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Dearest Readers, I present unto you… the most distinguished John Cleese in a tuxedo reclining on a knocked-out tarrasque.

John Cleese, The Announcer: "And now for something completely different."

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﴾ THE HIDDEN SWORD ﴿

Book Three: Meeting of Fires | Chapter 59: A Kindling, Small and Insignificant

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Find her.

A command in a voice, his own, its reason unknown yet drumming through his blood. He must find her. Find her, find her, find her. Find her, not among the living forests of his home, but amongst these twisted stalagmites bleeding with steaming ichor. Find her, not beneath a sky illuminated by stars but under the shade of roiling clouds burning rubescent from the cast of distant unquenching rivers of fire. Find her, not atop the snow-peaked mountains ridging the horizon of his known world, but beyond these looming jagged tilted walls of rock and bone and warped iron.

Find her, despite already knowing what is to come once again in this miserable dream that has haunted him more times than he cared for? The third instance, to be precise.

And found her he did, an elven woman here in the middle of this dark and desolate, sweltering plain. She with hair of fiery copper, of a build and height unalluring for exceeding his own. Perhaps a warrior hardened by battles or a tender of groves accustomed to manual labors. This woman, unremarkably garbed in dreary apparel practically rags compared to his own modest yet finely made attire.

All in all, absolutely not an elven lady of any eminent pedigree.

Chains and manacles of iron bound her hands, fastened to the very ground with links as thick as those purposed for gates and boat anchors, their heaviness attested by rusty screeches as they trailed behind her. And yet with ease she paced around, carelessly dragging them as if these massive rings were nothing more than weightless silken cords to her.

"There you are," she said brightly in the Common tongue, turning to him with a grin.

"Le quor'she," he replied solemnly, a hand on his breast. Here I am now.

He scowled. No, rather it was more of saying - Here? I am… now. Inflection on the quor carrying a question, almost a demand. For exactly why must he continue to come to this dreadful place, to seek her like a man lost and athirst in the middle of the Anauroch, and to witness her eventual doom?

"Eh, I don't know what you just said. But come now, let's go," she chirped while snappily clapping at him as if he were some servile beast. "And hurry, 'cause I'm getting hungry here. Chop-chop, Lamb Chop!"

He winced at the rattling of the rusted links, the carelessness of her words, the slipshod syntax, the guttural tone. Always she addressed him in a lesser tongue instead of their venerable vernacular. In Common, of all languages. Lamentably, a dialectal dross that all Greycloaks must likewise master if ever they were to be sent out to the realms. Unthinkable as it were- were she truly uncomprehending of his reply in the speech of their People?

"Very well," he said with a sigh for the coming meaningless expenditure of effort. "I shall do what I can but expect very little."

Another defeated glance spared over the chains. Logic dictated that there were always reasons why a prisoner would have been placed under noticeably prohibitive confinement. And yet, here he stayed, about to attempt to free her even when remembering the futility of this exercise. Such is his duty as defender of elvenkind, to succor his kinsmen even at the cost of his own welfare. A quick glance around their fiendish surroundings disconsolately emphasized the perils of his calling, and the grim reminder that only honor and the gratitude of his People served as hazard pay in his profession.

And so he went ahead and tried. And failed. All his known spells had no effect on the chains – from unlocking cantrips to acid-based conjurations. Not even his summons, from wolves to hobgoblin brawlers, could break the ancient steel, not with their claws and teeth and weapons.

Regrettably, energy and elemental evocations were impermissible to practitioners of enchantment such as himself. Were he an encikkar, then he too would have been capable of casting from the opposing school of evocation magic. But to become an elven arcane dualist would require more years of focused study, almost a century just for a mere magic missile. Doubtful that he would live long enough to do so, anyway, doomed as he expectedly will be. Just as well, a fireball would have certainly hasted their demise in this place permeated and shaped by unstable magmatic currents.

While he tried and failed, she merely observed, head tilted like a curious fox pup.

"Oh, don't feel bad about it, Mister Elf. You're doing your very best," she said, still smiling, then patted his back. He flinched at the disproportionate familiarity and force of her palm. "As they always say back in the village when you can't get the color to set in the wool - Try and try until you dye. Get it? Not die, but dye!"

He cringed as she snickered and snorted at her own jest. Puns! Worst of all, puns in Common. Always it escaped him why some of his fellow students at the Academy found amusement in these banal witticisms of the lesser races.

Regardless, how enviable, this blissful ignorance of her own impending ruin. If only this were no dream but reality, then perhaps he could use the one thing conceivably powerful enough to cut through the iron bonds. The teu'kerym.

With a sigh he brushed a hand at his empty side where the moonblade should have been – that relic so oppressively present in his waking life yet suspiciously absent in this dream. But why even bother? With his calamitous luck, he wouldn't be surprised if in this dream he were to attempt to draw the sword only to pull out a broken mop instead. And not even the intricately carved enchanted ones purposed for sweeping the privy floors of the Queen of Evermeet.

Oh, what is the point? Just as he conceded defeat, the distant roar of trilling steel and battle howls reached them. Not again. Like in prior iterations of this nightmare, he knew the source of that chilling sound and how soon it will be upon them. He sighed, wagging his head at the chains remaining unbroken at their feet, at the shackles still clinging to her wrists.

