the silver owl by his father to celebrate his coming of age ceremony, which had occurred four years ago at the beginning of spring. Remmirath was an excellent hunting companion for Fletcher, whose favorite quarry was the elusive snow cat. Using her superior vision at night, the silver owl was able to locate the primarily nocturnal predators, and call to Fletcher to alert him to their position.
Hunting the snow cats alone was dangerous work. Fletcher reached down and scratched another hunting companion behind his ears as he trotted quietly to his master's side. The wolfhound panted lightly and leaned into Fletcher's rubbing. "Good boy, Saul," he said to the immense dog. Saul's shoulder came up to the top of the centaur's leg, and the large dog was as nearly as long as his master. His massive head was at least a foot long, and the comical expression that was on his face (tongue lolling about and all) brought a rare grin to the serious centaur face.
Saul was a gentle beast when not on the hunt. But while he was working, he was the most fierce one hundred and seventy five pounds snow cats had ever seen. Fletcher's tribe bred the massive dogs to be companions and to help protect them from the many dangers that could be found in the wilds. There was often the misconception that the centaur tribes had captured and tamed dire wolves to serve as their guardians. Fletcher grinned again as he thought that the tellers of these tales were mostly likely rogues and bandits who were intent upon robbing and pillaging the nomadic band. Many such creatures found that the large dogs could be very persuasive when their families were harmed. Yet the drow that slaughtered his kin had not been deterred by the large dogs; they killed the dogs as they stood guard over their fallen masters.
Fletcher stamped his hooves impatiently. What is taking him so long? The dark haired centaur wondered as his brow furrowed. He was waiting on the bluff for his friend, Hawthorne Pickett. The slightly older mercenary had sent him a message that he had found both of them a job. Together with Pickett, Fletcher had formed an adventuring party and advertised themselves in Silverymoon, hoping that a merchant would need escorts to the various cities in the region. There were few that knew the terrain of the Silver Marches better than Fletcher Ravenmane, but one of them was Hawthorne Pickett.
Fletcher had met the man at the market in Silverymoon, several years back, and they immediately struck it off. Hawthorne was only a few years older than Fletcher, but when they were together, Fletcher seemed to be the most mature of the pair. The brown haired mercenary was fond of practical jokes, and general mischief, but he was a caring soul. Hawthorne visited his friend as often as he could spare between trips to the various cities in the realm.
Since they had become friends, Fletcher had learned much of the man's life story. Hawthorne was born near Rivermoot, and when he was younger he roamed far and wide across the lands of the Silver Marches. On one of his many treks he was attacked by a particularly vicious were-bear, and after killing the beast he became infected with lycanthropy himself. It is rather unusual that he is able to maintain himself relatively well even when he is in his bear form, because many of endemic lycanthropes of the Silver Marches are rather vicious to others than their ilk.
One more than one occasion Hawthorne and Fletcher have seen their hide saved when the former transformed into his bear form. Nothing clears out a nest of goblins faster than a monstrous bear appearing in their midst and nothing kills them as effectively as the arrows fired by Fletcher (except perhaps the slashes that Hawthorne can inflict in his human form, with his enchanted sword and dagger).
Fletcher smiled and patted Saul on his large head. It's good to have friends like these, the centaur mused. He sighed and maintained his vigil, waiting for Hawthorne.
*********
Under the same moon, not very far away Barachiel Elentari rubbed her eyes and stretched. She had been assigned first watch and her eyes could hardly stay open. Barachiel's contingent of Knights in Silver had ridden through much of the Silver Marches, and seen many strange things. Orcs and goblins had been on the move in large numbers in broad day light. The Knights had even encountered a group of Frost Giants down in one of the valleys where the weather was always warm. The blue brutes had scattered into the forest when the group of cavalry came upon them. Barachiel couldn't explain what seemed to be happening, but her elven senses detected that something more than a few errant tribes of orcs, goblins and lost Frost giants was occurring.
She drew her cloak tightly around her as the wind picked up. Stifling a yawn, she looked up at the moon. It shone brightly, lighting the encampment. She could see the horses tethered just down the slope from where she sat, and the tents thrown in a circular fashion just a short distance from the horses. She rubbed her slightly pointed ears to warm them and tucked them under the cowl of her cloak. Full moon, she sighed. That means that Thalion's birthday is tomorrow. She balled her shapely hand into a fist and slammed it into the ground beside her. There was nothing that Barachiel hated worse than breaking her word. I promised her that I would be home by tomorrow. "Damn it!" she spat.
