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History
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Traveling with a group of adventurers was exceedingly more exciting than traveling on his own, Grobnar could easily say. Nowadays, he was much less insulted or chased by angry mobs than before and some people actually seemed to appreciate his knowledge and lore, though it was a rare wonder. Nevertheless, rare was much better than impossible, and the gnome was happy.
He was beginning to contemplate writing his own book about these adventures, though he knew he had to try and make a mental note to ask his newfound idol, Deekin, for some pointers. But there was so much to do and to remember, and always there were new possibilities and discoveries! Now that his masterpiece, the Construct, as the bard lovingly called his reconstructed pet blade golem, was finished, he had to work on other things. Research regarding the Shadow Reavers was in the capable hands of Aldanon, with whom the bard had already shared a few wonderfully insightful conversations. The sage wasn't a sage for nothing, you know.
All that was slightly regrettable was that Grobnar didn't always get the chance to go along with Lady Neliel on the adventurous adventures! Especially when stealth was involved. And this time, speed was essential, so Grobnar often found himself stuck at the Keep, wandering around, messing around with things – to Kana and Veedle's chagrin most of the time – and generally being what they called a "nuisance".
Except for the time when they went looking for the Wendersnaven. That had been a wonderful experience and he was very glad to have found someone who knew of the greatness of the creatures that were so mysterious, the word itself didn't do them sufficient justice. Shame about not finding them, but the Wenderkazoo was a gift from the heavens as well, the contribution to their cause only the Wendersnaven could have put into their path.
But now, Lady Neliel needed in to help a fellow knight of the Neverwinter Nine and everyone had immediately agreed that close combat with a horde of enemies was not one of Grobnar's strong suits. As the strange and unlikely pair followed Lady Neliel almost everywhere nowadays Ammon Jerro and Zhjaeve had both independently decided to accompany her with their scrolls of True Names. That was a very interesting subject, True Names. Grobnar wondered what the Names of the other members of their party were. Not to misuse them, of course, but to see if they truly reflected the actual nature of their bearers.
He hadn't gotten the chance to examine the names of the Reavers in detail, because Zhjaeve refused to give him the scroll even for a moment and Ammon Jerro… well, the bard remembered the look he had gotten when he had cheerfully approached the aged warlock before and some time would have to pass before he would dare do so again.
Thus the keep was under the de facto control of Kana, who would occasionally go check upon Sand, who was in the library as always, researching some more and translating Aldanon's notes to normal speech, just to make certain that their "advisor on Luskan coat-turning" and "honorary unwilling guest" as Sand and Neliel deemed her at times, one venom-spitting Torio Claven, also a regular at the library, had not yet cracked and strangled the moon elf with a rope made of bookmarks.
Neeshka was "keeping an eye on the tavern" as she herself described it, though it was in fact watching out for would-be thieves, as no one was better for such a task than an actual thief. Elanee was likely lamenting the sad lack of trees within the keep itself, Qara was skulking around and the gnome certainly hadn't seen Sir Bishop for some time. Odd, but Grobnar supposed rangers were like that.
In any case, the gnome had been given the delicate task of recovering a book from Neliel's room for the research going on in the library, being the only one trustworthy enough and available for the job. The captain's quarters were one of the larger ones in the keep, with a desk covered with papers that had once been neatly organized. A stack of books was near the nightstand, almost dwarfing it, but the nightstand itself was home to several potion bottles.
Leaning against it were two blades, a silvery longsword in a sheath of polished leather, the one Lady Neliel had usually fought with prior to discovering the Sword of Gith and a smoothly forged katana with powerful enchantments, with which Lady Neliel sparred with Shandra, lending the now unfortunately deceased woman her own blade. Grobnar suspected that Neliel had intended to give Shandra her own sword as a sign of friendship, but never got the chance to actually do so. The katana she used because she had little idea what the blade of Gith would be like and wanted to be prepared to wield any kind of sword. It had also been a research project for enchantments. With the discovery of the famed blade, both those sword had become obsolete, though Neliel kept them with her as keepsakes and for training purposes, at times.
