(art by Romy Jones)
16 Uktar, Year of the Banner (DR 1368)
Following her nighttime meeting with the mysterious Dealer in the crypts of Soubar’s ruined Black Abbey, Amra returns to her companions unmolested, armed with directions to the supposedly cursed area where Hadarlas’ belongings were found. It’s not long before the sun comes up.
Amra is already up as the sun rises in the east. “Did everyone rest well? Today might be a long day.”
“We weren’t mugged,” Melly said. “Or killed in our sleep,” Firnous adds. “That counts as ‘well.’”
“Indeed it does. Although you’re far too young to be so cynical.”
“I hope to be much older and this cynical,” Firnous replies. “I’m thinking the cynicism will help with that.”
“Humans,” Amra mutters, shaking her head.
Imoen smiles. “So what are we doing? I’m not exactly looking forward to breakfast with Soubar’s finest.” Wincing, she looks to the other tents, full of rising, scratching, belching mercenaries trying to shake off the previous night’s bouts of drinking and fighting.
“We can break our own fast, then make our way to this haunted ruin.”
“Do you really think it’s haunted?” Melly asks, clearly a bit worried.
“Perhaps. I’ve seen more than a few old castles where a loud wind is enough to get the locals convinced an Abyssal spectre lurks there.”
“So... we’ll ride around and look for ghosts. Or loud winds,” Firnous said. “We can do that.”
“Quite so.” Amra smiles, finishes her morning preparations and shoulders her pack. “Onward!”
The morning meal is taken, and then the group rides out, Auravahinue bearing Amra in the lead, Sparrowchaser and the third horse bearing their riders following. The directions lead northeast, away from Boareskyr Bridge and Soubar both, into wilder lands...
The route takes the party away from the Trade Way or any other recognizable road. A thin strip of passable land sweeps between the edges of the Trielta Hills and the gloomy boughs of the Forest of Wyrms. Leaves crackle and crunch under the horses’ hooves as they skirt the wood’s edge. The Dealer’s directions lead inside.
Amra strokes Auravahinue’s mane and stares into the eaves of the forest for a moment.
No immediate danger registers on Amra’s senses, but the forest as a whole has an unhealthy, alien feel to it -- cold and uncaring. Firnous, naturally, discovers tracks that lead beneath the branches. “A number of people went through here.”
“Men?”
“Well, humans or demihumans,” Firnous concedes, pointing out some of the tracks to Amra. “But the steps are too far apart to be dwarves, and a boot width like this? Pudgy for elven make.”
Amra nods. “True enough. They could be half-humans, but humans is more likely. Lead on, I’ll be at your side.”
“On it.” Firnous moves quickly into the woods -- the tracks he’s following seem fresh, and displaced leaves make them easy to spot. “Do we take the horses in?” Imoen asks Amra, eyeing the narrowing paths that wind into the trees.
“A good question. For now, yes.”
Imoen nods. “Stay mounted,” she tells Melly. “If there’s trouble, you can get help.” Melly looks to Amra for confirmation.
Amra nods to the young girl.
“I won’t just run off,” Melly promises. “And I haven’t yet seen anything that you couldn’t handle, both of you.”
Firnous leads on. From the trail signs, it appears that five or six men entered the wood a matter of days before. This fact is consistent with the Dealer’s tale of her “retrievers” finding Hadarlas’ scattered possessions in the wood before the “curse” and some other presence made them decide to flee.
Amra smiles at Melly. “You’re not without your own courage,” she said as they head deeper into the forest as Firnous’ skills lead them. “Be on guard,” Amra said. “For ghosts or strong winds.”
As the party makes their way deeper into the forest, the trees change, with taller pines and redwoods towering over the lower, deciduous trees on the forest’s fringes. A badly mauled bear carcass, dragged off to one side of the trail, speaks of large predators in the vicinity. “Probably not the wind,” Melly ventures, staring wide-eyed....
The better part of an hour passes in the still wood, when suddenly Melly lets out a yelp. Her horse stumbles, sinking a hoof into a pit or animal den camouflaged beneath the debris of the forest floor.
Amra checks that Melly and steed are unhurt, then she dismounts and looks around for more traps or any other sign of human work.
Melly is rattled (although it must be said that she regains her composure quickly). But her horse is clearly favoring its jolted leg.
Amra takes a long look around the area.
There’s no sign of human (or demihuman) handiwork in the area. The setting appears completely natural. The hole in the ground was not made with tools. The horse’s misstep appears to be no more than bad luck.