"It is of no use. If only I could free you, which is nigh impossible, then we might have the opportunity to abscond to transitory safety. But as to where in this dismal landscape, I see no hope."

The elven girl stared at him for a moment, then laughed. Laughed? Laughed!

"Still have no idea what you just said, Mister Elf. But it sure sounded like a joke in your language."

His language? He gaped at her, broad-eyed and gasping with affront. She thought him jesting? How could she miscalculate the urgency of their predicament, make light of their ill-omened circumstance? About to chide her for impertinence, his thoughts were interrupted by crashing thunder. Without warning, she shoved him to the side with force so violent that he found himself thrown across what seemed like leagues away from her.

"Go, save yourself," she shouted at him, glancing around, unease replacing her earlier jollity. "For here he comes with his knives! Here they come with their blades!"

At her words, so abstruse and ambiguous, a wave of weapons of all frightful make swarmed towards her from all sides, as it were a horde of iron locusts, screeching and howling with the throats of their unseen wielders. More rushed from behind and through him as though he were suddenly incorporeal, unaffected, detached from everything, no longer feeling the ground beneath his feet nor the burning air in his lungs.

Helpless, he observed with sinking dread as she frantically lashed out at the blades. Against overwhelming numbers of opposing steel, she flailed and thrashed the iron chains in a desperate bid for defense. And all he could do was watch.

"Idiots! Why don't you go carve up a turkey instead of trying to stab me in the face," she taunted, laughing in mad triumph as she kept them at bay.

But as always, she was doomed to fail.

Eventually, a sword slipped past and sliced an arm from wrist to elbow, a spear ran through a calf, a dagger grazed the cheek, followed by another and another and another. Not long and the elven woman faltered in her stance, half-blind from a bleeding wound above the eye. Stubbornly, she propped herself up on the one leg yet unimpaled. Why won't she just give up and die, let the torment end here and now?

Through the whirring blades and the dust stirring the air, she cast one final glance at him. A grin through red-soaked teeth, and a wink from an eye weeping blood as if, of all things, to reassure him - Everything will be all right.

"Aillesel Seldarie," he whispered a woefully belated invocation. May the Seldarine save us.

With a final crash, the swell of swords overwhelmed her, innumerable steel lancing through flesh and crushing all bone. Piling until they massed to a prodigious spire of steel dark with ash and old blood, and the ground splintered beneath their unbearable weight.

And then in a breath, the dust cleared, and the air stilled once more. No trace remained of the girl nor of the violence that took her. Where she had stood with the chains, the field bafflingly healed but now bearing something far more sinister – a skull carved without hands, surrounded by tear drops, grinning maliciously at the sky. Incomprehensible terror and aversion seeped through his spirit at the sight of the hideous symbol, as if it radiated the very essence of death.

As he watched on, swiftly the image began to crumble. Fire and flaming earth burst through the cracks, followed by a beast so fearsome it defied description, rising and towering above all. It clawed at the sky and bellowed, rumbling deep as the pits from which it issued, piercing as the screams of multitudes in hellish agony.

He could only stare up in terror. Deafened. Fear and dread freezing the very nerves in his hands that they couldn't even rise to cover his ears or shield his face from the awful sight. For what good would it do at all?

Once more the fell monster's roar thundered across the accursed fields. From all corners of this infernal plane, it was answered by its kindred in a bloodcurdling din. Seldarine, more of these unspeakable horrors…

But what of her…

Xannonderim Cerlynradh willed his eyes to blink and returned to the world of the corporeal and true.

Here, still in the realm of the People, their Fortress Home, in the central alcove of the Temple of the Full Moon of Sehanine Lateu. Here, still in a sitting kneel on a marble floor of stone so achromatic almost translucent, emulating the argentate beauty of the Lunar Lady. Here, safe and outwardly untouched by the abruptly concluded troubled inner journeying.

Best to be sure, though. Cautiously he lifted an arm and sniffed at his sleeve. With trepidation, he gathered his hair which sinuously draped past his waist. Likewise he sniffed at them. Not a whiff of brimstone and sulfur from that infernal mindscape had seeped into his hair and the deep perse fabric of his robe. Unquestionably, a mere vision and nothing more, but what small and piteous relief did this bring to the spirit.

Before him lay the teu'kerym, ancient sword of his house. Runes faintly glowed along the moonblade's sterling edge, the hand guard a slender golden bar transversed with finely wrought silver cornets, hilt tesselated with mother of pearl and minute mithril chains for grip, pommel inlaid with a single pearlescent moonstone. A sword whose aesthetics and utility were purposed solely for the worthiest Teu'Tel'Quessir of his clan. But for the moon elf wielding it, the teu'kerym was no hollow symbol of privilege, but a grim reminder of the uncompromising duty required of its possessor. Xannonderim's lips quirked with irony.

On the other hand, the moonblade's omission in his dream could be construed as either good or bad. Good, because it meant his thoughts and actions during the vision were not subject to judgment. Bad, because did it bode his lacking in some aspect?

Up at the wide circular skylight he cast his gaze, squinting more from disappointment than from the brightness of daytime. Today he had come to this temple in the hopes that through quiet communion, Sehanine herself might reveal the meaning of this strange dream that had troubled him more than month ago. At the time and within the span of a tenday, twice it interrupted his reverie, often sending him to a waking state of panic and confusion.