The book that was required in the library was nowhere in sight, so Grobnar apologized out loud to the absent Neliel for rummaging through her things and proceeded to search. He found many interesting scripts, but none was what he was searching for. A book on transmutation, another on the powers of the outsiders, the particulars of the split of the people of Zerthimon and Gith, an extract explaining the significance of True Names, a report on the status of rations for the keep…
And a coded text in a language Grobnar didn't quite understand. Now this was interesting! There were very few common languages Grobnar didn't understand, as he had picked up quite a few while being chased by angry natives and took note of their many curses and dialects. But this… well, it seemed almost Elvish, but then it wasn't. Too flowing to be Dwarvish or Orcish, but not Draconic… and it wasn't any incantation either, he was certain of that. This was a text that went on for pages and pages…
After a few minutes of examining and staring at the words, the bard figured out the riddle. It was a simple code, really; every letter swapped for another three places ahead of it in the alphabet. But therein laid its effectiveness. The text was written in a variation of Elvish Grobnar hadn't yet encountered, so he supposed it was the tongue of the sun elves, but it was only a variation of the language he was familiar with, thus he was able to decipher the text and guess what word went where.
It was a journal, a record of events. But Grobnar understood very little of the contents of the text.
Dark have been my dreams of late.
The visions in my dreams neither lessen nor strengthen, but they have been murkier each day that separates me from the starting point of my journey. At first, I have believed it to be the result of the loss of West Harbor and the death of A., whose name I still cannot even force myself to write down, but that was a lie. I have scarcely thought of my village or my friend during the first steps of my journey. The horror had been dulled by the experience of release. The world was upon me, no matter for what reason, and I was finally free to leave as I wished. As I thought I wished.
The coldness of my father's words still stings, even now, when miles separate us. There cannot be love between us when there is so much pain and mystery there. My newfound uncle, a warm and kind soul, claims that this might be simply because he is saddened by what he remembers and wishes not to impart pain upon me. He lies, though he doesn't know it. My father would have told me all, if not for his promise to raise me as well as my mother would have. That is, as always, the only bit of information about my true heritage that I have gathered, and even that by chance. I suppose father believed that a child asking why she had no mama like all others would soon forget such words.
But even in the lazy idleness of West Harbor, such things couldn't be forgotten. The villagers have always been wary of father and I. They never showed it, but I could feel it and eventually, couldn't attribute it to simple lack of understanding of those of elven blood, of which only the two of us lived in the village, only I being fully elven. Father for his aloofness, I for my constant pursuit of something greater than the life of a swamp farmer.
Now, my friends are gone, the place I have been taught to call home is ashes and dust and I am searching for answers to questions that should never have been posed. This shard, this piece of silver I carry, it teems with life. At least when within my hands, when close to me. Perhaps the resonance is indeed a consequence of my presence, as the wizard had suggested. If so, then the real question I shall pose the sage is what it is about me that could cause this metal to awaken its magic and enhance my abilities – for I feel its soothing effects even now, as I write.
Whatever the answers may be, I am shamed by my lack of regret at leaving West Harbor. I am certain that eventually, the secret would have been figured out and in some distant corner of their hearts, the villagers wouldn't be able to help partly blaming father for this and through him, myself as well. Had I known of this, I would have insisted that a properly schooled mage examine this immediately. But I am grateful for the chance to see the world, especially as I haven't remained on my own for long. The journey to Neverwinter would have been quicker that way, true, but I find the presence of others comforting.
Ever since Khelgar teamed up with me, in a sense, I haven't thought as much of the darkness of these githyanki creatures that might pursue me even now. Neeshka, the tiefling, reminds me of A. so much that it is almost painful to bear, which is why I overlook her tendency to attract chaos, even if it goes against my general preferences. However, I somehow think Elanee, the druidess, conceals something from me, for her presence is not entirely alien to me, even though I am certain I haven't seen her face prior to our encounter on the way to Highcliff. Nevertheless, she has proven to be trustworthy thus far and I am grateful for that. She is the first of my kind I have had the chance to speak to.