She wiped the tears of frustration out of her gold specked green eyes. The younger moon elf had become like a sister to the half elven Knight, and nothing hurt Barachiel worse than the idea of causing hurt to her adopted sister. She turned her eyes back to the moon as a hauntingly familiar howl cut the silence of the night. Instead of reaching for her weapon, Barachiel left the bow and scimitar lying in the snow as she rapidly got to her feet. She cupped her hands around her mouth and howled back to the wolf. It returned her call and Barachiel could hear it as it raced toward her in the snow.
At the top of the ridge, Barachiel saw the dark furred wolf slide to a stop. "Thorn!" the half elf cried happily. The black wolf gave a toothy grin and raced down the slope to her half sister's side. Barachiel wrapped her arms around the wolf's thickly furred neck and gave it a fierce hug. She let go of her half sister's neck and stared into the wolf's gold flecked green eyes. Hello little sister, Barachiel heard in her head. I have missed you terribly.
Barachiel grinned back at her half sister, the lythari. I missed you too! Where have you been? she thought back at the elf that could shape shift into a wolf. Thorn turned back towards the ridge where she had come from. I had a job to do, and I found some friends that you should meet. Barachiel followed her half sister's gaze and gasped at what she saw.
At the top of the ridge there stood two other wolves. The smallest of the pair had a pelt that shimmered in the moonlight, as if it were made of silver. Its shapely amber eyes returned Barachiel's gaze and it inclined its head to nod at her. That is Liriel Baenre, princess of the first house of Menzoberranzan, and a powerful wizard. She joined me after her human love died. The other is Sharlarra, Thorn said. Sharlarra's red-gold pelt glistened as she winked at the half elf. Watch your purse around her; she is lighter fingered than a halfling. Barachiel smiled at her half sister's last thought.
We have been too long away from home, Thorn continued. I brought them back with me because I feel something is wrong here. I can't put my finger on it, but we will stay until we find the root of the problem. Barachiel nodded her agreement and told her sister what she had learned in her days of patrol. She also told the lythari of her adopted sister Thalion, and her desire to send her a message wishing her a happy birthday, to which the Moon Hunter listened with great interest. I should like to meet the young one someday, as I am certain my companions would. Yet, we must leave now, but we will see more of you soon; I swear by our mother. We will get your message to her, fear not. Barachiel nodded and gave her sister one last hug. Good hunting! she wished for her sister and her new companions.
She waved as the three wolves turned and disappeared over the ridge. Barachiel blinked in surprise as she saw a pale horse follow the three wolves over the ridge. By the gods! That was a teu-kelytha! Barachiel had not seen one of the legendary moon horses of Evermeet since she had been a child; and it brought a great smile to her face. Three haunting howls echoed down to her as she resumed her watch and she returned the call. Later, the halfling, Gaya, relieved her of the watch, and Barachiel quickly fell into a deep slumber, with filled with happy dreams of her childhood.
**********
Hawthorne Pickett quietly picked his way through the underbrush as he made his way to the centaur encampment. He needed to get to Fletcher as soon as possible so that they could set out quickly. He had found them employment working for Lady Alustriel herself. The sandy-haired mercenary smiled broadly; most companies had to work for many years to even gain the Silver Lady's attention. From what he had been told, Fletcher and himself would be serving as guards for an expedition that she was sponsoring.
Hawthorne slid to a stop as a pack of wolves passed close to his right. He squinted in the darkness, watching the hunters as the passed less than a stone's throw away from him. Good evening, Hawthorne. The mercenary smiled and howled back at the passing pack. It's good that you're home Thorn, he thought, we missed you. Watch yourself, the lythari replied, you don't know what's out here tonight. He sheathed his enchanted sword and continued in the direction of the centaur camp. Wait a moment; I need you to deliver a message to Lady Alustriel for me. The sandy-haired mercenary stopped and turned back to the wolves. Tell her that Thorn is home, and that she needs to let Thalion know that Barachiel will be home soon and wishes her a happy birthday. "No problem," he dug in his pouch and pulled out a silver amulet that resembled a crescent moon.