Having convinced himself that this was a mere manifestation of whatever worry had been niggling at his mind, he had spent another tenday ignoring the vision by throwing himself into his studies of the Art and training with the more senior Greycloaks. For this, he received no further visitations from the disquieting nightmare, and yet –

He had wondered in himself if this was something else. Elves seldom dream – doing so only in sleep which was quite rare – more common for one gravely injured and ill. Or spiritually cut off like the drow. Involuntarily, he had shuddered at the comparison. Elven dreams were sometimes said to be prophetic, whether by divine instruction or some precognition innate to the elf.

And so he had spent the past month combing feverishly through the Academy archives, seeking whatever references he could unearth on known oracles of the Tel'Quessir and treatises on dream interpretations. Yet his diligence yielded nothing. No codex of symbolisms and allegories compiled by elven scholars could interpret the meaning of the wave of swords and the terrible beast springing from the infernal soil. No seer of his People ever spoke of an elven woman in iron chains and clad in such a shabby manner. And unable to understand or speak a tittle of elvish.

Despite the dream's repetition, strangely in his waking life, he could never evoke her exact features and even her voice. Surely he recognized her as the same person in all the nightmare's reiterations. Remembered enough the color of her hair but not what stripe of Tel'Quess she is. Of the memory of her words, he could conjure none, save for the knowing that she could not speak in elvish and that the things she said had most certainly disturbed his spirit. Why won't Sehanine Lateu, who governs visions and dreams to reveal and enlighten, allow him to even retain her face in his memory?

What of the symbol on the ground? Though no stranger to the sight of bones and remains of the slain, the image elicited so much revulsion from him. A skull surrounded by tear drops – where had he seen it before?

From some overlooked section of his memories and learnings flashed a recollection- a fleeting glimpse of a divine symbol of one of the many wicked gods worshipped by the N'Tel'Quess. And thus, though he was loathe to follow his own presentiment, Xannonderim had dragged himself to a shelf housing the oft-ignored books on non-elven deities.

Much to his dismay, in the pages of the very last tome and in the one he wished he never had to open in his lifetime, in The History of the Dead Three, he found the unmentionable name of the god who owned the symbol.

And with the realization that he might be holding the piece to some perfidious puzzle beyond mortal cognizance, he came to this temple today and presented himself before the Goddess, desperately seeking guidance. But rather than a revelation or even the vaguest of signs, all he received for his earnest petition was an unwelcome repeat of this hellish portent. An unbidden groan crept up his chest. How terrible this omen must be! Yet why would the Lady of Dreams withhold the answer from him?

Capitulating to his bewilderment, he hastily prostrated himself. Uncaring of the marble's coldness, he pressed his forehead against the floor, his tresses delicately fanning out, a silken russet veil sweeping radially around him.

Oh, Luminous Cloud, reveal all secrets, cast the light of the stars along the path of our inscrutable journey through life and death and beyond. Daughter of the Night Sky, bid the moon to draw forth the tides of the vast cosmos, that its currents may carry the spirit to the fulfillment of its appointed voyage.

Over and over he chanted his request, his faith, his surrender. Chanting until the voice faded to a whisper until it melded to thought and knowing. Eventually some measure of peace slowly calmed his heart as all sense of time slipped past his awareness. He kept himself bowed and unmoving, eyes closed, holding on to this rare boon of silence in both mind and world.

To his ears came the shuffling of slippered footsteps, trailed by clinks of glass bowls being lowered to the floor. He paid it no heed. From his customary visits, he knew this was a task of the temple priestesses - positioning crystal votives upon the floor in patterns mirroring the constellations of the night sky.

The sound of glass scraping against marble pricked at his ears, followed by a discomfiting sensation of someone touching the tips of his hair. Having mastered the art of rolling his eyes even when closed, he fought the urge to clear his throat. Not even the courtesy of asking for permission before sweeping away his hair like mere dead leaves strewn in the way.

Evidently done with her task, the cleric shuffled away, whistling. Whistling? Whistling while in a sacred shrine! Eyes still shut, he furrowed his brows at the irreverence.

"Sehanine Moonbow, in your mercy, grant me a sign," he pleaded. "I beg you, show me what I must do."

Only silence answered back. A span of a breath, then a faint crackling and a whiff of smoke. A small tremor rushed through his heart. Not another passing of this terrible vision! He exhaled, thoroughly resigned to another round of this. No sense in delaying another bout of agony. Finally he dared to open his eyes, only to glimpse the tips of his long and beautiful hair glowing.

Glowing? Rather, smoldering.

With a gasp, he shot up to his feet. "Seldarine, my hair is on fire!"

He swatted at them to no avail and attempted an extinguishing cantrip. Useless. Control Flames only worked on non-magical fire, of which, this one wasn't. Burning with the tiniest cold bluish combustions like in the crystal votives at his feet, flickering languidly as they licked at each strand. Clearly, enchanted fire created for long-lasting and resilient illumination.

The priestess returned and at the sight of him, her face paled to the same hue as the floor. With a cry, the woman rushed at him as she pulled off her own cloak to help beat down the small blaze. Equally futile, of course.

