A Garden of Swords

Well, I'm having mixed feelings here. On one hand, I'm under no illusions that my Neverwinter Six will most likely be consigned to a mere work of fandom. On the other hand, I felt motivated to do some Total Recall.

Plot twist: The President of the United State of California decided to exercise the right of political autonomy. 😷

The reason being Tyranny of Dragons throwing a curve ball from the touchline. As what Keira "the English Jeanne d'Arc" Knightley have famously implied, just bend it like Beckham. Or kick it like Cantona for that matter.

Yep, it's an ancient Chinese art martial alright. Hopefully, my entire family will know I have a French temper.

For now, I'll need to strike a balance between those Wizards from the Coast and Sakaguchi Hironobu in the event Le IMPOSSIBRU! really happen.

A/N: I'm not going to hide it. My original plan is to kill off Korey during the events surrounding Rise of Tiamat (definitely not the one inspired by a real-life tragedy, but rather that other Korean girl. I blame my sis for the fact that she [seeminegly] refused to try knowing the real me). Rejoice, all you salty Koreans. Don't thank Kuok Ming Hui for his merciful hand or Kuok Ming Si for her constant support for Running Man at the expense of her bro's online convenience. Thank those Wizards from the Coast. For now, I decided to up this image below 4 teh lolz.

Disclaimer: Above image is not the result of fanboy voyeurism as we know it. Rather, it's schadenfreude.

)0(

He witnessed Arylos’ ceaseless pursuit of Nostura from the Spellplague Caverns to the Feywild, a corrupted prey taunting the hunter. Ever since his untimely death at the hands of the daemonfey, Ilyath Le’Quella has been keeping an eye over his beloved Cyrea. For who could easily let go of a love unfulfilled? From Cormanthor to Neverwinter, his heart yearned for the day of reunion. Yet, this would also mean her death.

Then came a rival he could never surpass. The wood elf was a scoundrel, someone created for war and conflict. His strength was never in the feat of arms, but the shrewdness of a gifted tactician. His god was never their god, his people never their people. Therefore, how could such a knave be good enough for a lady from House Durothil?

From Neverwinter to New Sharandar, from Icewind Dale all the way to the Sea of Moving Ice. Time and again, Arylos defied the odds. He defied the odds to survive, he defied the odds to win the hand of Ilyath’s lady fair. Part of the moon elf desired an untimely end for a rival unexpected, yet a greater part of him wondered how far this interloper could go. He was hailed as the Hero of Neverwinter through the proclamation of Dagult Neverember, his tactical brilliance in repelling the dragons’ attacks on Neverwinter forever immortalized. The Iliyanbruen fey, those who were in truth moon elves like him, recognized his heroics against Malabog, that self-proclaimed king of the Fomorians and dark fey alike. They named him the Kingslayer, they would surely remember him as the heir apparent to the once great Celadaine. The renowned Drizzt Do’Urden, a hero whom Ilyath viewed with respect and envy, saw him as an equal despite their conflicting ideologies. How then could the Teu-tel-quessir not feel inferior to this Or-tel-quessir less qualified?

When Sehanine Moonbow revived Ilyath from the grave, she told him a witness was needed. A witness who could be trusted to recount the story of a mistake which should have never existed in the first place. And Arylos… this Arylos was that mistake.

)0(

“I can’t believe it,” laughing in a resigned manner, Yasilder Le’Quella could only accept her best friend’s decision, “What makes him so attractive? Even more attractive than my deceased brother?”

“I find it quite unbelievable as well,” Cyrea replied as she took a sip from a glass of fine elven wine, her eyes of sunset red never straying from an unconscious Arylos.

“Quite? Only quite?”

With a sigh, Yasilder took a brief glimpse. Not at the one defying everything her elven pride believed in, but her young son poring over a book. She couldn’t bear to look at the wood elf beyond a few moments, for his life was nothing short of a mockery directed towards the Tel-quessir. Never his people and never his god, such was a defiance snarled forth from a wolf fierce and proud. At the same time, there was something in him which reminds her of a name synonymous with trouble and infamy.

Elaith Craulnober.

“At least Nym isn’t here,” muttered Yasilder as the image of Nymmestra teasing Cyrea over her choice of love goaded her to no end.

