Usual disclaimers, Obsidion owns just about everyone except a disappearing knight captain, blah blah blah, yada yada yada.
Yeah, it's fine,
We'll walk down the line,
Leave our rain,
A cold trade for warm sunshine,
You my friend,
I will defend,
And if we change,
Well, I love you anyway.
Every day something hits me all so cold,
You find me sitting by myself, no excuses that I know.
"No Excuses", by Alice in Chains
14 of Ches, 1384
The keep's fields were quiet, and only the occasional crunch of frosted earth or thin snow beneath his boots broke the silence as Casavir strode ponderously towards one of the hills the bordered the eastern edge of Crossroad Keep. His destination, an unremarkable crest where a plain oak bench sat surrounded by four unadorned wooden poles, loomed in the distance, and he quickened his pace to reach it faster.
A service. He shook his head in disbelief. The fields and farmsteads were empty; many of their inhabitants were currently in the keep attending a memorial service for the Captain in the keep's main hall. A cursed memorial service, and she is not even dead. Casavir climbed the hill quickly, eager to get far enough away from the keep's walls and the droning of funeral dirges within. Even worse would be the sound of Nevalle and a few others mouthing hollow, empty platitudes and benedictions about the Captain, despite making little secret of the loathing and contempt they held towards her. The brazen hypocrisy made his stomach turn.
Upon reaching the site, he sank heavily onto the bench with a sigh and stared blankly into the distance. The skies were lead grey, threatening to dump a day's worth of late winter sleet on the defenseless lands beneath them. Elanee had warned the farmers that spring would be late and violent this year, and from the looks of the fields and barns, no one was even beginning preparations for the spring ploughing that should be occurring in a tenday. Perhaps the people went to mourn the loss of spring as well, he thought blandly.
He glanced at the weather beaten poles, which, when the Captain was around, were usually topped with simple blue grey flags displaying a stylized cloud and wind gusts, in honor of Akadi, the Lady of the Winds. That the Captain would pay homage to such an obscure and exotic deity did not seem strange at all to him. Her mind had always been a strange and exotic thing to him; her spiritual beliefs even more so. This site, erected shortly after she was assigned the keep, was to her both a place of contemplation and escape from the slow noose that her position in the nobility had become. Though Casavir had not come for religious reasons, he found the simple shrine now provided him an escape and peace of his own.
His mind drifted back to the very day when she began the simple construction of the crude shrine. He had come looking for her, as Veedle had some questions regarding a work order for the keep's west wing, and no one had seen her that day within the walls. When he had finally located her, he originally thought she was constructing some sort of makeshift watchpost. After she explained exactly what she was doing, his curiosity grew.
"I must admit, my lady, that I am unfamiliar with the nature and tenets of this faith", he admitted reluctantly as she shimmied up a newly erected ash pole to attach a strip of blue linen.
"What's not to understand? It's pretty simple: I worship the winds and the very spirit they encompass," she had called down to him.
"You...worship the winds?Why?" He wondered if this was another one of her attempts to bait him into a joke or prank.
Sliding back down, she landed quietly and plucked a few splinters from her leathers. "Why not? We all believe in something or someone, don't we?" she asked, looking unusually serious. "I mean, Neeshka sends her prayers to Lady Luck, Sand worships magic, and Grobnar believes in the Wendersnaven. You believe in justice and order, and even Bishop believes in the power of warm ale and cold steel. It just so happens that I find the air and the winds about me worthy of reverence."
Casavir admitted she had a point, though it was a rather odd one to him. In the time he had known her, she had been rather evasive when he queried her about her spiritual beliefs. Given her activities, and talents, he wondered if her reluctance to discuss such things was due to the worship of one of the darker deities usually associated with those engaged in the stealthy arts, such as Mask, Shar, or even Cyric. Now that he knew different, he felt a profound sense of relief tinged with puzzlement. He pressed her further.
"What exactly is it about the winds that invokes your sense of the spiritual, if you don't mind me asking?" he asked as she selected another pole, this one made of birch. Like the ash pole, its bottom was tapered and corkscrewed to make it easier to plant in the soft soil below.
She paused, cocking her head as she studied him. "Well, well, well, will ya get a load of this. The normally stoic and silent as the tomb paladin of Tyr is just bursting with questions and chat today. What gives? Bishop didn't spike your apple juice at breakfast, did he? I'll kick his ass, I swear."
"No, I assure you, my questions are my own, and the apple juice at breakfast was fine, if a bit more watered down than usual," he replied, a touch of amusement in his normally grave voice. "I am curious is all, my lady. I'm sure you can see, as a man whose life is centered on matters of faith and the spirit, why the spiritual beliefs of my companions is of interest to me."
Shrugging, she set the pole down and took a seat on an exposed stone. "All right. Since you asked nicely, I'll tell." She motioned towards a nearby mound of grass, and he took the seat she offered. "It's not that complex. The winds have always captivated me, being a rather rare thing in the Mere, where the air is pretty stagnant, damp, and stale. We got them on occasion, and most people complained because they might blow a few shingles off a roof or muss up some woman's hair. But I never did. When they came, I would seek out the best place for feeling their full force, such as on a rooftop, in a tree, or a field. Because I liked seeing the normal order of things getting tossed about and turned on its head. It was liberating and refreshing to experience."
He frowned. "What you are saying, is that you revel in the chaos and disorder the winds can bring?"