"Oh, if only I had memorized the special cantrip to put it out," the cleric wailed.

He grimaced, straining to hold his hair away from his face, helplessly watching as slowly but surely, the minute blue blaze crawled up his tresses. Indeed, doom by arcane fire. To have escaped the swift flaming judgment of the blade rite in claiming his family's teu'kerym, only to be leisurely burned to death by temple tea lights!

"Water! Thank the Goddess," the cleric exclaimed as she darted for a table by the door and grabbed a ceramic pitcher, pausing for a moment to weigh the vessel in her hands and make sure it was full.

Right then, one of the temple priests peered through the doorway, his vestments indicating his position among the clergy - a Suorevar'vuorless, Omen Teller.

Seeing the flames, the priest barged in.

To snatch the pitcher from the cleric's hand and hold it aloft and away from her reaching fingers.

Xannonderim sputtered, "What do you think you're doing?" Or rather, not doing.

Instead, the priest pointed at him and calmly mouthed a single command. Immediately the small fires winked out. Everyone coughed and groaned, the priest and the priestess from the smell of singed hair, and Xannonderim from the black smoke of despair curling around his head.

"Praise Sehanine, you are unharmed," the Omen Teller declared while briefly checking the younger man for injuries. He clicked his tongue at the ruined state of the tresses. "Though I must offer a disclaimer. In all the seasons of my service to the temple, I have yet to receive a petition to heal… hair."

"It will grow back of its own accord," Xannonderim said heavily. "Let Sehanine's curative favor be spared instead for others with far more grievous hurts."

"My lord, forgive me, I plead with you," the cleric begged, bowing, genuinely contrite. "I didn't wish to disturb you in your meditation, so I swept some of your hair out of the way. They must have fallen upon the flames and were set alight. Oh, please pardon my clumsiness!"

He pursed his lips and waved a dismissive hand. The cleric seemed sincere, at least his skin and robes were unmarred, and to seek recompense for damages would serve no noble purpose. Though, it perplexed him as to why the Omen Teller delayed what could have been immediate aid.

"But I don't understand, Suorevar'vuorless," the cleric asked of her superior. "Why did you stay my hand from dousing his burning hair with the blessed water?"

"B-blessed water?" sputtered the Omen Teller.

Stiffly and while glaring at her, the priest upended the pitcher's contents into a brazier in the corner where a small flame flickered weakly. Drenched by the clear liquid, the fire abruptly blazed to a tall blue column, roaring with sudden fury that the other two backed away, flinching. With a huff, the Omen Teller jabbed a finger at the rim and sides of the vessel to point at a tiny warning painstakingly but artfully inked in red – Arcane Lamp Oil, Extra Strength Accelerant.

Xannonderim stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The cleric scratched her head and chuckled awkwardly.

"Another mishap but mercifully mitigated this time," the priest chided the cleric. "Linu La'neral, if we cannot trust you to set alight the sacred fires instead of our petitioners, then I may as well assign you to sweeping the floors."

The Omen Teller paused, as if realizing another horrific accident he would certainly unleash upon the hapless clerics and devotees. Xannonderim's own morbid imagination cited the possibilities. Perhaps another priest accidentally impaled by a broom in Linu's ungainly hands. Chapel visitors unwittingly crushed under a statue after Linu accidentally leaned against it while sweeping behind the pedestal.

"On second thought, as a priest of fifth rank and overseer of temple housekeeping, why don't I exercise my discretion to grant short furloughs which do not require approval from sixth ranks and above?"

"A furlough?" Linu murmured anxiously.

Xannonderim narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, yes, a furlough," the Omen Teller chirped, evidently delighted with his brilliant idea. "Linu, I hereby instruct you to take the rest of the season off from your temple duties. By that, I mean you are to stay well away from the vicinity of this shrine. And after it has passed, we shall consult the Goddess for an extension of your absence. Say, a few decades, if a century or more is stretching it."

Linu cupped her hands over her mouth, eyes almost tearful in protest. "But we're presently short-staffed. Most of the clergy and acolytes are busy with preparations for the Lunar Hallowing. If I'm absent, who will keep the holy lamps burning in the temple throughout the night?"

"Oh, do not worry so much about those holy lamps," the Omen Teller tutted, dismissively fanning at her. "We're elves. We can see in the dark anyway!"

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"Hail, Xanion!" an Ar'Tel'Quessir shouted at him, standing on a diverging path and clutching a basket of lavender blossoms under one arm. "I see that word through the moonvine was accurate – you did burn then cut your hair!"

Startled, Xannonderim clasped the ends, chopped to an awkward hem right at the jaw, the result of grossly uneven miscalculations. He paused, fighting the urge to visibly cringe at the sudden unwelcome intrusion from a sun elf.

Never mind that everyone and his cor'avara always took it upon themselves to unceremoniously abbreviate the name his parents so painstakingly bestowed on him. Always this informal cropping to a blunt syllable. Xan.

He sighed. Might as well accept this and become accustomed to the contemptibility of overt familiarity. On the other hand, the appellative -ion at the very least acknowledged his status as a scion of minor nobility. Or perhaps, a reminder instead of how he shouldn't even deign to think himself as highly as these proud Ar'Quess?

