Okay. So here it is, my first short story for my Neverwinter Six anthology. To be honest, proof-reading this gave me a funny feeling. On one hand, I criticized myself for not writing a longer piece (word length is less than my customary KPI of 3000. More specifically this work lasts only 2130 words). On the other hand, I felt that I did myself decent justice especially given how long I've been gaming at the expense of my novel writing (read: A Requiem From Winter Past). While this short story won't present any spoilers (since the people at Cryptic would always be one step ahead in this area so as to speak), it will present certain elements of creative liberty minus any risk of total retcon (read: the content doesn't clash with what you saw so far in the Storm King's Thunder plot). Originally, I planned for this work to be upped during Valentine's Day. After all, you don't expect the modern Singaporean equivalent of Vincent van Gogh or H.P Lovecraft to celebrate 14th Feb with other people (read: we all know how important it is for a local Singaporean guy to get a local Singaporean girlfriend since SPG has always been some kind of magic phrase that goes like "YOU'RE FIRED!"). In other words, no girl has yet to prove that she's good enough to control my joyride style creativity (I suspect, however, that there's one who may be good enough to do so. And I think I know who she is).
Long story short, the image below was the reason why it took me so late to get this up.
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| Apparently, I have a destructive sleeping habit no different from a Tesla guy. |
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| Not to mention as well my brain tends to be more active at night. |
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“Welcome to the Moonstone Mask!”
Before the alluring tiefling, two courtesans flanking the portal bowed seductively. No doubt a game played by Jen Lewstorn, noted an amused Kariss. Despite being accustomed to the harshness and fickleness of reality, she found the human bartender of the Moonstone Mask an interesting friend with a few common traits. While general understanding declared Liset Cheldar as the owner, a chosen few knew unto whom this place would eventually belong to.
“Welcome to the Moonstone Mask.”
Knowing the mocking nature behind such greeting, Kariss curtsied in reply. Like the legendary Ophala Cheldarstorn during the long gone days of Nasher Alagondar, Liset held no love for the Arcane Brotherhood. Deudermont’s death at the hands of their machinations only served to cement their lurid reputation. That was many years ago, however. As much as Liset detested to admit it, the Brotherhood have proven themselves in the most unexpected manner. After all, only a fool would choose not to profit from the chaos wrought by an undead Akar Kessell and his nefarious minions.
Not only did Anara the Cerulean offer her aid in rebuilding Caer-Konig, she also made sure any dissent would be met with the harshest punishment possible short of death. Their current leader was a scheming one, this much Liset has to acknowledge. As for Kariss Locras…
“Shocking, isn’t? To think I used to be part of them,” smiled the tiefling.
“Luke Locras was an enemy of the Brotherhood in the worst possible way. There is no way I would doubt his daughter’s word. Oghma be praised that you chose to leave the same bunch of people whom your father betrayed.”
“Except that I’m never his daughter,” Kariss’ answer to Liset’s compliment was nothing less than a knife forged in irony, her back turned towards the masked proprietor.
”I was only meant to be a replacement.”
With those words, she descended the stairs and blew a kiss to Jen. As for Liset, she could only shake her head in a twisted mix of amusement and lamentation. There was no falsehood behind Kariss’ statement, yet there was nary a resentment in her words as well. Perhaps that rascal Myrreas was right after all.
No one can ever live without trust. Better to live like a wounded beast than to live like the undead.
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“Welcome to Cold Run and Makos’ Bastion!”
“Who is this odd fellow?” whispered Celeste as she nudged Xuna.
“Well, he’s…”
“Ewan Roald, I presume,” called out Knox, his booming voice nevertheless revealing a tone of respect.
“The remaining Three, I presume,” smiled the rugged leader of Trailblazers’ Sword, “Ewan Roald at your service. And is that one of the Six I see behind you?”
“”Bhaasmond Taran,” said Celeste, “Shield of the Six.”
“We have come to know better the manner of Makos’ death,” said the half-orc paladin, “For days of mourning alone can never be enough a compensation to his comrades.”
“Including you as well?” asked Ewan slyly, a thumb stroking his fuzzy chin, “Pardon my impudence, but there is a reason why I’m the founder of the finest scouting company Faerûn has ever seen.”
“Honor.”
No sooner Celeste spoke out, Bhaasmond held out a gauntleted hand.
“I appreciate the goodwill behind your lie, Lady Celeste. However, I am both a paladin and Torm’s soldier for a reason.”