"You call it chaos and disorder, Casavir, I call it freedom and change." She reached into a small pack that lay nearby and pulled out a small, burlap bundle. It held slices of ham and cheese, part of which she offered to him. He took a few pieces, and she continued. "West Harbor was a boring, stagnant place,and just day to day life put me to sleep. Same damned people everyday doing the same things, same mind-numbingly dull gossip and inane chatter over things that were as fascinating to me as rotting logs. Only when the pot got stirred up did people suddenly cease being the living dead, and actually did something different."
"From what the Harbormen were saying about you, you were usually the one 'stirring the pot a bit'", he responded dryly, favoring her with a stern look. He remembered the one trip the group had made to her home village, and the surprising responses from her fellow villagers. "Well, to be honest, I wasn't surprised in the least to hear about her being brought up on charges, to tell you the truth," Georg Redfell had declared. "Well, the murder charge I knew was a pile of crap, but destruction of a village I could see, as a result of one of her stupid pranks. Always figured she end up in trouble no matter where she went. Helm knows she spent a good amount of time in the stockade here, for her 'youthful' antics..."
"Eh, well...." She looked away, her pale face reddening slightly. "Sure, I was West Harbor's least loved citizen, and I earned my bad reputation. But that isn't really what I'm getting at. Well, not quite. It was the change, the promise of something happening, and not knowing what. The winds blow, Casavir, but no one tells them to do so. They just do, and they do so with no particular goal in mind. So you never know what they will blow in, or, if they seize something they fancy, where it will blow to next. It doesn't matter either way to me which way they blow, only that they do, because no matter what, the end result is never what you expect. That, my friend, is what it means to be alive."
Casavir shook his head slowly. "I must disagree," he replied. "I find such an outlook careless and irresponsible. How can one live without direction and purpose? It's pure madness, I think. I believe one must strive to live with careful attention to ones thoughts and actions, and how they affect the world around you. Responsibility. All actions have consequences, and one must carefully weigh everything when making a choice, instead of acting on whim, because always, someone will be affected in some manner."
"Now I know why I stopped drinking at your table at the Flagon," she muttered. "I wasn't exactly trying to convert you, Casavir. You asked me something, I gave you the answer. Believe me, while I know it sure as the hells ain't your cup of cider, it is mine. I couldn't live like you any more than you could like I do. Regardless of how I think or you worship, I think we can agree to disagree on this one. As weird as you are to me, I have been trying my best to respect the way you go about things, and have even avoided engaging in stuff that might force you to smite me. I hope, at least, you can afford me the same courtesy, in this."
"In that, you need not worry," he replied solemnly. "I have always respected you, regardless of differences. Though I shall not hesitate to let you know when you are preparing to do something I find morally objectionable or questionable. And, while you have done things in the past that certainly have offended me, you have never committed anything so heinous that would force me to strike you down."
"That you know of," she said slyly, and then she burst out in rolling laughter, no doubt in response to the growing look of worry on his face. "Gods, Cas, lighten up! I'm just yanking your chain." She jumped up and brushed herself off. "And just so you know, I wouldn't respect you if you didn't criticize me when you felt the need to. Your beliefs I might not share, but I can respect them so long as you are willing to defend them. And that, my oh, so serious friend, you do better than anyone I've ever seen." She motioned to the remaining poles. "Gotta get these up before sundown. Want it all ready by then, so I can do my thing tomorrow morning as the sun rises."
"Do you need assistance?" he asked as he stood up.
"Nah, rather do this myself. You can stay if you want, though. The company would be welcome."
"Then you shall have it." He watched as she took the birch pole and started drilling it into the ground. "If I might ask you one more thing..."
"Go ahead. Shoot." She continued turning the pole, looking up occasionally to make sure it remained straight.
"What is it about structure and orderliness that seems to offend you so much?" he asked quietly.
"Offend?" She paused for a moment. "I don't think 'offend' is the right word. Wary would be a better description. I just find it hard to accept things that have to be shaped and maintained, bent to a certain grain, to keep on existing. Predictability is a euphemism for slow death and decay, I've always thought." She turned to him with a thoughtful look. "It's like a house or barn in the swamp."
"I'm not following."
"West Harbor is in the swamp. Swamps are damp. We build our houses of wood. Wood does not enjoy being damp, because it invites rot and moss to infect it and weaken it. It required a lot of hard work to keep our homes sturdy, so the first good rain didn't collapse the roofs on our heads. It was tedious, and if you let it go to long, there was a point where it was beyond salvageable, and would have to be abandoned, because it was too far gone to repair. Lewy Jon's dump was a prime example. Well, the abandoned house will just sit there, and slowly rot away. Watching something, anything, wither away slowly and just fade, I can't stand it. Better to destroy the damned thing and be done with it, or else, on its way to becoming compost, it will fester, stink, and become host to vermin and lung rot."
Casavir frowned, confused. "I still don't understand what this has to do with..."
"Everything," she interrupted him. "My point is that unless you're willing to put everything into holding it together, everything rots, and maintaining the order of things as if nothing is wrong means maintaining the rot and disease along with it. If it's gone, it ain't coming back. Better to burn the damned thing to the ground and move on. By its very nature, order invites slow decay if you don't take care, and personally, I simply don't have the patience or desire to care about maintaining something that's bound for the midden heap no matter what."
He sighed deeply, turning her words from that day long past over and over in his mind, like a jeweller scrutinizing a rare sapphire. Rare gemstone indeed, he thought. The Captain had never been what you could call a font of profound wisdom, despite her unusual intelligence and sharp wit. But on that day, she had produced insight born of a rare moment of introspection. At the time, he did not realize it; instead, he focused on what he perceived as a wanton love of conflict and mayhem for its own sake, and had hoped encourage and guide her towards a more balanced, responsible outlook on life. Now, as he looked back once more, he chided himself for not really listening, clouded as he was by his own personal hubris.