"I say, it suits you quite well," the sun elf added, cupping the side of his mouth. "Bold and brazen lack of what should have been of an illustrious length! Surely the N'Tel'Quess will find it pretty!"

Undoubtedly a backhanded compliment about the awkwardly abrupt length and non-elves finding it beautiful. Truly, only a sun elf could manage to effortlessly both praise and insult in one breath.

He replied with a stiff smile and an even stiffer wave of his hand. The sun elf grinned and tilted his head obsequiously in return, then went on his way. Xan waited until the other disappeared among the trees, then surreptitiously glanced around, a prey waiting for another predator to pounce out from the brushes. With a sigh, he resumed his trek, steps fueled by urgency, more from the desire to avoid further interaction than from the gravity of his quest.

Soon he reached his mentor's study, curtained with moonvines, and lined with shelves full of books, broken astrolabes, alchemical vessels dusty with disuse among other odds and ends. A faded settee dominated the center of the cramped room, filled with a haphazard pile of scrolls and tomes. There he found his supervisor reading and occupying the remaining free space on the couch, a fellow moon elf with dark hair showing a few streaks of telltale silver.

"Cathfaenlian," Xan greeted.

"Whu- what, who-," the older elf stammered, looking up. "Ah, it is you, Xan. What is it, my boy? Sit, and speak. Tell me you found another disconcerting entry in the ledgers I asked you to review?"

Xan pulled up an equally tattered hassock and sat, frowning at its ominously creaking leg. "No, Cathfaenlian-"

"Oh, to the pits with formality! You've earned the right to call me by name alone, more than those bunch of imperious, pretentious-"

"Yes, Cathfaen," Xan replied, dropping the honorific, interrupting the older elf before he ended up cursing the entire Greycloak leadership roster.

Indeed, dear old Cathfaen. Perhaps, having lived so long and survived so much, nothing could faze him anymore, not even threats of compelled compliance with conventions. Despite being a wizard of modest competence, Cathfaen's experience from almost six centuries of existence had led to his appointment as mentor and guide to novices like Xan. On the other hand, some senior Greycloaks disapproved of the elder elf's lenience. For their predilection for immediate and permanent assignment to specific duties, strict shadowing and controlled drills ran counter to Cathfaen's method of allowing the fledglings to rotate apprenticeship in stations and considerable freedom in their learning path.

As Cathfaen often spat – We're not the Evereskan Tomb Guards, after all.

"Well, if neither an unbalanced tallying of expenditures on components, nor another misspelled nomenclature, then what troubles you?" The older elf needled him with a wink. "Aside from just about everything?"

Xan scrunched his lips but let the elder revel in his jest. "You recall my mention of a disturbing vision plaguing me recently?"

"Ah, that one. Are you certain it wasn't from excessive inhalation of aromatics prior to reverie? Or perhaps you are sniffing the wrong oils? Try lavender and chamomile, one in each nostril."

A barely suppressed snort escaped him at the mere mention of those things. Xan did try them a few times but coercing himself to relax always proved counterproductive.

"I doubt inducing another dyspathetic reaction to nasal stimuli will resolve my quandary. As I've also told you, my research yielded nothing definitive." Nothing definitively comforting.

"But I did follow your advice – to seek direct guidance from Sehanine in her shrine," Xan added.

Cathfaen winced as he eyed the younger elf with genuine sympathy. "Yes, I heard about the incident at the temple. Thank the Seldarine, you are, well, unscathed. Mostly."

Xan only shrugged with resignation. He proceeded to report of cloistering himself in the chapel for a full day of meditation, entreating for clarity to the myriad of questions troubling him. What could be the meaning of the vision and its terrifying elements? Was it a mere manifestation of his fears or a foretelling of something else? Does it concern only himself, or Evereska, or the People? Yet instead of clear answers, he experienced the horrible vision again.

"The same dream thrice and the last given within the sanctuary of the Mystic Seer herself. Verily, Sehanine must have impressed its importance upon you."

Xan nodded, then flinched at the memory of what came after. Surely his accidental partial immolation was not a sign of any kind? Perhaps a sign that his eventual doom is merely waiting at the doorway, no longer preventable by any priest's timely intervention. Speaking of the Omen Teller-

"I even consulted with a Suorevar'vuorless who happened to be present. He agreed and also petitioned Sehanine – in vain, as I expected. From her own clergy, the Lady of Mysteries sees fit to withhold knowledge as well."

"Strange that the Goddess would remain silent," the elder murmured, frowning. He pondered on the puzzle for a good while, murmuring the questions to himself, then asked, "But tell me, my dear boy, of how many years are you again?"

How could that be relevant in any measure? "A hundred threescore and thirty-five," Xan murmured, then hastily added, "Almost two centuries."

"Are you, only? But here you are, like an old and tired ghost. Wringing yourself like a battered rag over a supposition, a hunch, perhaps what might be nothing more than the effects of an undigested salad."

Xan squirmed with remembered discomposure in his seat. One ought to never underestimate the wrenching agony of an untreated colic. Everything, even water and salad can be suspect.

But Cathfaen wasn't finished. "Among the youngest in our ranks, yet always thinking and acting like one who has lived through the Crown Wars."