Frowning a little, Amra mounts Auravahinue again and continues on.
Melly decides to dismount, so the horse doesn’t have to carry her weight. Imoen, too, climbs off of Sparrowchaser, guiding the horse by hand....
“A descent here!” Firnous calls out, as he follows the tracks to the crest of a hillside and looks down into the depression below. A trickle of a stream, its path partly blocked by old branches, runs through the bottom of the dell.
Amra dismounts once more. “Wait and watch here,” she tells Firnous before advancing to get a better look at the pitiable little waterway.
The stream itself seems easily fordable, either on foot or on horseback. The slope down which the tracks run seems to be the greater obstacle.
“All right.” Amra turns to her celestial companion. “Come, let’s show them the way,” she murmurs in Celestial, then begins to pick her way down the hill.
Auravahinue nods and follows. Amra carefully searches the ground ahead, adding her keen eyesight to Auravahinue’s own. At their measured pace, they encounter no great difficulty, until without warning, about two-thirds of the way down the slope, the dirt beneath their feet seems to let loose from the bulk of the hillside. A small cascade of earth pours down toward the bottom of the depression....
Auravahinue’s legs splay, as he tries to dig his hooves into the shifting earth. Even Amra has difficulty maintaining her balance. Finally, the two slide down to the bottom of the gully, neither falling.
Amra takes a moment to recover her elven poise, then looks up at the young race youngsters.
“Harder than it looked,” Firnous calls down.
“Indeed. Now come along... carefully.”
Undiscouraged, Imoen follows with Sparrowchaser. Firnous assists Melly with her own horse, who shies from the edge but is finally convinced. No further minor landslides occur.
Once everyone is down in the gully, Amra continues along the trail.
Finally, a small clearing comes into view ahead. It appears empty of occupants, but the cold, alien feeling that Amra sensed earlier is stronger here. She gets a sense that the party is not alone in the woods, even though no one else can be seen. Somewhat more obviously, a leather satchel lies abandoned at the base of a tree on the far side of the clearing, a metal clasp reflecting the weak afternoon light and drawing attention.
Amra draws Iralenmaska partially out of its gilded sheath as a warning to the others, then she approaches the satchel, circling the tree before getting too close to the abandoned satchel.
Suddenly, there’s a loud crack, and a tree limb, easily as long as Amra is tall, falls from above. Amra steps back just in time as the broken limb comes crashing down at her feet, falling neatly between her and the satchel.
Amra raises an eyebrow and then looks up at the tree.
There’s no apparent cause for the collapse. The tree seems generally hardy and undiseased.
“This place is cursed,” Amra mutters. She picks up the satchel.
The remaining leaves and pine needles in the surrounding trees rustle. “There’s the loud wind,” Firnous announces helpfully.
Amra throws him a look, draws her sword and then opens the satchel.
Firnous shrugs. Imoen tries to keep watch on the woods around while Amra investigates. The satchel is of a fine workmanship, the leather well-tooled and embossed in moon elven designs. Within the satchel are two books, one volume small and handmade in appearance, the other a larger volume, quite similar to those in the ruined city library within the mists at Tempus’ Tears...
Before she can open either volume, Amra catches a glimpse out of the corner of her eye. In the shadows of the trees, barely visible, is an almost transparent elf-like humanoid with a wispy, glassy outline, fluttering on small wings...
As Amra pretends to focus on the satchel, gradually she becomes aware that there are more such creatures, some male, some female hovering with some agitation in the trees, all watching her actions intently.
Amra continues to ignore the pixie host and starts to thumb through the smaller book.
The creatures suddenly burst forth from beneath the boughs, their translucence partially fading. They attempt to slam into Amra.
Amra is no longer bemused.
Not taken entirely by surprise, Amra is able to drop down to her knees and roll out of the way as five of the winged folk swarm at her.
The glassy elf-like beings swoop over Amra’s head like glimmering wisps. Their flight is graceful, but violence seems to come unnaturally to them. A whispering voice in ancient Elven dialect hisses in Amra’s ear. “Leave the book. Leave the book.”
Amra holds her empty hand up in a gesture of peace. “Why, cousins?” she asks in the same ancient form.
Imoen and the others watch the scene unfold, but it’s so chaotic and close that they hardly know what to do. “Amra!” Imoen calls out, helping little.....
A glassy male form hovers in front of Amra. “Duty,” he whispers. “Pledged,” said one of the females. “Too many strangers. Cannot trust.”