Change her? He shook his head in dismay. Even if I could, would I truly want to? Despite her many faults, she was perfect in her many imperfections. Because when she truly wanted to, she changed of her own free will, and did so because it was who she was. She was, in effect, more human than any of us.
He turned his thoughts back to her words. He had, and still did, disagree with her opinions regarding the value of order and stability. It was her metaphor of the rotting house in the swamp, however, that held his attention now. "Well, the abandoned house will just sit there, and slowly rot away. Watching something, anything, wither away slowly and just fade, I can't stand it. Better to destroy the damned thing and be done with it, or else, on its way to becoming compost, it will fester, stink, and become host to vermin and lung rot," she had said, and though she did not understand then, she had given him answers and insight that offered clarity in the situation he faced now as he gazed at Crossroad Keep, and through it, the power and authority of Neverwinter.
Rot has infested the city to its core, he thought. It wasn't just the current farce, with the Captain's "death" and her replacement by someone whose bloodline and background were far more palatable to the ruling class, though it certainly shed more light on the nature of things. In the past few days, as the keep's activity levels rose to a new frenzy in preparation for the changeover, he saw signs of decay and corruption that, on further examination, failed to surprise him at all. What did take him by surprise were that the things he saw, in the attitudes and plans of the newly arrived changeover staff and advisers, were nothing new, and that it wasn't until very recently he had noticed. I have not been very vigilant, he scolded himself.
The first sign came with Katriona's surprising resignation. She had left the keep a few days ago to return to the farming community in Old Owl Well she had left to serve the keep. Since the death of Commander Callum, the forces at the Well had abandoned patrolling and scouting the neighboring communities, focusing only on the security of the well and the reconstruction of the old trading routes. The orcs, avoiding the heavily fortified well, started turning their attention back on the scattered settlements, attacking and raiding with a disturbing increase of frequency. Katriona, who still had family and friends there, decided to return and start up an organized militia. "It's like Neverwinter is almost happy about it," she remarked to him on her last morning as they sparred. "If the orcs are raiding smaller, unprotected farms, it takes the pressure off their own forces. I know several people who went to the well to plead for patrols, but their requests were always denied." Though Casavir was loathe to say it aloud, he shared her suspicion as well.
Then there was the order from Nasher that the Captain's Company, the elite force that were the envy of commanders all over the northern Sword Coast, was to be disbanded, its men and women sent off to new assignments. Though the official reason was so a new company for the new commander could be formed for peacetime activities, rumors and whispers through the keep suggested that Nasher and the council had long disliked the idea of a force of crack troops, loyal to a commander they considered unpredictable and far too independent for their liking, so close to their own gates. Casavir held such fears with utter contempt, as such paranoia showed how little they knew her. Far from dreams of power, conquest, or rebellion, the Captain had instead talked about opening up her own festhall in Baldur's Gate, or commandeering a pirate ship and forming a nudist colony on a deserted island in the southern seas. Regardless, most of the Company resigned, and many joined Katriona as she left for home.
The worst, however, was what he discovered through Sand, who had learned it from Aldanon. The mage could barely keep his normally melodic, refined voice from cracking and spitting in rage. "The sheer audacity!" he had almost shrieked as he angrily tossed tomes and scrolls into a travel trunk. "After what she did, if anyone deserves to be buried in the Tomb of the Betrayers, it was her!" He was referring, of course, to Qara. Aldanon had told him, and he confirmed through his own sources, that Qara's remains were being returned to her family for burial in the family crypt, instead of internment in the Tomb of the Betrayers. "Of course, I'm sure I don't need to spell it out for you, exactly how this travesty came to be," Sand added cynically. "It only goes to show you the right connections and a coin in the right purse can go a long way in perverting the course of tradition and justice."
Sand was right; he did not need to spell it out. Though normally loathe to entertain innuendo without solid evidence to support it, Casavir knew there was only one logical explanation. Qara, whose family was prominent and quite wealthy, and whose father was headmaster of the Neverwinter Academy, was spared the indignity of the tomb through political manipulation and influence. Her father, no doubt, had used his influence and status to have his traitorous daughter's status reversed or mitigated, most likely to spare the family embarrassment. More disturbing was Sand's suggestion that she might not even be buried at all, but resurrected in secret and sent off to some family hideaway until something else could be arranged.
The thought made Casavir burn with anger. Sand was correct: she deserved no less. Out of all who had betrayed or would have betrayed the Captain, Qara was the most willing and eager to do so. Neeshka had been forced, and at the risk of her own life, fought the compulsion and broke the geas rather than fight the first real friend she ever had. Bishop's betrayal, though not forced, was driven by something far more dark and personal, and in the end, he lacked the will to carry it out fully. Qara, however, turned on them with little incentive, and for the petty reasons of pride and vanity. And unlike Bishop, who fled, Qara gleefully attacked them, unleashing every flame and spark of destructive power upon the very companions who had once saved her from the schemes of a vengeful instructor and a Hosttower wizard. Had it not been for Zhjaeve's warding and Sand's carefully selected counter-spells, she might have succeeded in killing several of the party members.