Xan shot an affronted look at the older elf for his irreverence towards an ancient and awful part of their People's history. But rather than his usual flippant laughter, Cathfaen beamed at him with an indulgent but resigned smile.

"Of course, another admonishment from you about expressing too much staidness while still of tender age," Xan said, sulking.

"Because I feel my remaining years will be spent repeating the same rebuke into your unhearing ears." Cathfaen snapped the tome shut and leaned forward, elbows on knees, and regarded the younger elf with an earnest gaze.

"You have a just and wise spirit, Xannonderim. But that spirit can only live now in the present. Not in the shadows of others' mistakes and not in the terrors of a future yet to come."

To this, the younger elf had no answer and counterpoint. Cathfaen is right, of course. Their extensive lifespan is a blessing from the Seldarine, and to expend those years in unfounded fear is to misuse the gift. But then, how could one live otherwise when the existence of their beloved home and kindred would never be free from the threats of malevolent forces from outside and well-intentioned missteps from within? Suddenly, the moonblade lay heavier and colder upon his lap.

And yet something flickered within his heart, aberrantly pushing past his ever-present reservation. Xan abruptly rose from his seat and paced around the room, hand upon the hilt of the teu'kerym, pausing to face his mentor.

"But what if it is no mere dream, but a foreshadowing of some great catastrophe to befall our city? Or even upon our People? I may choose to ignore it and pray for the Seldarine to impart their message on another more honorable and moved to act. But won't I be remiss in my duty in sitting still and doing nothing if it were in my power to at least seek out a measure of truth?"

Cathfaen regarded his apprentice with a rare look of quiet esteem. Xan felt a faint welling in his heart but kept his expression grim.

"You are not entirely unfounded in your worries. How else has Evereska endured if not for the vigilance of its defenders?" Cathfaen said, leaning back. "But you needlessly trouble yourself constantly even for things negligeable. Am I the one remiss in my duties because I cannot instill in you the confidence and faith to bear your responsibilities?"

Xan squirmed, pricked by his mentor's words. It was not his intention to imply any shortcoming in the other's supervision. "No, that is not true. You have always been understanding, more than helpful."

Cathfaen exhaled, letting the silence settle over them for a good while. "Then tell me - as your guide, how best can I help you to ease this heaviness upon your spirit?"

Xan's shoulders sagged for a moment, but an idea flashed in his mind. An idea small and insignificant but perhaps worthy.

"I appreciate your offer, truly. And I think I know how you might aid me," he said. "A simple request."

"And I shall grant it this very instant without question."

Xan cleared his throat. Hopefully, his own supervisor would be as generous as the Omen Teller had been with that uncoordinated cleric.

"I ask for permission to go on a brief furlough."

Cathfaen's eyes widened with pleasant surprise. "Finally! Have I not been telling you to take one these past years? Unlike you, your fellow novices have been exploiting these vacation privileges frequently, you know."

Xan scowled, his suspicions confirmed. No wonder he often ended up saddled with the most mundane and administrative tasks at all seasons as if they were sorely undermanned.

"So, what do you wish to do with your rest period? Are you acquiring a new pastime?"

Involuntarily, Xan huffed with scorn. As if an artistic diversion would help when nosey acquaintances were sure to complain of his preference for gray pigments on the canvas, or employing a funeral dirge's harmonic combinations to compose a song about cheese, or sculpting a block of wood into the likeness of a frowning jester. Further evidence why some children must be discouraged from pursuing the fine and performative arts.

"No?" Cathfaen asked, his eyes narrowing with a wink. "Or perhaps to find yourself a mate? Some might say it's excessively early to start before their second or even third century, but who knows with you?"

Ugh, a mate? Please! Xan scoffed even more violently. Who has time for frivolous personal transactions when the all the realms are marching relentlessly towards eventual destruction?

Cathfaen shook his head with disappointment at the severely unenthusiastic response. "Or visit your sister in Waterdeep? What about your brother in Deepingdale, if not the one in Elventree? Ah, then you must be planning to use the time to assist your mother in managing her woodcraft and wines exporting enterprise."

Xan inwardly groaned at the suggestion. Of course, he had nothing but love for Mother, respect for her trade, awe towards her all-consuming dedication to the business, as well as gratitude for the comfort and privileges that came with the wealth. Still, he had his own reasons for choosing a life of service to the city. Self and sanity-preserving reasons.

And besides, most of his siblings, a dozen in total, were already involved in the family occupation. Some had even dutifully stationed themselves in other locales to facilitate negotiations and the movement of goods. For that, Xan thanked the Seldarine for his parents' peculiar fecundity which spared him a bleaker fate of working for the clan's demanding livelihood.

"Maybe you prefer to accompany your father in one of his expeditions instead."

Xan inwardly huffed at the proposition. An accomplished if somewhat irreverent scholar of ancient empires and cultures, Father always received both esteem for his academic contributions, and condescendence for his impertinent manners. But whereas Mother had always been forbidding and firm, Father on the other hand proved indulgent and lenient with their children. How the two got along and even bonded together will always be a mystery even the Seldarine themselves might be at a loss to explain.

Besides, to which gods-forsaken corner of the realms has that man disappeared again? Only one of two places – A crumbling wreckage buried five thousand leagues away from Evereska. Or wherever is twice further and right beside his friend Synth La'neral, a man pitied by the entire city for being married to that dangerously clumsy Linu, but an archeologist famed for his handsomeness and astounding discoveries.