"Most esteemed Lady Alustriel," he spoke into it, "Thorn has returned home. Her half sister wishes Thalion a happy birthday, and wants her to know that she will be home soon." The mercenary stood quickly for a moment, and within a few seconds, the silver amulet hummed. "Thank you for the message Hawthorne," it spoke with Lady Alustriel's voice. "I will see you and your associate tomorrow, correct?" The mercenary nodded, "Yes ma'am." "Ah, good; I will see you tomorrow. Have a pleasant night." "And you Lady."
Hawthorne placed the silver moon amulet back in his pack and waved as Thorn and her pack moved off into the night. He found his friend waiting for him at the arranged meeting spot, and after detailing the plan; they entered the camp and made arrangements to leave at first light.
The sun was bright as they headed for Silverymoon the next day. Their trip to the Jewel of the North was rather uneventful except that Barachiel's contingent of Knights in Silver met up with them on the road. The two mercenaries traveled with the Knights into the city and up to the High Palace. Barachiel agreed to accompany the two through the palace to report to Lady Alustriel. The strange procession drew stares from many that they passed in the halls. "You know Fletcher," Barachiel remarked playfully, "We are really going to have to do something about you. People are gawking like I'm leading a drow through the palace." Fletcher and Hawthorne chuckled, "You'll have to take that up with my father, Knight Barachiel. I am truly sorry." The dark haired centaur winked at their guide, who laughed in return.
As they neared Alustriel's audience chamber, Barachiel stopped as a familiar voice echoed down the hall to her. "Big sister! Wait!" Barachiel's smile grew tenfold, and she turned just in time to catch Thalion as she slammed into her, wrapping her in a tight hug. They laughed as they lay in a pile on the floor. "See, I told you I'd be home for your birthday," she said to her younger counter part. "Welcome home Barachiel," said D'Aron as he offered her his hand to help her back to her feet, which she gladly took. The Knight introduced D'Aron and Thalion to Fletcher and Hawthorne and explained why she had lead them through the palace.
Their conversation was interrupted when the audience chamber's doors flew open and Lady Alustriel's magically amplified voice drifted out. "I need the following individuals to report to the audience chamber immediately: Barachiel Elentari and Gaya Banazir of the Knights in Silver, D'Aron d'lil D'Issan of the Palace Guard, Thalion Ellesar the ranger, the sorceress Hélène Volhard, the esteemed Alkar Hammerhand, and the members of the Company of the Keep: Fletcher Ravenmane and Hawthorne Pickett." The group in the hall paled as their names were announced. Barachiel regained her composure the quickest and smoothed her cloak, "We might as well get in there and get this over with." The others had to agree. Thalion clasped D'Aron's hand as she followed her adopted sister into the audience chamber.
*********
Across the palace grounds, Gaya Banazir heard her name announced and cringed. Now what have I done? She thought as she quickly put away her gear from the recent trek into the Silver Marches. Oh well, I'd better hurry. She walked quickly from the barracks and down a narrow avenue, heading in the direction of the audience chamber.
On her way, she passed Alkar working in his makeshift forge. His hammer clanged, and the piece of metal he was working on hissed as he dropped it into a bucket of water. "Come on Alkar, we had better hurry!" The silver-haired dwarf nodded and removed his heavy apron. "Wait a minute little miss; you can help me carry these things for Thalion." Gaya turned around and way promptly loaded up with packages wrapped in heavy paper. "Geez Alkar," the red-haired halfling remarked as she nearly dropped the parcels, "What did you give her this year? Rocks?" The smith snorted, "Here let me carry them. I don't want them dinged up before she gets to use them." "Come on Alkar, tell me!" Gaya pleaded as they crossed the main plaza and entered the Palace. "You'll just have to wait and see," the dwarf replied with a smirk. The halfling sighed, but let the subject drop. She had been in too many arguments with Alkar Hammerhand to even think for a minute that the stubborn dwarf would give in, and tell her his secrets.
**********
"Take your seats everyone." All present in the audience chamber did as they were told, quickly finding seats and turning their eyes to their hostess. The Lady of Silverymoon wore a simple white dress with ruffled sleeves and a dark grey cloak. Holding her unicorn headed staff, the older woman cut a most distinguished figure. She almost rivals a Matron in Menzoberranzan, mused Drizzt as he sat next to Cattie-Brie.
"We are here today to discuss who will be participating in the scouting expeditions that have been deemed necessary by the confederation of the Silver Marches." All heads nodded as the silver haired Alustriel spoke. "I am glad to see that almost everyone had made it. We must inform the others, who will arrive later, what we have decided." Others? D'Aron signed to Drizzt. I know not. The elder drow responded.