Yet she was now going to avoid the disgrace of the Tomb, a fate that Brother Fenthick, who had never been a traitor but a victim of manipulation and injustice, never escaped from. Despite the requests and pleas from the Hall of Justice to have Fenthick's name cleared and his remains laid to rest amongst the other fallen of Tyr, his body still remained in the company of murderers, spies, and oath-breakers. His spirit still dwelled there, unable to seek rest with his Lord in Celestia because of the weight and injustice of his fate still weighed his soul down. Though the Council was more than likely aware of this, their decision remained, non-negotiable. Of course not. The Temple of Tyr brought their request lawfully before the council, using only the arguments of truth, justice and their faith in Tyr, because bribes and manipulation offends our Lord.
Casavir shook his had sadly. He had never been cynical like this, always believing that in the end that by its very purity of purpose, justice always had the last say. Now he was seeing that justice in Neverwinter, once the pride and beacon of the Sword Coast, was slowly becoming a fashionable, but empty concept available on request with the prerequisite fee and connections.
Tyr forgive me, he prayed. I am growing jaded and weary. My faith in You, my Lord, remains inviolate, but my faith in the ability of Neverwinter to correct the injustices of its past and present, is fading fast. I ask for your strength and wisdom, my Lord, because I do not wish others to see how disheartened I've become. I cannot allow myself to further diminish morale, which is already low.
But his thoughts returned to the Captain and her parable of rotting houses. "My point is that unless you're willing to put everything into holding it together, everything rots, and maintaining the order of things as if nothing is wrong means maintaining the rot and disease along with it. If it's gone, it ain't coming back." As her voice echoed once again through his thoughts, he could not shake the unpleasant truth it carried. Is it truly gone that far? He wondered. He had never before believed that anyone or anything was so far gone that they could not be made right again, if they only chose to turn from the course of destruction and set things right again. If they choose to. Neverwinter, it seemed, was choosing to ignore and paint over the rot within, carrying on as if its past wrongs were of no consequence, working more and more on the premise of convenience and expediency. Preserving the rot, so to speak.
He thought back to his first departure from Neverwinter, from his order. The rot was certainly present then, though at the time, his doubts and scorn were focused on himself, and his own perceptions of his obligations and duties were clouded. Though he had convinced himself at the time that the only path of redemption lie in a near suicidal crusade of martyrdom, the fact that Tyr had still been with him was proof enough that he had not fallen. The Great Judge, it seemed, did not find his rather rash decision to leave the city a betrayal of his holy oaths and obligations. Only His paladin's self-doubt and shame were of concern, and the Just Lord had sent a small company of angels to open his eyes, hadn't he?
Well, not quite angels, he thought, a wry smile twitching upon his lips as he remembered his first encounter with what would later become his travelling companions. But Tyr's grace isn't always delivered by his servants, celestial or mortal.
If Casavir could see that not all was right in the City of Skilled Hands, then Tyr certainly saw the corruption at its core. He shuddered to think what the divine sight of his god saw in the city that claimed Him as patron. He remembered his words to Nevalle, that Neverwinter, like all cities and nations, were to be tried and balanced on the divine Scales of Justice. Where did Neverwinter stand? If the city was found to weigh heavier on the left scale, the scale of guilt, what would be the verdict and sentence?
He glanced back at the keep in the distance, wondering if the farce of the memorial service was over or not. It didn't matter in the end. The day after tomorrow, everyone left who was leaving the keep would do so, himself included. Lord Brekin was to be instated as commander, bringing with him his own servants and underlings to staff and work the vacancies that would be left by the large number of people leaving. He wondered how it would affect operations. The keep had been built upon and run by a rather unorthodox set of principles, which suited its rather unorthodox collection of personnel. He knew it was a certainty the new commander would introduce drastic, and more likely stricter, changes, and hoped, for the sake of the people who remained, that those changes would not reduce the quality of life.
And we who were closest shall be joining the exodus, he thought. Their search for the Captain had been temporarily suspended as those involved were gathering their things and preparing for their own departures. That was not the only reason, however: no new leads were uncovered, and the drain of exhaustive, but fruitless efforts was beginning to take its toll on everyone. Tyr had sent no more dreams, and Casavir had the feeling that what he saw in the dream would be all he would be permitted to know. Whatever was happening, he had to trust in Tyr's will and judgement on the matter. When I get to Neverwinter, perhaps the archives in the Hall of Justice will have some answers.
Casavir did not relish returning to Neverwinter, but he felt it necessary. The doubts and concerns he had regarding the physical, moral, and spiritual state of the city would not rest, and he wanted to speak to someone with authority at the temple. He was not certain his thoughts on the matter would be welcome, as there were still many within the temple who held a dim view of his previous desertion. Regardless of how they felt about him, they surely could not be blind to what was going on, since many in Tyr's service still felt the unhealed wounds of the Luskan War deeper than most.
The sun was beginning to set, and he decided to return to the keep, regardless of whether or not the mock-funeral was over. He had promised the others his help in loading the wagons that would be carrying the Captain's personal belongings. There were many crates worth, and he suspected that the majority of it was junk that the she would have eventually thrown away herself, had the mood taken her, but they still packed everything up, regardless. With the Captain, it was impossible to tell what she would find worth keeping. Duncan had agreed to store her things at the Flagon. Normally, everything would have been given to Daeghun as her next of kin, but since he was no where to be found, the responsibility went to her uncle.
As he walked back, he thought once again of decaying houses and the rot that festered within. "I am not you, Captain," he whispered into the fading light around him. "I cannot raze a building to the ground simply because it is showing signs of wear and decay. Such things can be mended if one truly has the desire to preserve it. On this, once again, I think we will agree to disagree."
The day of departure came, and Casavir stood outside the gates of the keep next to the small and loaded wagon as he waited for the rest of his companions to arrive. They had not ate breakfast together in the dining hall, as the servants and staff were busy preparing for the reception of the new commander later that day. Because several of their company were going their own ways, they had all agreed to meet outside to say their farewells, as well as discuss possible contingencies and plans should the Captain, or knowledge of her fate, come to light.