Little wonder that his cousin Erevain caught the same malady of a restive spirit and had followed suit to rashly run off to some barbaric settlement in the North and poke around in ruins best left forgotten by the People. Sehanine, in her great mercy, had revealed to her priests of Erevain's tragic end in some spider-infested cavern. A Ceremony of Recovery enabled his lost spirit to finally reach Arvandor, but surely there were less foolhardy and agonizing means to pass on from this life.

On the other hand, that Mother never spoke ill of Father's prolonged absences and always supported his profession is a phenomenon unto itself. Perhaps, the Seldarine are indeed generous with their miracles, after all.

"None of those reasons you mentioned, I'm afraid," Xan replied.

"Then what manner of vacation are you arranging then?"

"It is more of a-," Xan murmured with some hesitation. "- a study furlough. I intend to leave Everska and travel to a place where I might conduct more research on any oracles concerning this vision of mine. Though in all probability my quest is most likely in vain."

Cathfaen pursed his mouth and blinked.

"But please," Xan begged in earnest. "Don't tell my mother about it?"

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On and on the road spanned before his eyes. So dusty and cracked, much too wide, like an unsightly colossal scar across the verdurous face of the Sword Coast, paved with force by the wreckful hands of N'Tel'Quess, and trampled under countless injudicious steps. So unlike the intimate wildflower-laden trails of his home, almost unseen for being made by the lightest of footfalls yet ever known by all who dwelled in its comforting shade.

To the west of the Coast Way, the fields were dotted with scattered copses of beechwood and elm, growing thicker and deeper as they stretched further to the horizon verged by the ancient weald that is Cloakwood. To the east, the Wood of Sharp Teeth loomed with its trees that were just as primeval as the ones blanketing the feet of the Shaeradim, the towering hills surrounding and concealing Evereska from the rest of the realms.

Xan stared at the depthless darkness of these unfamiliar forests flanking him. Never had he felt so… insignificant.

It took him about a month to cross what felt like the entire world from Evereska to here in this forlorn spot in the Sword Coast he found himself now. Though with some trepidation, Xan accepted to be escorted by Vale Guards through the Shaeradim. He knew its secret passages by heart due to his training in the misty hills of Greyhome, but someone would be needed to return his borrowed horse to the Greycloaks' stables.

And so at the start of his journey, a pair of Vale Guards accompanied him through the hidden routes of the hills and narrow vales. On horseback the trio traversed the forests and wilderness but to the puzzlement of his escorts, Xan requested they avoid the Halfway Inn – the tavern nearest Evereska and purposed as a trading point for its inhabitants and the rest of Faerun.

Not because of any urgency, for why hasten when the most ancient of scrolls in his destination have outlasted generations? Rather because of Halfway's proprietor, Myrin Silverspear, a dour moon elf said to never forget a face. Decades prior, Myrin made a rare visit to the city, dropping by their home to discuss with Xan's mother on matters of her goods' transport and storage in his establishment. They had shared a passing glance and a greeting between them. Myrin recognizing him and sending word to his family about the sudden departure wouldn't hinder his undertaking, of course. But one less worry festering like a hardening wart in his mind wouldn't hurt either.

And so they had ridden until they reached Hills Edge, a small trading settlement further on and along the banks of the Chionthar. There, his guides deposited him and he spent an uneasy night in an inn. From there, a ferry took him to Scornubel but Xan decided not to waste another day in the rather rough outpost. He caught the next boat which brought him to Baldur's Gate, thereby completing his quite uneventful southwest journey.

Did he say uneventful? Of course, it was, though filled with fretting if not over the first wild beast or monster to jump at them on land, then over the smallest hole in the hull that would've surely widened enough to sink their vessel straight down the bottom of the Chionthar. Xan closed his eyes and forced a deep breath through his nose. In such brief span of time, he had already seen and had enough of the realms outside of Evereska.

Yet there must be no returning until he has fulfilled his undertaking. And if what the scholars at the Academy said was true, then he has but a mere tenday to complete his task there.

"Did you hide the sword like I told you?"

The old farmer's rasping query startled Xan from his rumination. In response, he patted at the moonblade, presently swathed from pommel to tip with the drabbiest rags to conceal its obviously worthy make. The man hummed and nodded at him, turning his eyes back to the road, clicking at his horse.

Homesickness wasn't the sole reason for his discomfiture at being here. As soon as he arrived at the Gate, he found the crowds at the port much active in trading both merchandise and troubling news - complaints about the deteriorating quality of iron in the region, accusations of Amn's sabotage of the ore exports, and rumors of brewing hostilities. As if the looming shortage wasn't enough, banditry along the Coast Way had suddenly surged with merchant caravans often brutally attacked and ransacked.

In leaving the city, somehow he had found himself joining a small troop of peasants heading south. It didn't seem wise to stand out from an evidently destitute crowd. And so at the first chance and with a heavy spirit, the elf donned his plainest tunic and trousers, stowing the mage robes in his pack. Keeping to himself and staying hooded at all times, he hoped the protective enchantments on his gray cloak might prove sufficient to suspend his demise should things go awry down the road.