“You are indeed a knight,” smiled Celeste, the emotional strain suffered so far at last showing its hand, “I have seen too many men with the heart of a beast. You, on the other hand, are truly the opposite.”
Before Bhaasmond could return the heartfelt compliment, another person emerged from a nearby tent.
“You want the truth behind Makos’ death. Or at least the vital details.”
A youthful man emanating an otherworldly aura greeted the four, facial hair trimmed adding a rugged edge to his looks.
“Name’s Artus Cimber. Forgive me when I say we don’t know much. Wulfgar and Catti-brie of the famed Companions of the Hall would know better. Alas, they are now somewhere in Icewind Dale gathering allies.”
“To fortify the defense of Bryn Shander and Lonelywood?” asked Celeste.
“Wrong,” answered Ewan Roald, his grin growing wide.
“We’re preparing to strike at the heart of Makos’ murderer. We’re going to launch an assault against Svardborg. And we’re going to take down its jarl.”
“I suppose this camp will be emptied very soon then,” quipped Knox as he looked around, the towering Arkaiun folding his arms.
“Wrong,” smirked Ewan, this time in a rueful way, “Me and my men will still stay put here in case the frost giants try something funny. After all, the orcs are still running loose despite our hero and his princess giving them something much bigger than they can chew off.”
“I will be going,” said Artus, his visage turning somber, “The Ring of Winter still recognizes me as its owner and Storvald won’t take this fact lying down. Good to see allies here who can aid our cause from today onward.”
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“That damned dream again…”
Events days ago accompanying a curse against Beshaba, a familiar face being the cause. Myrreas stepped out from the bed, his toned torso bared.
“You should be resting.”
The comely rogue never turned back to face the speaker as a willowy brunette placed a basin of water on the table. The Dalelander almost discovered where Manshoon was hiding. Then he arrived. That man haunting his sleep even until now.
Gyrion…
“You want to change my bandages?”
Taken aback by Myrreas’ question, Calestin could only nod dumbly. Stripping off his dressing, Myrreas pointed to the basin and beckoned. Shaking her head with a smile, Calestin prepared to change the bandages. Renaer was right in likening Myrreas to a legendary figure of Waterdeep.
Always playing the fool while hiding his hand. Never realized there is indeed a second Danilo Thann.
“Makos, you’re right. That fellow is back,” whispered Myrreas, his eyes narrowed while Calestin applied the healing salve to his wounds. Not just any manner of injury, but burns inflicted by the leader of the Cloaked Ascendancy.
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“What’s this?”
“Taulmaril. Otherwise known as the Heartseeker.”
“I know its name, Drizzt Do’Urden. Don’t act dumb.”
Before an unbelievable offer from Drizzt Do’Urden, Arylos maintained his steely gaze. The hero of Neverwinter was no fool, he knew the intent behind the seemingly absurd. The battle at Fangbreaker Island has been concluded, but the thirst for vengeance was far from quenched. Drufi was merely a pawn; one of Storvald’s numerous weapons in the same way Makos was just a victim in the name of convenience.
Days and months have passed since that fateful battle against Baphomet, yet it felt as if the stranglehold of the Maze Engine has never been relinquished. An absolute irony, for Makos was the one who destroyed it. Perhaps it was meant as a curse from a vanquished demon lord. Then again, it might actually be Vizeran DeVir’s final act of revenge. Back during the victory celebration, Drizzt had cautioned Arylos on whatever thoughts haunting Makos like a spiteful lover spurned.
“Tell Celeste…”
The tiefling warlock in the end caused an upheaval in Arylos, the cruel manner of his demise reminding the Or-tel-quessir of how his first love ended her life.
“Tell yourself to be brave while alone, Ary. Keep this dagger if you really love me.”
“A life for a life.”
Arylos’ statement promptly reduced a meeting of heroes to a stage of silence, both he and his drow counterpart playing the role of actors bereft of voice. The uncomfortable atmosphere prevailed for a while, tension unspoken directed towards the frost giant jarl stifling the nearby residents of Lonelywood. Then he reached out for the bow together with a quiver filled with silver arrows. With nary a word spoken, the ranger of Kelemvor departed from view.
Storvald wasn’t the only obstacle before him, however. There’s one thing to be done first, something closer to his Kelemvorite faith than mere vengeance. The presence of undead was never something associated with an artifact like the Ring of Winter, let alone should be. Causing death was one thing, practice of necromancy quite another. Bryn Shander might have seen only two such beings so far, but the tactician in Arylos has seen more than enough on the battlefield to detect subtle clues pointing at an anomaly.