Neeshka, contrary to her normal habit of showing up late for many things, was the first to appear. She, along with Sand, were the only two that were returning to Neverwinter. Neeshka and Casavir, had made arrangements to stay at the Flagon, though in her case, he suspected the arrangement would be more permanent. She had come to regard the tavern as a place of refuge and comfort, and Duncan, who enjoyed the tiefling's spirited and energetic personality as well as her ability to spot pickpockets and troublemakers, would be happy for the company.
He noticed that, along with her own things, she carried a larger pack that he did not immediately recognize. When he asked her about it, she explained it was the Captain's "bail out bag".
"She kept it near her night-stand," the tiefling explained as she attached the bag to her horse's saddle. "In case, for whatever reason she had to escape the keep, she could just grab it and go. Its full of stuff she either felt was necessary, useful, or of some significance to her. Prize possessions, and all that. If she felt that strongly about it, I didn't really want to just stuff it in a crate."
Casavir nodded, though he wondered about purpose behind such a thing. Though she had been an impulsive, restless person, he couldn't think of any possible reason she would have simply fled the keep in the midst of the war, despite her intense dislike of her position, given her obsession for destroying the King of Shadows. Even as the final battle drew nearer, her determination grew more intense. "There's no avoiding it, and the only way out of this cage is destruction, either his or mine," she once stated grimly. "No matter which way the coin lands, it's the only way I'll ever be free again."
Did some other possibility, worse than death, gnaw at her inside to the point that flight from what she perceived as salvation would become the most desirable option, or had she considered the suicidal possibility of hunting down the King of Shadows on her own? He shook the thoughts from his head as he heard the shuffling feet and voices of a large group approach.
The crowd was an odd one, consisting of a small group of farmers and the remnants of the lizardfolk who had remained at the keep. At the front was Elanee, dressed in simple green leathers and a tawny colored cloak. The druidess smiled and waved,, and said something briefly to those with her before walking over to join Casavir and Neeshka.
"You are up early," Elanee said to Neeshka,. "I am surprised, though pleasantly so."
"Well, I thought you and Stumpy would be out here first, and didn't want to miss the chance for some last minute looting through your stuff," the tiefling replied with a sly grin.
Elanee chuckled. "Well, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I've brought nothing with me except some food and the clothing I wear." She turned to Casavir. "I trust you are looking forward to the journey back to Neverwinter, then?"
"More or less. I think leaving the keep alone might do us all some good," he said, looking over at the group of villagers and lizardfolk. "I see you have succeeded in gathering participants to take part in your own endeavors."
The druidess followed his gaze, and nodded. Elanee was returning to the Mere, to begin the long process of reviving the land and restoring the wilderness that had been lost to the shadows. Yet she was not to be alone: both the lizardmen and Harbormen were eager to return and aid her. The druidess saw in the desires of both groups the key to the rebirth of the Mere, and the seeds of promise for a new age of cooperation and rebirth, both for the land and the peoples who inhabited it.
"The New Circle of the Mere," Elanee explained. "In seeing the hopes and dreams of the lizardfolk and farmers, it became clear to me that if the Mere is ever to rise again, it needs more than a small group of reclusive druids to do so. Nature's bounty and mysteries are meant for all. I will be working to foster harmony and understanding between both peoples, so that they may work together to reclaim their homes. I shall teach the Harbormen how to live in harmony with the Mere, even as they build their homes and tend their fields. I once thought that all aspects of civilization were in direct conflict with the land, but now...I have learned otherwise."
"It seems as if both peoples are eager for this," Casavir noted, as he watched some of the humans and lizardmen conversing together.
"Indeed," Elanee replied. "They do not simply wish to reclaim their homes, but forge new bonds. Will be decades, maybe even centuries before the Mere is ever fully restored, and it will never be the same place again. But, a thing reborn is never as it was, and the new Mere that emerges will be reborn with new vigor and resilience, and with all its peoples united together for its health and preservation, perhaps it will be able to resist threats better in the future."
"A noble endeavor, Elanee," Casavir agreed. "May the gods bless your efforts."
The druidess smiled. "I believe they already have," she said, looking over at her traveling group. "But thank you, Casavir. May the earth be firm beneath your feet, and the gentle winds at your back as your own journey begins."
The three of them sat down and spoke for a while, and soon, Khelgar and the remainder of the Ironfists joined them, the dwarves resembling a small column of walking stone blocks clad in metal. Khelgar was returning to his clan to help lead them through their own recovery. "No word on the Captain, and I'll be damned if I'm goin' to sit around on my ass doin' nothin' while these damn fools trip over themselves for some new "commander" who ain't got the guts to fight beyond sparring with his servants," he grumbled as glared at the keep's walls. "Rather be spendin' time with my clan, makin' up for lost time, as well as mendin bridges with Keros and some others."
"And draining the clan kegs, most likely," Neeshka added with a wry grin.
Khelgar sneered back, and turned to Casavir. "So your goin' back Neverwinter, I take it, to knock some sense into those idiots runnin' the place."
"Well, not quite like that," Casavir told him, "But I do hope to bring several matters to the attention of those in authority, in the hopes they will see their errors, and rectify the growing injustices before it is too late."
"Pheh. You'd have better luck crackin' their thick skulls first," Khlegar snorted. "But good luck, anyway. When you're finished there, you know you're always welcome to come stay with the Ironfists. As far as I'm concerned, you're a clan brother, and our halls are always open to you, and your seat at our feasts is always there."