Imoen takes a step forward. Another branch comes crashing down, and only Firnous’ quick hand on her arm manages to pull her out from beneath it as it plummets.
“Peace! Imoen, Firnous, Melly, stay where you are,” Amra said quickly, not taking her eyes off the male. “I am no stranger to duty, cousin,” she tells him, holding up the holy symbol of Vandria that hangs around her neck. “Do you know this?”
Imoen halts as instructed, although she clearly remains on her guard...
“Yes, yes. The Stern Guardian,” one of the glassy elf-spirits said.
“I am one of her sword-maidens.”
There’s a rapid conference of whispers, too hushed and archaic for Amra to fully separate the spirit-voices. “Prove yourself,” one finally said. “Yes, prove you serve Her, the Lady of Grief.”
Amra eyes the last speaker. “As you wish,” she finally said. She holds a hand out towards him, then chants a simple prayer.
“Not toward us! Toward them!”
The speaker holds out her hand toward Amra’s companions.
Amra tries not to look annoyed as she shifts her aim in mid-prayer and completes the protective spell over the three humans.
There’s another quick chorus of whispers.
“That tingled!” Firnous calls out, until Melly punches and shushes him.
“...”
“We have decided,” one of the males said. “We must trust you.” “Already, we have not dissuaded you from coming,” a female said.
Amra nods at the female. “I am very persistent, I’m afraid. What may I call you?”
A swirl of wind-speech is the answer Amra gets, until the glassy being realizes Amra’s inability to repeat it. “We are kholiathra,” she offers (and the name seems familiar from Amra’s time in Elfhome).
“Well met, friends,” Amra said. “Do you guard this forest?”
“We guard *him*,” a female said. She casts her eyes down. “But we have failed.”
“Hadarlas.” Amra considers it. “I seek him myself. Perhaps we can help each other.”
“You are too late,” the kholiathra say mournfully, all in chorus.
“Has he passed to Arvandor?”
“His spirit has. His body remains here, where the others forced him to abandon it.”
“I see. Which others? May I see it?”
“The other elves. And yes. We will take you.” One of the kholiathra motions Amra forward into the trees. “It is not far.”
“Lead on, cousin,” Amra said, not without a worried frown.
“Amra?” Imoen calls out, as she sees her friend retreating through the trees.
“Follow!”
Imoen spurs the others into motion. The kholiathra do not wait for them, only concerned (apparently) with Amra. It is a matter of moments before the body of an elderly moon elf, dressed in travel clothes made in Evereskan fashion, is found on the forest floor, riddled with arrows. A staff, with workmanship similar to Firnous’ sword, lies dropped nearby.
Amra stops and stares in shock, then hurries to the elf’s side.
From all appearances, the elf has been dead for several days, perhaps as long as (but no more than) a week. The wounds would be fatal several times over. His killers were far beyond thorough.
Amra bows her head in silent prayer for Hadarlas’ safe passage to the Celestial Places, then she rises, grim-faced. “Tell me what happened,” she demands from the kholiathra.
Firnous’ face rapidly cycles through shock and denial to anger as he confronts the fate of his former mentor. Melly and Imoen both wordlessly clasp his hands.
“We serve Sehanine,” one of the kholiathra said. “The elf called out to her, and she sent us to him. He knew he was pursued.”
“I’m sorry, child,” Amra tells Firnous, her expression softening for a moment. Then she turns back to the faeries. “By whom? Tell me of these other elves.”
“They are strange,” said one. “Different,” said another. “Like moon elves, but not. We tried to discourage them from following. They would not cease. The starsinger scattered his belongings and fought. And we were unable to save him.”
“They’re dead,” Firnous murmurs. “All of them.”
Amra holds a hand out to Firnous. “They will meet justice, I promise. Don’t let anger rule your grief.” She turns back to the kholiathra. “Different how? Manner alone, or in their appearance?”
“Manner.” “And appearance.”
“Their appearance, then. Tell me.”
“Do you know there are great wyrms here? Green dragons in the deep woods? These elves had faces like yours, but like the wyrms also.”
“Not green.” “Silver.” “Or blue.” “Both.”
“Dragonspawn?” Amra asks.
“We do not know. We have not seen their kind before. They are elfkin and yet... not.”
“I would like to meet them,” Amra said slowly. “Where did they go after this ambush?”
The kholiathra look at one another before returning their attention to Amra. “They are still here.”
“Here in the forest? How far?”