It has been three and a half weeks since I have set out from my village and I write this as I sit in my room at the Sunken Flagon in Neverwinter. It seems my trials have only just begun, as my plan to approach Aldanon at once has to be postponed due to the quarantine in the district he inhabits. The Fates – or the gods – seem to have a sense of humor, wicked as it is. Perhaps this is to balance for my newfound uncle, whom I have learned to love in a very short time, and companions who seem to understand my heart and mind better than those I have known in the short years of my life.
I simply wish that I could see through the shadow and then the blinding flash, so that I might know who to ask about the pain I feel each time I dream.
The entry in the pleasant handwriting and elegant elven runes was finished. Grobnar was by then very aware that he shouldn't continue reading the text. It was something private, not meant for the eyes of anyone else. But the runes were fascinating and the code began to grow complex with the entries to come. And if he was to write a book about their adventures, he needed the information. Of course, he would never write something out of Lady Neliel's private thoughts, but the wish to understand the perspective of the hero of his book was enough for him to continue.
Neverwinter is nothing like I imagined it. I have been naïve; in my desire to leave West Harbor for a mage's academy of repute, I have imagined a welcoming city of hope and light, not a gloomy fortress of stone that still echoes of the plague of a few years ago. I still haven't had any success in completing my goal. One task leads to another, it seems, and I am bound for a landmark outside of the walls of Neverwinter – Old Owl Well. History beyond that of the Art isn't my chosen field of knowledge, but I know of the importance of the place.
What puzzles me, however, is that Brelaina has chosen a new and relatively untested recruit for a task of such political undertones. Having been made lieutenant in such a short period of time alone is somewhat alarming, but this ought to exceed my normal operative allowances, I am certain. Still, I will succeed, because succeed I must. I regret only that it will mean a few nights of sleeping outside again; I have grown comfortable with my room at the Flagon. The same cannot be said for the man I have noticed occasionally watching us at the inn, one who I had no trouble identifying as a ranger. I sincerely hope this isn't proof of a severe case of paranoia due to the constant appearances of githyanki screaming kalach-cha and wishing for my blood.
I cannot describe the recognition I fee ton the few occasions when we have had eye contact; I feel as if I know the man, or rather, something about him, but I cannot begin to guess what. He is obviously human, so he cannot be any possible or impossible long-lost relative, but it isn't something I can shake off. I will keep note of this, however only in passing, as there are many things which require my immediate attention. One of them is the latest addition to my entourage, one that I hardly welcome. The human sorceress known as Qara joined us at the insistence of my uncle, whose inn she almost blew up in a fit of uncontrolled magic. Not only is she a danger to all around her, she is also exceedingly annoying. Her only saving grace is that she reminds me of Tarmas at times, though the wizard seems a deva in comparison to this Baator-spawn Duncan has bound to me.
That phrase again: kalach-cha. Shard-bearer. Now at least it was clear whence it had surfaced. Grobnar was excited about reading the text further; he actually didn't really comprehend much of the actual meaning behind the words, but it was very informative. Especially as Lady Neliel didn't like to brag much and one could hardly suppose Neeshka or Khelgar gave a completely exact account of their journeys.
The next entry was written with clear calm and serenity.
Much has happened since I have last written and I am ashamed of my own lack of will to record news of our deeds to written word. After several close encounters with death, I have made the choice to record my life, short as it was thus far, to parchment. I am beginning to accept the fact that my journey will not end with a happy return to West Harbor; it is likely that I shall not live much longer, not with all that has happened and will happen. But I wish to take things in order. I wish to tell the tale of my life, even if I haven't the courage to speak it to anyone.
I was born twenty-seven years ago. Where or under what circumstances, I cannot begin to guess. I know little of my origins or of my parents; the name of my mother was Esmerelle Imladris, though I cannot verify the authenticity of the surname – Duncan claims not to remember and father, who gave the surname to me, would likely not say. Of my true father, I know nothing, only that he was of sun elven blood like my mother and that they were not married, at least as far as Duncan was able to guess. I suppose I will never know who he was, but there is no sense of loss within me: I have had neither father nor mother, and I cannot miss what I have never had. I can only be jealous of those who have had their own parents live with them.