Well, the Seldarine must have blessed him with an extended delay of his doom. Though the trek through the Coast Way took a few days, miraculously they traveled unmolested, perhaps appearing too impoverished and uninteresting for the brigands' predatory eyes. Soon they arrived at the Friendly Arm Inn, the peasants marching on to their homesteads somewhere in the vast plains and wilderness of the Sword Coast.

Fortunately, the following day, Xan gained himself another traveling companion – a weathered and gnarled human farmer who could never be mistaken for a trading baron. Unless he was in truth a sun-loving lich and his equally knobby horse an enslaved pet dracolich in magical disguise.

Also fortunately, travel by rickety wagon proved speedier than on foot, though no less frictionless, what with the potholes beneath the wheels and the dust around their heads. Yet surprisingly, Xan found the old farmer to be pleasant company, helpfully warning of dangers in the road and the woods, lavish with his low opinion of bandits, and openly reverent of nature and the woods.

When the old man asked about him, Xan thought it best to avert suspicion and worse – curiosity about his true origin and purpose. Instead, the elf concocted an alias and backstory of being a traveling scholar of middling means from Highmoon. Though having never set foot in this capital of Deepingdale himself, Xan drew his knowledge from the treasured letters sent by his elder brother who resided there. Of course, he stuck to the more sanitized parts of his sibling's account and left out the questionable ones involving three tavern wenches and a brawl in The Rising Moon. With distaste, Xan inwardly recalled his brother's description of that cheap and rowdy inn. Seldarine help him if ever he must lodge in such a place of dubious repute.

"Wish I could give ya something better, a good curtain even, to wrap your sword with. But we don't want anyone thinkin' you got anything worth stealing on ya."

"Your generosity and astuteness are well appreciated," Xan murmured.

"Where'd you say you're heading again?"

Xan told him and the old man beamed.

"Wouldn't you know it. I do have some hay to be bringing there. Looks like I'm delivering you to the doorstep after all," the farmer said with a chuckle.

Xan raised his brows in interest. How convenient. Well, if the Seldarine are hastening his attainment of whatever horrific enlightenment awaits him, then so be it.

From the crossroads they veered west and after another day of stopping only at night to camp, they finally arrived at a small village which served as a waystation for those hauling in supplies from elsewhere. Xan alighted from the cart and offered a handful of silvers. The old farmer regarded the sum in his hand but waved at him dismissively.

"No need to part with your coin, Master Elf," he said, beaming with a toothless smile. "Your keeping this crusty codger company is payment enough."

Surprised, Xan pocketed the money and bowed in gratitude. "My contribution to your journey is only minimal and without effort. Yet you have been most kind to one of the People."

"Bah, think nothin' of it. Just that I don't see a lot of your folk around here. Now I remember also giving a ride to an elf lass and a young man some years ago. But unlike you, she dozed all the way 'til the Gate ha ha! Good thing the fellow with her proved good for some talking. Waxin' all poetic about pickled white radish heh. Wish we could have some of that. Right, Kicker?" the old farmer chuckled and patted the horse's flank.

With effort, Xan kept his brow from rising at the mention of the elven woman and her questionable choice of companion. Indeed, much can be said about the imprudent preferences of some of his kinsmen, but who was he to pass judgment when the consequences of their actions were often already tragic enough?

Xan bid the old farmer farewell and wished the Seldarine's blessing on him. Briefly he checked himself, once more having donned his robes to appear presentable lest his hoped-for hosts mistake him for a peasant, and double-checked that the tribute remained unmarred in his pack. Did he take the time to smoothen out any dog-eared pages? Yes, he did for none could ever accuse him of being a disorderly miscreant.

Inhaling deeply, Xan glanced up at the stony path from the village to his destination and proceeded to walk the trail. Sehanine, may this chosen endeavor be the right one. Or at least, the one least likely to get him struck by lightning for his foolishness.

Not long and unto his view came a great wall, doubtless ancient and impenetrable. Behind it soared the stone towers, so imposing and adorned with richly hued stained-glass windows. A fortress mighty and grand, and rightly so, for having withstood time and the passing of ages.

No turning back. Truly now and finally, here.

Candlekeep.

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Something Differently Scribblings:

Ah-ah, I know what you're thinking! His hair should've had 50% fire insurance by virtue of the moonblade. So is Xan's moonblade enchanted with fire resistance in this story? Well, with this being BG1-AU'd-Within-a-*Hair's*-Breadth-of-its-Canon (sorry, Xan!), then the answer to that question is either (1) NO or (2) NOT YET. ;P

All scraps of Elvish scattered around this wee tale are based on "A Treatise on Espruar, A Field Study of the Elven Language in the Forgotten Realms" by Diane Morrison. As best as I can mangle the grammar and syntax.

The charming and clumsy Linu La'neral appears courtesy of the Neverwinter Nights series.

-lian: a suffix added to address one's master directly.

cor'avara: grandma. Or directly translated as "legend-mother" in elvish. An extremely accurate definition.

Cerlynradh: Per lore, Xan is the cousin of Erevain Blacksheaf from Icewind Dale 1. Hence, the surname is roughly elvish for Blackleaf/sheaf with the assumption that the friendly Erevain translated his family name into something more simple and rustic for the N'Tel'Quess.

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