“They have magic unknown to us. They are hard to track. But some of their number have stayed. They patrol the forest. We drove away the humans who came before they found the starsinger–“ ”Or the books!” “--Yes, or the books. We have tried to confuse them. But they will not rest until they have claimed the starsinger and his possessions.”
“Then they will never rest,” Amra said. “May I look at the books now?”
“We must entrust them to you.” “We have little choice.”
“I will protect them with my life and honor,” Amra vows.
“It is a holy mission for Sehanine, Amra, servant of Vandria. The moon-goddess must depend upon you to carry out her servant’s task.”
“She may,” Amra said. “I will not fail.”
The kholiathra seem to relax... slightly. “Do you know the rites? For disposition of....” The wisp looks down toward Hadarlas’ body with sadness.
Amra offers the kholiathra a reassuring smile. “I will see his body to rest as he would have it.”
“Thank you, Amra, servant of Vandria.”
Amra nods. “Go, and greet him in the Holy Places,” she said. “I will see these... elves... are brought to justice.”
“We will attempt to keep you safe while you discern what must be done.” The kholiathra looks down at Hadarlas. “But, as you can see, are powers are limited. It is not safe for you here. Discern quickly.”
“I would find these hunters and see what they have to say,” Amra said, implying a probably-violent intermediate step. She looks to the humans.
Firnous’ face clearly shows no argument with that plan. Imoen is slightly more restrained. “If one of those books is Hadarlas’ journal... it might tell us *something*.”
Amra relaxes in the face of Imoen’s reasonable suggestion. “Yes, there is that,” she admits, the tips of her ears reddening just slightly. Then she opens the journal and begins to read.
The smaller, handcrafted book appears the best candidate for the journal. Imoen volunteers to examine the other, larger book while Amra reads. Hadarlas’ script is small and fine, and it soon becomes apparent that he has packed a voluminous amount of research into the small book -- too much to digest at once. But this is clearly his history of the moon elven people which he wished to present to the temple of Sehanine in Evereska...
As Amra reads, the gist of his argument becomes apparent in one shocking thesis: the ancient elven kingdom of Askavar, centered in what is now the Wood of Sharp Teeth, was not entirely abandoned during the Retreat eight centuries ago. Hadarlas maintains that elves in fact stayed behind, hiding in the shadow of their former domain.
Amra raises an eyebrow at this revelation and reads on, hoping to find some explanation of how the Askavar remnant remained hidden.
To this, Hadarlas apparently bent great effort and reaped little reward. He cites expedition after expedition, both into the Wood of Sharp Teeth itself and into the surrounding lands, searching for proof of the survivors’ existence, as well as an explanation. But his journal records obstacle after obstacle. What seemed like coincidence at first now seems like signs of a very active -- and very subtle -- opposition.
“It becomes slightly clearer,” Amra said. “Slightly.”
“It does?” Imoen asks. She holds out the larger volume for Amra’s perusal. “He took this book from the library Rindol led us to. It’s a history of that city, before the war that destroyed it. I think he was interested in that picture we saw.”
“The elves who hunted him, or whatever they truly are, I think they are remnants of Askavar of old, somehow.”
“And they’re scared of a priest? A scholar? What threat could he pose to them?”
“Discovery? It seems they’ve fallen away from the way of our people,” Amra said, understating things slightly. “If they do have dragon blood in them, it becomes even more understandable. What about the picture?”
“It’s a big book!” Imoen protests. “But I think he was trying to find out who that human woman was, with the elf delegation from Askavar. There’s a name. It’s long.”
“What is it?”
“Erimathserenela.” Imoen counts syllables. “Yeah. That’s it.”
“That’s an odd name,” Amra said. “It’s certainly not Elven. And I don’t remember hearing the like from Waterdeep down to Baldur’s Gate.”
“You know what it sounds like to me?”
“Probably,” Amra said with a teasing grin.
“*I* was going to say Draconic. I don’t know what you were going to say.”
“The very same. It does fit, don’t you think? Does the name mean anything?”
“Not to my memory. But I’d need books.... And I may have a suggestion for that.”
“Oh?”
“The warrior Threskul, back in Boareskyr’s Bridge? When he was sending us off to Soubar, to find that Dealer woman? He mentioned a wizard... what was her name? Aluena. Aluena Halacanter. She raised pegasi at an estate not that far from here. If she’s a wizard, surely she has books.”
“A good suggestion.”
“Of course, we have to get out of this forest and get to her.”
“Soon enough.”