Nell the Orphan.
The sigh of bitterness there was almost detectable.
I was raised by Daeghun Farlong, a friend of my mother's, though if I were to consider anyone a parent, it would be Retta Starling, the mother of my friend Bevil. At a young age, the Art awoke within me, but it was an element of chaos that I couldn't control. Tarmas, the village wizard, began to tutor me, but I lacked the discipline and focus to project my spells correctly. Amie, my best friend from then on, was the one who showed me how to concentrate. But, magic ran wild with me still and my foster father decided to put it to some use. I suppose that the true reason why he decided to take me along into the wild to hunt once was because of the cart I set on fire; he saw that my magic was like an animal that needed to roar, best far away from those it could hurt.
For ten years, I almost completely set aside the Art after I accidentally froze Ward Mossfeld out of anger, which I regretted more than he deserved. I regretted seeing the looks of fright in the eyes of the villagers; usually, when magic was performed at the Harvest Fair, the reaction was enthusiastic, but never this… not this. Amie pleaded with me and Tarmas called me a fool. But my skill in random destruction seemed almost impossible to tame. The Art burned and an attempted Flare came out so strongly that it burned my hands. I couldn't touch anything for two days even after Brother Merring healed me. Other spells I attempted were equally chaotic. They were more likely to hurt me than their intended target.
In ten years, I was a practiced scout, though father always criticized my lack of patience and inability to conceal my presence from creatures. Even now, I am useless at stealth without an invisibility spell. But in those days, I was different. I was rarely at the village, spending my days roaming the woods even on my own, without father. I was more like the wild elves than my own kin. At times, I used magic, my wild, untamed power, in moments when my life was in danger or when the power within me threatened to burst, but never when avoidable.
My magic saved a life one day. I could scarcely believe it myself. A man had wandered too far from the road and was almost slain by a pack of wolves, led by several of the dire kind which I had seen only once or twice before. He seemed dead already, having lost much blood, but I knew that the pack had to be disposed of nonetheless. My first two arrows missed – the third did not – but I was discovered before I could destroy the creatures in such a manner. Calling on magic was not an art in that moment; it was pure instinct. I had-long since forgotten how to cast with restraint. That I didn't kill the man was a miracle, for the animals died in a blaze of electricity that almost set the forest aflame.
The voice of my father behind me interrupted my magic and he examined the man critically after my stutter of an explanation, claiming that he would live if I brought him to Brother Merring with speed. He himself took off into the wilderness to investigate the matter of the wolves. How I managed to carry the injured man all the way to Brother Merring, I have no idea. I recall Bevil and some of the boys from the village being on the outskirts that day, so they helped me, but otherwise, it was a trying task. The priest healed the wounds within an instant, claiming that it looked far worse than it was.
Up till then, I had perceived the man to be human, but my mistake was to be corrected when he opened his eyes. The pupils were golden and the stare far too intense for someone who had just lost several pints of blood. After a few introductory sentences and a summary of what had happened to him, he introduced himself as Euryl, a traveling bard and occasional scribe and chronicler, proven by the small symbol of the god Milil on his forearm. An aasimar, he answered with a smile and words of gratitude to "his savior", as he dubbed me from then on.
I suppose I need not say that the mothers of West Harbor were quick to try and make him a match with one of their daughters the moment the story spread and it was discovered that Euryl had been on his way to the nearest settlement to rent a horse and return to Waterdeep, where he apparently had family. In two days, the only females within ten miles with no wicked interest in the poor man were Amie and myself, though my friend was prone to little "harmless" comments as to the so-called "looks with deep meaning" I was supposed to be receiving from the bard whenever the opportunity arose.
The story is brief. Father remained in the woods for weeks; such things often happened, so I was hardly worried. Whether it was because of Amie's scheming or not, Euryl and I became friends. He taught me to play the lute, insisting that the way I handled a bow "signified that my fingers were intended for gentler strings". He encouraged me to begin relearning the Art in father's absence. The progress I made was stunning, even to me. Perhaps the music had touched some long-forgotten part of me the way the hunt never could, I know not. But magic ceased to be a blur and I saw the world through new eyes.