"I would enjoy that immensely. It would would be an honor to be a guest at your tables." After he had turned in his resignation, Casavir and considered the possibility of going with Khlegar back to the clanhold to assist the Ironfists in establishing their presence in their part of the Sword Mountains. "Perhaps when my business in Neverwinter is finished, I will."
"Lookin forward to it!" Khlegar clasped the paladin's forearm. "You'll never want for good food and even better mead. And..." The dwarf leaned in and gave a sly wink. "I've heard a few of the lasses in the clan say that if you grew yourself a proper beard and put some meat on your gut, you'd make a fine catch for any woman!"
Casavir could not help blushing, and with a chuckle, he replied, "Very well. You have convinced me then."
"Hey, moss-breath, what about me?" Neeshka asked indignantly.
"Eh? Oh yeah, I guess you're welcome to," Khelgar said reluctantly, though his tone and face betrayed humor and warmth. "Just give us warning before you do, so everyone can lock up their valuables and seal up the treasury vault."
"Right, like that would stop me," Neeshka said with an impish grin.
Dwarf and tiefling regarded one another for a while, and Casavir knew that despite their frequent needling and trading of jibes, the two would miss each other tremendously. Of all the members of their party, Neeshka and Khelgar had traveled with the Captain longer than anyone else, and had eventually formed a silent respect and fondness for one another. Their constant teasing and bickering often reinforced this in a strange, but playful way.
A half hour later and Zhjaeve and Sand joined them. The wizard had brought with him a couple of carefully wrapped parcels, which he added to the wagon that contained theirs and the Captain's things. The githzerai cleric approached them with the calm, outer-planar grace she always moved with.
"Are you returning to your people, Zhjaeve?" Elanee inquired.
"That is my plan, yes," Zhjaeve replied. "Know that I believe the answers we seek might not be easily found in this plane, and in my communications with my people, new questions have arisen that I feel must be confronted."
"Oh?" Sand turned and raised an eyebrow. "Would you be so kind as to share with the rest of us?"
"Know that after Casavir shared his vision with us, I immediately contacted my people in Limbo to share this information, in the hopes that they might provide insight into the fate of both the Kalach-Cha and sword that was taken with her. Since then, I had not received any word...until two nights ago. And what was told concerns me"
"And..." Sand pressed, eying Zhjaeve expectantly.
Though much of her face was hidden behind her veil, the expression in her eyes was troubled. She spoke with hesitation. "They had no knowing of the Kalach-Cha or the Sword of Gith, nor did they discover anything of help. The Zerths, however, who had returned from their journeys to other planes, discovered something that unsettled them deeply."
Sand was about to say something, no doubt in his customary abrasive manner, but Casavir shot him a look, and the elf sighed and nodded. "Please continue, then," he said with surprising patience.
"The Zerths who traveled spoke of subtle whispers and echoes through the planes, whispers and portents of something of great significance that weighed on the awareness of many in the planes. They knew nothing of the meaning of such portents, only that they hinted towards a nexus where law and chaos, conflict and resolution, creation and destruction would meet on the battlefield of a war that neither began nor ended. It was troubling enough for them to return to Limbo and warn the Circle of Zerthimon, and I am compelled to return as well."
"So something big is about to go down in the Outer Planes?" Neeshka asked anxiously. "I hope whatever it is, it stays there."
"For once, we agree," Sand sighed. "I certainly to not relish the prospect of living through a repeat of the Time of Troubles. One major cataclysm is enough for a lifetime, I think."
"It is unknown to me," Zhaeve stated. "Whatever the nature of these omens are, it seems that even the greater powers of the planes are concerned. Perhaps this is why divination with beings of the planes has not been successful."
"I would agree, except we only fail when it comes to the Captain," Sand explained. "Why that would be, I don't know, but it does not fill me with warm or fuzzy feelings."
Silence followed as they pondered what Zhjaeve had said, and what it might imply. Casavir briefly wondered if somehow, the Captain might have been inadvertently swept into this "storm" that Zhjaeve spoke of, and decided, for the moment, put it in the back of his mind. They had enough concerns and worries amongst them, and they needed to focus. When he got to Neverwinter, he would follow this possible line of inquiry.
His musings were interrupted by the alarmed yelps of village dogs and the uneasy whickers of the horses. He looked around for the cause of the disturbance, and immediately relaxed once he saw it. Around the corner of the far wall of the keep, the large, eight legged form of Kistrel emerged, with two small figures on his back. As they approached, Casavir recognized them: Grobnar in the front, with the reptillian form of Deekin seated behind him. Walking along side the giant arachnid was a slightly plump human man dressed in simple brown robes.
"Good morning, everyone!" Grobnar called out cheerfully as Kistrel came to a stop. The gnome and his kobald companion slide down the spider's side and joined the others. Casavir took another look at Kistrel, and was surprised to see that the spider was hauling a small, light-weight, empty cart behind him. He gave the gnome a quizzical look, motioning to the cart.
"Oh, that? Well, I'm glad you asked," Grobnar explained. "This fine gentleman here is Turris, one of the priests of Chauntea from Highcliff." The plump man smiled and bowed.
"Well met, Casavir of Tyr," Turris said, and gave Casavir a warm, firm handshake. "Grobnar has told me much about you, and I am honored to make your acquaintance."
"Thank you," Casavir replied. "I take it that you will be traveling with Grobnar and Deekin?"
"Indeed he will," Grobnar confirmed. "He is is going to help us bring Shandra home."