That cleric better not get himself drunk at the Hook, Line, and Sinker. First drink always on the house indeed.
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“Unto Cyrea Durothil, my beloved, I give you this jewel. A trinket worth merely a pittance to others, yet much more than a kingdom to both of us.”
Gripping the necklace gifted from a lover lost to death, Cyrea recalled clearly that damning day where Ilyath Le'Quella was reported killed during a sudden attack from the daemonfey. In a span lasting mere hours, both word and proof of his death arrived. In a blatant show of mockery directed towards the entire Tel-quessir, the moon elf’s body was mutilated with words born of the abyssal tongue scripted on his back.
“A bride left undead without her beloved. Won’t be surprised if the groom is among the frozen dead.”
Then there was Arylos. If Ilyath’s existence could be compared with spring or summer, then the wood elf was a living representation of winter. One was a fighter believing in honor, the other a tactician placing absolute faith in that necessity called victory. Ilyath deserved to be called a hero, yet he failed to be one. Arylos was never meant to be a hero, yet he became one. If there was to be something in common between the two, it would be the nature of their patron deities. Ilyath worshipped Sehanine Moonbow, she was the goddess overseeing the passage of the elven dead. Arylos was a Chosen of Kelemvor, a god whose visage reflected the absolute truth known as death. If there was an irony waiting to be seen, this would be it.
Haunting images of that fight atop the wall of Bryn Shander remained freshly imprinted in her mind. A bitter bride unexpectedly whispering her thanks to an unfeeling Arylos, such was a surreal portrait of peace painted in a radiant flash. In a twisted sense, the sun elf saw a part of herself in the undead maiden. From her own view, a living hero worshipping a god of death was far more a dead man walking than any undead.
“So what’s your decision?”
A smile suddenly adorning her fair features, the Ar-tel-quessir has no need to turn behind.
“What were you thinking when you decided to let go of him?”
Before her good friend’s question, Sheallyn Melarn stayed silent. Myrreas was right all the while. In the same way she could never read the mind of that ex-Harper despite an intimate past, likewise there was no way for her to enter Arylos’ inner world in spite of a common fear towards loss.
“That Bhaasmond was a better man. And he still is,” answered the drow with a giggle. While it was nothing more than a statement of jest, Sheallyn understood fully well the truth behind her words. Myrreas would never be totally honest in front of her. The half-orc paladin, on the other hand, was willing to trust her with his future. Arylos would never betray his ways for her sake. Bhaasmond Taran, however, would gladly take up arms and lay down his life for her sake alone.
“What’s your decision?”
Upon asking herself this question, Cyrea recalled the moment where Makos met his untimely end.
“Tell Celeste…”
Before Makos could finish his final sentence, a frost giant’s ax swung down at him. The tiefling warlock was able to evade the full force of that crushing blow. Alas, a mere graze was all it took to sever the spine and crush his ribs.
In a fit of wrath, Wulfgar stepped forward. In a moment of unpredictability, Arylos became the next person to do so. With one decisive swipe, Harshnag snatched the Or-tel-quessir away from his moment of madness. With howls of anguish, Arylos struggled to break free.
Makos was merely a passer-by in Arylos’ life. Yet, something snapped inside the ranger for no apparent cause. Perhaps Linu’s warning was spot on after all, that Baphomet’s presence corrupted the Maze Engine more than anything else. An utter irony if so, for the Maze Engine was meant to bring order to chaos.
Then Cyrea released her grip on the past, the necklace descending into the river and carried down the waterfall. Just behind her, Sheallyn gave a smile of approval. Every person was born selfish, no matter what and how. Those were the words spoken by Arylos. As for Cyrea, selfishness was the only way for her to put behind the past.
)0(
Just some notes to end this post. Firstly, I originally intended to add in one more part. Namely, whatever conversation between Laeral Silverhand and Elaith Craulnober (most notably Amnestria Moonflower). The only problem? Whatever I know so far came from third party sources (read: the internet and wiki). I could try taking the risk, but there's no point for me to force myself due to being constantly sleep deprived during the next day. There are things which I'm comfortable with despite my brain being in a 50-50 state. Then there are other things which I'm not confident of due to the same situation.
And besides, it's far better for Elaine Cunningham to do her own conclusion where the Serpent is concerned (read: there's only this much I can glean from the Forgotten Realms Wiki).
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