For the first time in years, I was at peace. I no longer shunned the other villagers as I thought they wanted to shun me. We played and sang at the tavern, even, in the evenings. I felt… happy. I cannot describe it otherwise. And so, I dreaded the day when my friend would heal sufficiently to continue his travels into the city he had been bound for before coming to us. But two months passed and he remained with us. I finally asked him if he was waiting for something and he answered quite calmly (with a quirk of a smile at my stupefied expression) that he was waiting for my father to return so that he might ask him for my hand in marriage.
He told me other things, then; most importantly, that he was somewhat wealthier than a mere bard and that he had sufficient friends to get me into the mage's academy in Waterdeep and provide for my education there. If I had harbored doubts based on shock before, they evaporated. Yet I cannot say whether it was actual love that drove me to the decision to give my consent – it was a practical decision as well. I suppose that I wasn't air in the eyes of the male population of West Harbor, but all of the boys there were advised to look for a wife that could take care of the household and crops, above all else, and I, as a member of the militia, a ranger-hunter with elemental powers that could spin out of control and - though not due to prejudice of any kind – as an elf who would outlive such a husband by a matter of centuries was not the first candidate on the list.
But this way, I could be around people who understood my powers and could help me tame them and direct them, with a man that brought out the best in me – who I knew I could fall in love with, given enough time – and West Harbor would have another "champion" that they could remember with pride, another Cormick who had done something worthwhile with their life.
As I remain here, writing this short story of my life, I suppose there is no need to say that the events unfolded quite differently. I am neither wife nor arcane scholar; at times, I feel that I have married Neverwinter somewhere along the way, though it wasn't my intention. Nevertheless, the conclusion of my story is short. My father returned. And before he could even hear of the news, I received some information myself. None of what had happened had been pure chance. Nothing ever is.
By chance, father had managed to intercept the message sent to Waterdeep that Euryl would be staying longer from the body of a dead courier, who had met his end at the hands – or paws – of the wolf pack. The words on the parchment were still clear, despite the blood all over it: it was intended for the Harpers. Euryl's initial reason for staying was recruitment; he saw that I had the potential to become a valuable member. I overreacted and actually had to be knocked out before losing control over my magic, augmented by anger. Euryl admitted to all when I confronted him about it afterwards, but said that it had not been this goal that caused him to propose to me; and that both offers still stood, independently.
My father had always allowed me to do as I wished and after I had cooled down, I realized that my anger was a useless sentiment in this case. But this time…I believe that I have never felt as much anger at my father when he rejected my request to give me leave before I even finished it. It certainly was the first time I had yelled at him, the years of suppressed truths and lies and hurt pouring out of me. I wasn't ready then, but I began making certain I would be. I abandoned the wilderness. Father and I barely spoke for an entire year. My aasimar deceiver returned to Waterdeep, but pleaded with me to remember the offers when I would leave my village. Back then, I believe I never though father would allow me to leave West Harbor.
Ten years later, my magic had returned to me completely. My control over it had been reestablished and enhanced. Brother Merring supported me greatly, along with Retta Starling, and it was thanks to them that I turned my attention to faith as well. I honor human gods, but it was Corellon Larethian whose worshipper I became, thanks to all that I learned about him from Euryl. I was at peace again, though while I lacked nothing, it couldn't be described as happiness. And, finally, a few months before I would leave my home for good, father gave me my mother's sword – called the Singing Sword – as something to master. I have yet to succeed in that endeavor.
The rest, as humans say, is history.
Grobnar certainly hoped he would remember this story, because he would have to ask Lady Neliel about it, so that he might know if he could compose a song about it. Well, he would compose a song about it anyway, but who was to say it would do it justice? It was even better than the day when Neeshka had won some kind of bet with Lady Neliel regarding dissuading Sir Casavir and Sir Bishop from further arguing and some veiled threats regarding that. the outcome had been a few hours of peace, which meant that Neeshka had won the bet, meaning that Lady Neliel was obliged to take up the task of being "a sword-wielding, swashbuckling, goodie-two-shoes paladin of Tyr for an entire day, dusk till dawn" as the tiefling had put it with a smirk-like grin that completely lived up to her infernal heritage.