"Bring Shandra home?" Neeshka asked? But..she's..."
"I know," Grobnar interrupted gently. His face became a little more somber. "I mean, her earthly remains. It's been bothering me ever since that awful day in Ammon Jerro's haven, that poor Shandra, who gave her life for her friends, still suffers the indignity of being buried under all that ugly, evil touched rock. I know that we simply didn't have the time or resources to do much about it during the whole Shadow War, with all the other urgent matters we had to deal with. But now that it's all over, I've been thinking about it a lot more lately, and..."
"Deekin think it a very nice idea," the kobald agreed. "Deekin not want to stay at keep. New commander not like kobalds much, and Smooth-Man with scary eye on shirt make rude comments when he think Deekin not listening. Much rather find nice farm lady and help plant flowers for farm. Maybe even write nice poem for funeral, too!"
Turris elaborated. "Grobnar here told me of what happened to the late Miss Jerro, and how much she loved her farm. I spoke in length with my fellow clerics and several of the people of Highcliff. Shandra was well loved and respected in the community, and the villagers wanted to have a proper memorial to her memory. Many of the local farmers, as well as the clerics, are donating spare time to turn the Jerro farm into a beautiful memorial garden. When Grobnar informed me that he wished to retrieve her earthly remains from the rubble of her grandfather's dungeons and return them to her home, I offered to accompany him, both to help tend to her remains, as well as deal with any problems, should any of Mr. Jerro's former 'associates' should be lingering." The priest looked down towards the gnome. "Though her spirit now rests in the bosom of the Earthmother, I agree with you, that her body should rest in a sacred place as well."
"When it's all finished, I hope you all will come down and visit, and pay your respects," Grobnar said to everyone. "Hopefully, by then, we will find the Captain, and if she comes, then it will almost be like old times!" The gnome paused, and then added, "Well, minus a couple of rather foul-tempered individuals, but we won't mention them."
Casavir regarded Grobnar with profound admiration. Though the often quirky gnome was fond of exploring bizarre ideas and musing over strange concepts, it was a heart filled with hope, wonder, and compassion that provided the drive to action. "I could think of no greater way of honoring her memory," Casavir said. "Shandra was blessed to have a friend such as you." Smiling, he added, "As are the rest of us, as well."
"I'll second that," Neeshka, said, bending down and kissing the gnome on the cheek. "I'm sure gonna miss you, Grobby. I don't give a shit what anyone else might say about you, I hope you never change."
For a moment, Grobnar looked as if tears were forming in his eyes. He spoke softly. "You know, I'm going to miss each and every one of you. Even you, Khelgar!"
"Heh. The feelin's mutual, arrowbait," the dwarf replied with a chuckle. "But don't ya start getting' all weepy on me. And since you're gonna be goin to a place that might still have fiends roamin' around, ya might need some muscle in case things get ugly." He turned to his fellow clan members, and two stepped forward, nodding in earnest. "This here's Kulgin and Khalbron, both fine Ironfist warriors. Looks like they are volunteerin' to help you out at the Haven, in case things get ugly. They can also help you dig through all that rock, too, an' make it easier to find her."
"Khelgar, I..." Grobnar was at a loss for words. "I don't know how to thank you enough. This is..."
"Bah," Khelgar rumbled. "You don't need to thank me. Wouldn't sleep well if you didn't have anyone lookin out for ya, makin' sure to get your back in case things get hairy. Especially with all the trouble you manage to get into."
Grobnar's face beamed brightly as he looked at each on of the companions, taking in their faces briefly before he moved on to the next. "You know, one might think that this would be a very sad occasion, with all of us going our separate ways. But fate is a funny thing, and I have seen things in my life that ended up being part of a larger, more wondrous plan. I have a feeling, deep down, that this isn't the last time we'll be meet. And when that time comes, I think the Captain will be there too. Never give up on your dreams!"
Once again, Grobnar's optimism proved catching, and as they finally began to say their farewells, it was done with a a spirit of hope and confidence. One by one, they began to depart with their respective parties, until only Casavir, Neeshka, Sand, and the wagon remained.
As Casavir watched the retreating forms of his companions, he felt a touch of loss tug at his heart. He closed his eyes and sent a prayer after them. Tyr bless you all, wherever your journeys may take you. May the light of truth guide you, and the spirit of justice walk by your sides. I wish you all well. A moment later, he turned to his two remaining friends.
"Shall we be off?" he suggested. Both Sand and Neeshka nodded in agreement, and with one last look at the fortress that had once been their home and refuge, they set off themselves.
They had not cleared the trail that led from the keep to the main road when they heard the thundering of hooves behind them, coming from the keep. They turned look, and saw a single rider on horseback approaching swiftly. Casavir frowned, wondering if something happened in the keep. As the rider approached, Neeshka let slip a a sharp cry of surprise, and he heard her smack her forehead.
"Oh, shit, I can't believe I forgot!" she gasped, shaking her head. "Gods, I hope he doesn't think I was blowing him off and doing a runner!"
Sand frowned in consternation. "You hope who doesn't think you are blowing him off?" The elf demanded, squinting in an attempt to identify the rider. From his tone, the elf was fostering a sense of dread.
"Eh..well, I forgot to tell you, you see," Neeshka answered nervously. "I hope you don't mind, but I invited a friend to come with us. I was going to tell you, but I got all wrapped up in saying goodbye to everyone, and it slipped my mind."
"What friend?" Sand pressed, irritation in his voice. "I thought that..." He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in horror as the face of approaching rider became clear. "Oh, by the gods, Neeshka, tell me you did not invite...that thing..."