)0(

“You have lived this long as a sword. Aren’t you tired at all?”

Before an annoyed Mychelle, Arylos only directed his amber eyes towards her newfound toy. Namely, a moon elf by the name of Ilyath Le’Quella. Cyrea had already told the Kelemvorite ranger of her past, the self-introduction of someone better than him unable to throw the wood elf off his guard. As for Mychelle, the peevish aranea could only fume in silence. Nothing has changed where she herself was concerned. A petite frame with a pale complexion, a look no different from a young human girl of fifteen. Her long curly hair was let down, her ruby red lips painting a seductive portrait.

As for the object of her affection, he has changed. When they first met, it was under Lurue’s orders to protect a young wood elven child of thirteen. In a moment of mischief, Mychelle assumed the guise of a little girl around his age. This was the very same look she was wearing now, for every aranea was born with a unique humanoid form. Years could only do this much before eternal youth. Yet, the very same years have warped an innocent boy who didn’t know how to deal with girls of his age. He never became a monster, but perhaps something else far worse off. Namely, living as a sword belonging to Kelemvor. Who was to blame for this living tragedy? Should it be a harsh hand dealt by fate itself? Or that Koryoan girl whose suicide had forced upon him a mind of steel shortly before Wheloon was sealed off from civilization? Either way, it wasn't Arylos' fault. This much, Mychelle understood.

“Tell me why you brought me here,” questioned Arylos, the tone of an interrogator rising Ilyath’s ire.

“Not physically.”

If Ilyath thought his reply could provoke a reaction out of his rival, he was sorely wrong as Arylos merely stayed his tongue.

“Not saying anything else?”

“If you want victory, then you have it. Either you tell me the truth or I will just go back to where I belong.”

Despite Arylos’ emotionless visage, Ilyath couldn’t help but perceive this statement as both a challenge and daring taunt. The two locked stares against each other. Then in a silent show of reprisal, Arylos got up and walk away. Ilyath contemplated bluffing him but soon abandoned the idea. Unlike himself, the Or-tel-quessir was a schemer no stranger to ploys and stratagem. No matter how hard a warrior tried, he could never win a war like a strategist. There would always be those who perished at the frontline in the name of valor. Then there were a chosen few who survived and conquered in the name of strategy and tactics.

In other words, there was no point saying to the interloper that without directions given, no one could leave the Feywild. Unlike Ilyath himself, Arylos was born with the power of Feywild coursing in his blood. If not for Kelemvor's interference via a longsword given by some doomguide named Orran, it's highly doubtful anyone could rein in Arylos. Or anything for that matter.

)0(

“Time really flies like Illaine’s arrow, huh?”

Before a jesting Lucas Shaneway and his flirting glance, Illaine merely answered with a silent stare. Shrugging like an unrepentant boy caught for bedding a girl, the prodigal son of House Shaneway took a hearty swig from his tankard of ale.

“Lucas, just grow up. Please.”

If Rhaegos thought his words could rein in that philandering genius from the Lords’ Alliance, he was soon proven wrong as Lucas gave a wolf whistle towards that serving girl known as Calestyn. Without a warning, Illaine drew her bow and aimed an arrow at his head. Silence prevailed as only a chortle was heard from Rhaegos, the irony not lost to the dragonborn who once commanded a coalition army against Aerisi Kalinoth and her Cult of Howling Hatred years ago.

“Be careful there, Lucas Shaneway the Third,” cooed Jen Cheldarstorn, the attractive redhead patting him on the head much to his annoyance, “That’s the illegitimate daughter of Lord Protector Dagult Neverember himself.”

“That’s a cumbersome way to address a person of authority, I have to say,” snorted Rhaegos in good humor as the barmaid of Moonstone Mask chuckled at the sight of Lucas preening his spiked auburn hair.

“When will Myrreas be back?”