And so, for an entire day, Lady Neliel had worn an enchanted scale mail of impressive making intended for the battle that would eventually take place at the keep, the armor glittering in the sunlight, earning herself several clearly well-meant compliments regarding her physique from Sir Bishop, unable to use any kind of arcane magic for the day and compelled to do any and every good deed available. Neeshka had taken special glee in watching Lady Neliel pray, though the elf was actually praying for Tyr's forgiveness for this insanity and strength not to execute punishment for it herself, much as she would like to do so. Kana had been beaming with pride at her captain that day, though to be honest, Lady Neliel had looked rather as if she would like nothing else than join the King of Shadows or destroy the church of Tyr stone by stone – and she made certain to avoid Sir Casavir as much as possible that day.
Or the day when they had delivered that package to Brother Merring back at West Harbor and that kind mayor – or head of the militia, was he? Grobnar would have to ask Lady Neliel that – readily assumed that Sir Bishop was an admirer of hers that had swept her off her feet from some seedy tavern. And then Sir Bishop had retorted that she wasn't even conscious when they were married. Grobnar certainly couldn't remember the last time Lady Neliel had gone so pale before joining in Neeshka´s roaring laughter with a small, nervous laugh of her own. The bard also speculated that this had been some measure of payback for the time when they had been chasing Shandra and Lady Neliel had pretended to give consideration to the githyanki offer of a painless death in return for surrendering Sir Bishop as a "pleasure slave".
Grobnar actually wondered what they had meant by that. Certainly people could be slaves to pleasure, but slaves rarely took pleasure in being slaves, so it seemed rather illogical. Oh, well. Those particular githyanki were not in the state to answer that question for him now, as they had been sent to another plane, permanently.
The entries that followed were of the less interesting kind, because Grobnar could guess events before reading them. Lady Neliel seemed to have a strange relationship with her father, who didn't really strike the bard as the talkative sort. But he really needed to search for that book before someone would come looking for him – and he managed to find it and eventually bring it to the library, only to find out that it wasn't needed after all. But before that, there was only one last code, which Grobnar almost didn't succeed in cracking. This time, he could make out every third word, at most, which was a great compliment to Neliel's development in code-creating.
Again, I have neglected to write down entries about my no longer mundane life for many a day.
I have changed. I am changing. I will change. Which of those is true? All, I would say. I am both more and less than I was. This war has changed my perceptions of right and wrong. I am no selfless hero. I fear for my life each day, even though I know that my power grows. My dreams make sense at last, after all these years, but I am not pleased with what I see. With the death of S., the continued appearances of the Shadow Reavers and at last, the reforging of the Sword of Gith, we are ever-closer to finding out where the King of Shadows will appear on this plane.
But different troubles plague my mind. I am experiencing unprecedented and unforeseen complications. I have thought myself detached from these feelings, especially because there is no logic in them in these troubling times. Is this love? Possibly. I believe it to be recognition of an internal kind, when the mind cannot understand why the heart and soul recognize something in another. And yet a worse target I could have hardly selected if I tried. I cannot possibly count the reasons why I consider this madness, why it is unfair, why I will never, ever speak of it or act upon it.
To feel love for one you do not want to love; that is true purgatory.
What is worst is that I cannot even say that opposites attract, because there is no such thing as an opposite in this case – only a mirror image. I am a fool, because some part of me doesn't care. The heart, which isn't bound to serve Neverwinter, which doesn't want to understand the concept of duty, yearns for what I cannot do, because of duty, pride and fear of humiliation. Because I cannot abandon my friends and comrade in such a manner – and abandoning it would be.
I will neither speak of it nor act upon it, but I acknowledge it, otherwise I might lose my concentration on the true goal of this war, which is neither glory nor valor and honor, but survival.
Then, if I should survive this, I shall decide what course of action I shall take.
It all made perfect sense in the evening, though, when the party returned victorious from their little brawl in Highcliff and the tired Knight-Captain professed her undying love to the roasted chicken she had for dinner.