The rider on horseback halted, and Casavir felt a similar sense of surprise and wariness that Sand displayed. Wind and exertion had reddened the man's face, but the scars and pockmarks that marked it were still visible. He pushed the lank, uncombed hair from his eyes as he hastily dismounted. The twin blades that had given him his name swung slightly from his belt as he approached them, his eyes focused solely on Neeshka.
"Gods, I am so sorry, Jalboun," Neeshka apologized, running her hand through her hair. "I completely forgot, honest! I just got distracted this morning, and..."
"Trying to ditch me, eh?" Jalboun of the Two blades asked, frowning. Before Neeshka could protest, he burst into laughter. "It's allright, I know. My fault, woke up late. Sleeping off a bad drunk from last night." He grinned widely, displaying teeth that were crooked, and somewhat discolored. "Just glad I caught up to you before you guys had gone too far."
Neeshka visibly relaxed. "So am I," she replied, relieved. "I'm so glad you understand. I didn't want you to think that I was just gonna leave you here."
"No sweat," he said, waving it away. "Shit happens, and I know you wanted to see all your mates off. So, we're off to Neverwinter now?"
"We are off to nowhere," Sand snapped. "Casavir, Neeshka, and I are returning home to Neverwinter. You, on the other hand..." Sand thrust his hand eastward. "The nearest copper a night brothel is that way. I'm sure they have a muck-ridden stall in their barn to accommodate you."
"Really? Well, if I ever visit, I'll be sure to give your momma a half copper tip when I'm done with her," Jalboun replied snidely. "But really, I'm not interested, thanks. Neeshka here offered to give me a tour of your fine city, and I'd be a dozy twat if I turned down such a chance." His smile softened as looked at Neeshka, and Casavir could not help but note how strange the expression looked on the hardened mercenary's face.
Neeshka turned back to Sand and Casavir. "Look, I promised him I'd take him to Neverwinter and show him around," she explained. "It's my fault I didn't tell you earlier, but honestly, I meant to. I promise, he won't cause any trouble. Its just, he really doesn't have anywhere to go, and they'd probably execute him if he tried to return to Luskan."
"We can only hope," Sand muttered. Casavir shot him a stern look. The elf shook his head in disbelief.. "Oh, please tell me you aren't actually considering it! Haven't you already had your fill of foul-mouthed, unwashed ex-Luskan mercenaries for one life-time?"
Casavir studied the man who had once served as one of the Captain's sergeants. He knew little of Jalboun, having little interaction with him, and from others had said about him,that seemed the wisest choice. The few times he had reason to speak to him, the impression was less than favorable. In many ways, Jalboun's mannerisms were similar to Bishop, such as his blatant insubordination, overindulgence in strong drink, and the way he openly leered at women, often with rude comments. He wondered what motive the mercenary had for wanting to accompany them, and wasn't sure he liked the idea of once again traveling with someone who reminded him too much of the traitorous ranger.
He felt a tug on his cloak, and looked over to see Neeshka standing next to him, her gaze fixed intently upon him. "I know what you're thinking," she said softly, her eyes unwavering. "And I understand your doubts. But I'm asking you to trust my judgment on this. And, despite what you might be feeling, Cas, please remember, he's not Bishop."
No, he is not, Casavir thought, turning his attention back to the mercenary. Whatever his faults, he had served the Captain and the keep faithfully, even once suggesting that he enjoyed his job. He had fought the legions of shadows alongside everyone else, never once giving any reason to suggest he might flee. And though he had been bribed to turn on the Ambassador Sydney Natalle, he later admitted he would have done it for half the price, as he was getting tired of working as a Hosttower lackey. Apparently, the jobs they were hiring him for were even testing the limits of his own self-confessed lack of scruples.
Everyone deserves a chance, and this man before me is no exception. Neeshka trusts him, and she is not one who trusts easily. I shall not judge him by rumor and limited impressions, though I shall keep my eye on him.
"Very well," Casavir finally said. "You are welcome to travel with us, since Neeshka considers you a friend, and I shall accept her opinion on the matter. I do, however, expect you to conduct yourself in a manner that is civil, respectful, and honorable towards those you travel with and meet. I will not tolerate lewd, cruel, or disruptive behavior towards anyone, or from anyone. Do you agree to these terms?"
Jalboun grinned, his crooked teeth removing any pleasantness from the expression. "Yeah, sure. I'll pull my halo out of my pocket and get to polishing it. I'll be a good boy, I promise."
"What?!" Sand gasped in horror. "You can't be serious! Ignore his orcish linguistic skills, lack of even plant-based intelligence, or his disregard for even basic hygiene if you must, but you can't ignore the fact that he was once an officer in the Luskan army, and was amongst those who almost razed Neverwinter to the ground in the previous war."
"I'm aware of that," Casavir replied softly. "But that is hardly a fair way of judging him, and whatever his past, it is what he does now that concerns me. You yourself once dwelled amongst the ranks of the Hosttower, and if anyone should appreciate the importance of not holding the past against someone, it would be you."
Though the rebuke was delivered gently, Sand turned away, looking a little embarrassed. "Well played, my noble friend," he replied with a heavy sigh. "I will concede your point. I am being unfair." He turned to Jalboun. "Very well, you can tag along with us. Just remember, when we set up camp, do me a favor and set up your bedroll downwind from me, would you?"
"The it is settled," Casavir said. "We should be off now. The day is half gone, and I wish to be as far from the keep as possible before nightfall."
The four of them were on the High Road when they heard the sounds of heraldic trumpets from the keep, announcing the beginning of the change of command ceremony.