Summary: Xander dies. Xander lives. Xander cops a lot of flak.
Crossover: AD&D Forgotten Realms
Disclaimer: I own all! *sounds of painful torture and lawyers barking* itaiiiiii.... I own nothing!
Feedback: Coin o' the Realm!
Warning: Some bad language used further on.
Pre-fic Comments:
Yeah, I'm skipping quite a bit. Deal. That, or fill in the gap yourself :) I also realise this is similar to a book. Deal.
* * *
The one once known as Alexander in another life moved quickly and quietly, blind to the heat sensitive eyes of the sentries. The clerics in the House were busy, occupied with fending off an attact by Alak's female relatives. Completely untraceable, a force from nowhere.
For such he was known as now. Alak, of House Do'Urden. He had been raised by Priestess Malice, eldest daughter of Matron Vierna, and had learnt under her his place in the society he had been born into. Dressed in black, his white hair under a concealing wrap of black fabric, covered with a spell hiding his body heat. The only bright objects were his red eyes. He had no identifying objects on his person -- his neck purse, his piwafwi, all left in the care of Matron Vierna.
Black Ops, to use our terminology.
He darted a mushroom -- the fungus would squeal loudly if one not of the House DeVir passed, and that would not do. Moving quickly past, the gargoyles on the front wall sat motionless, unseeing. A frown passed Xander's face -- the guard of DeVir were worthless!
He levitated onto the second storey of the rambling building, sprinting silently to an entry that had dust on the door. He cast Quietus on the hinges, then opened it.
The room within was disgusting. In the corner, a surface elf cowered in a cage. The creatures were rather expensive, and Xander had no doubt it was there for use in blood magic of some sort, to insult Corellon Larethian. He didn't for a moment think of freeing the wood elf -- where would it go? It would be like releasing a dove into a flock of bloodthirsty hawks. On a cot in the corner was a sleeping figure, thin and old even by drow standards. Pharaun DeVir knew too much, could help his House too much.
The powerful wizard died of a slim stiletto inserted in the ear, dicing his grey matter. Alak withdrew the knife, cleaning it on Pharaun's clothes.
Xander had no problem with this. It was like staking vampires back home.
He paused on the way out. A book had an intrigueing title on the front -- 'Walking The Planes' -- with a black glass sphere resting on the top, about half a foot in diameter. Xander pocketed it. He sincerely wanted to go back to Sunnydale. After forty years in this hellish dimension, he wanted to go home.
* * *
Once back in his small room at House Do'Urden, he looked over the book he had taken from the dead wizard. A small purple fire, magically created, danced above the pages, heatless. He had received a minimum of thanks. Which he had expected, even if he had achieved great skill at carrying out his tasks given him.
Xander buried the resentment and read through the pages.
'While it is complex to open a portal, using my Stone which I have designed myself, it is a simple matter for even the simplest of minds. One takes the Stone created using my ingenuity and lines it in faery fire, waving it in a circle in the air while thinking of one's destination.'
He groaned at the selfcenteredness of the author. Wizards, he had found, were never lacking in ego. Still, it couldn't hurt to try. At worst, he would be flogged by Matron Vierna and then have the Stone and book taken off him.
Xander, also known as Alak Do'Urden, put on his swords. He then strapped his knives to his person, then picked up the Stone. He had no desire to take anything from this world with him.
Picking up the Stone, he lined it in purple faery fire, one of the abilities possessed by drow nobility along with levitation. Standing, he carefully moved the black Stone in a circle in the air, leaving a trail of purple fire where it had passed. Alak kept a careful image of Sunnydale in his head. He'd forgotten a lot after forty years, so he concentrated on the last images he had of the small town. Spike walking away from his dying body, lined by trees and tarmac.
Once the circle was complete, the air within the circle silently transformed from a view of his room's door to a view of a Californian suburb at night, bright streetlights stabbing into his red eyes like the surface of the sun. He endured the discomfort and walked forwards, into the light.
* * *
Post-Fic Comments:
Well, things just got interesting :)