Calestyn’s question threw the trio off-guard, not even Jen with her tongue of golden wit could gather a proper reply. If the willowy brunette knew the truth, surely she would be crushed by grief. For all his warped sense of humor, the ex-Harper was nevertheless an enjoyable company in times of tavern banter and brawls. Windle was tasked with the mission to keep an eye on that rascal, yet word has returned from her that Myrreas was lost for good, the information confirmed by Bradda from the Sage’s Shop. Always one to play the daring hero, he always jested that the best way for him to die is to do so while trying to save the world. Therefore, how could they tell her the truth? That he acted truly to his words by taking out that living construct named Kabal in the middle of the Spellplague Caverns?

Then a gnawing question came back out of nowhere, a specter haunting them unto no end.

Why did every survivor from the Order of the Many-Starred Cloak insist the Spellplague only took place sixty years ago where in fact it was never the case?

)0(

Ilyath only knew too well what kind of mistake Arylos was. To resurrect a dead person was ever a possibility, but to do so the same for a stillborn child was another challenge altogether. No one has ever attempted such a feat, yet such was a mother’s love for her child. Celadaine was forced into madness and betrayal because he chose love above duty despite a façade of steel. Lysindea, in reply, sacrificed her life for their unborn child in the name of a future. A future called redemption for the fallen, a future for someone who should have been dead. As a result, two children were conceived. Karien was destined for a good life despite her mother legitimately wedded to the Moonless Knight himself. After all, she was of House Le’Quella like Ilyath himself.

As for her brother conceived from another womb, he was doomed to live like a father both would never get to know. With no memories of his mother, Arylos pitted himself against his father. Despised by his sister and wrongfully deprived of a family, it was of utmost irony that the Or-tel-quessir would be the closest thing to that shadow looming over those left behind.

Ilyath knew such a tale has existed before, however. There were times where Sehanine told him snippets of a person’s life. The life of a man who was tamed by Mystra when both were still mortals. Yearning to be somebody, yet that dream was brutally ripped away from his grasp. At last becoming a god, yet the price exacted was too heavy a burden. From Kelemvor Lyonsbane to Kelemvor the god of death, it seemed not even the gods themselves were able to tempt fate according to their whims and desires. Perhaps not even Ao the Overgod himself as well.

They were too alike, both the god and his Chosen. They were like a reflection unto each other, Kelemvor and Arylos. Perhaps this would be the last time he saw the back of a man defined by an eternal trial of steel and fire. Ilyath Le’Quella could never hope to understand Arylos, yet who else was able to apart from Cyrea?

An image then flashed before him, the poet in him suddenly rousing itself from slumber. It was an image of a garden. Not a garden of flowers, grass, and trees. But rather a garden of swords.

)0(

Actually, I finished this piece last night or so. However, I needed to make sure proof-reading is a must. Hence, this short story only upped now. Interestingly, the Princes of the Apocalypse adventure module took place around 1491 DR while Rage of the Demons took place around 1485 DR to 1487 DR. This was despite Elemental Evil being released earlier than Underdark where the Neverwinter game was concerned. In other words, the events in Elemental Evil as the gamers knew it actually took place before 1491 DR. Basically, this may have muddied the waters concerning the timeline for Storm King's Thunder. Was it taken place before, around, or after 1491 DR? What then about The Cloaked Ascendancy and Shroud of Souls storyline?

Instead of seeing them as problematic questions, I prefer trying to make perfect sense out of the seemingly convoluted. That is until divine interference decides to strike again in the near future by my guess.

Okay, I'll need to sleep soon. I won't be around in my cozy little cove called Singapore for the next few days. Once I make my imminent (?) return this Saturday, I'll need to start doing some serious stuff for my beloved Boro. Namely, what should Garry "the Welsh Monk" Monk and his backroom clergy do in order to make my beloved Boro great again. Much to the dismay of entities like Leeds, Sunderland, Alan "Captain Geordie" Shearer, and Joey "why always Barton?" Barton, of course.

Okay, here are a few songs chosen at random by this Singaporean connoisseur.

If you see the dead YouTube man, be sure it's a bluff. The last time I checked, that is.

Yes, I know focusing on the dark side of reality isn't exactly the Asian thing to do as what Park "why always Park?" Shin-hye had implied last time round. Then again, Miura "he's gonna send the fans into berserk mode very soon again" Kentaro is also an Asian like Shin-hye, yours truly, and pretty much one-third of the world population. Not to mention both the right and wrong Emiya below, of course.