Forgotten Realms Story

[Fallen angel]

Just the first chapter of a short(ish) story I'm writing set in Faerun. If this wants moving, don't hesitate (I didn't think it really belonged in the History of the Druchii).

Fallen Angel

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Chapter 1: A Man is Made


The forest was still. Ancient oak trees stood stationery in the still air, the birds in the trees chirping to each other occasionally. Squirrels ran up and down the ancient barks of the mighty trees, while the gentle rustle of the leaves created a soft overture to the mid day sun, the bright rays blocked by the dense green foliage. A solitary deer dipped its head down to sip from a small pool of water, sparkling under the mosaic pattern of the sky. Nature was in its essence. It looked up, head cocked to one side, seemingly listening for a noise, but finding none of worry, returned to drinking.
The only being out of place in the tranquil scene was lying hidden under a low bush. A young boy notched an arrow into his short bow, bracing his arms against the ground to steady his aim. He squinted down the smooth wooden arrow, lining up the shot with where he knew the main blood vessels in the deer’s neck to be. He struggled to steady his breathing, much as Elminster had said, and released the string.
With a high pitched wail, the deer fell to the floor, blood pumping from its neck. The forest suddenly erupted into a frenzy of activity; birds screamed and took wing, squirrels scampered back inside their dreys, and even the wind seemed to momentarily flare up, whipping the leaves into a whirl. The deer lay still, its blood staining the picturesque pool of water a deep red.
The boy’s mud caked face cracked into a smile as he saw his shot hit home. His eyes shone with a sense of achievement. He stood up, brushing the bush away with the back of his hand and admired his work. With a grunt he heaved the heavy corpse over his shoulder and turned back from where he came. Suddenly, an old man slowly picked himself up from the floor of the forest, seeming almost to appear from nowhere.
“That was a good shot, Huinder, but there was one major flaw in your position” he said quietly, with an air of superiority. He drew a long staff from within his cloak, and leant on it for support as he stepped in beside the boy.
“But I killed the deer, didn’t I?” enquired Huinder, his eyes wide and pleading to the aged man.
The man stooped and crouched down to the boy’s level, as to look him in the eye. “Aye that you did. But at some point in the future, your quarry may be more challenging than a simple, sick deer,” he commented, “ By the way, you were upwind of it. If it had been healthy it would have fled before you’d have even seen it” he added as an afterthought. He grasped the boy’s shoulder firmly in his free hand and continued to walk.
“Well, I think it was a good shot,” the boy stated firmly, frowning at the slight reprimand of his companion.
“Yes, I rather suppose it was a good shot. An old fool like myself would have struggled to get down to the floor as lithely as you did, let alone string my bow and shoot a deer (even if it was ill) almost without a sound,” he replied with a twinkle in his eyes, and a trace of a smile etching itself on his lips.
“Told you it was a good shot,” Huinder bragged, playfully punching the old man on his shoulder. He smiled at the old man, wrapping his arm around his waist.
Huinder was tall, for his age; he had only seen ten winters, five spent without his family, living by the law of nature in the forest before he had one day happened upon a strange hermit who called himself Elminster. The man had adopted Huinder as his own son, Huinder enjoying the warmth and protection the man offered. Elminster had taught him how to live in the forest, how to hunt, how to light a fire and how to make shelter. Huinder gave the man a companion, someone to talk to and pass on his knowledge to. They were like father and son.
He had an innocent face, untouched by the ravages of society. His hair hung, matted and twisted, at the base of his neck, a light brown under the layers of dirt had accumulated on his body. His eyes were bright blue, shining out from his dirt encrusted face like beacons. Elminster was almost the complete opposite, his features weary and troubled, but still he often managed to wipe away the years written into his often furrowed brow. His silver hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun, giving him an air of grandeur and wisdom that many dream of, but few ever attain. His clothes were plain and simple, a long grey cloak drawn loosely around his body, almost dirt free by some strange luck of the ancient man.
They talked and joked all the way to Elminster’s humble log hut. It was only one room, with two beds and a spit suspended above a patch of bare ground, used for cooking. A stream ran by the side, circling half the clearing occupied by the hut, overlooked by a large boulder in front of the hut. Huinder cast the corpse of the deer down near the fire, and propped his bow up against the wall next to Elminster’s own sword and bow. As of yet Huinder had not seen his guardian use either of the weapons outside of demonstrating them to him, though he had seen this often enough to be assured of their potency in the old man’s hands. He stepped outside to join the old man, as the Sun slowly set on the horizon.
Elminster was sitting on the rock, legs hanging lazily over the water a few feet below. He smoked on his pipe, blowing smoke rings off into the sunset as Huinder came to sit beside him, also looking into the distance. They could see over the whole of this stretch of the Cormanthor forest from their vantage point, and into Shadowdale beyond.
“I need to talk to you, Huinder.” Elminster said solemnly. He suddenly seemed old against the sunset, his shadow cast long. He looked tired and worn, as opposed to the energetic man Huinder knew. He looked as though he bore all the troubles of Faerun on his shoulders, “What I am about to say, may seem strange, perhaps eccentric, but believe me, it is for the best. I am old, Huinder, and someday soon, I will have to leave you, whether I wish to or not, and I want to make you ready for that time. I want you to be ready for the future, and whatever it may hold for you, Huinder. There are many evils in the world, and although they may not have touched you yet, I can all but assure you they will. Some evils are easy to comprehend and face, such as the simple Orcs and other such beings. Others are more insidious, and often you do not notice them until it is too late to do anything, or they are too powerful for you to daunt them.”
“Like Wyrms?” asked the youth enthusiastically, “I heard of them from the Elves that we met, years ago. One of them showed me a drawing of a mighty Dragon. He looked powerful.”
“Ho, no, no, no. Without doubt Wyrms are powerful, but rarely subtle as the most dangerous of evils are. And it is these evils that you must be alert for, that you must try to stop. Tell me you’ll always try to help, Huinder. Tell me that you’ll never stop fighting, Huinder. Tell me that you’ll try to help. Tell me that you’ll always be there, when the world is counting on you.” Elminster grasped Huinder firmly by the shoulder, his pipe smouldering in his lap.
“Have you put something new in your pipe weed, Elminster?” enquired Huinder, raising his eyebrow playfully at the sincere old man.
“No! No, no, no. I just feel that you may be special, Huinder. Somehow, in a way I cannot say, I think you may shape the world when your time comes,” he pressed. The fear in his voice, unusual for Elminster, conveyed sincerity in a way that compelled Huinder to listen.
“What do you mean? Do I need to fight?” asked Huinder, eyes now wide with bewilderment.
“Not yet, Huinder. Perhaps not ever. If you are lucky, evil may pass you by completely, it is not unknown for me to be wrong in such matters. Indeed, pray that I am wrong, pray indeed. But now it is late; you should sleep,” he muttered. Huinder grudgingly stood up, and with a last look out over the night, slowly walked into the hut and curled up in the top bunk of the bed, knowing it futile to argue with the old man.
Elminster remained seated on the rock, looking bleakly out over the landscape. As he saw the sun slowly sink below the horizon, a ball of light, smaller than a child’s fist, grew in the space next to Elminster’s head. It expanded, until it was roughly the size of a grown man’s head, casting an eerie light green glow over the scene, making it seem almost ghostly. Elminster observed this with a slight smile, smoking on his re kindled pipe. As he watched, an old woman’s face appeared in the globe, distorted by the curvature of the strange apparition.
“Hello, Simbul.” He said with a faint smile, as if greeting an old friend.
“Elminster,” she said curtly, returning the smile, “You know, you shouldn’t have said all that to the boy. Who knows what may happen now.”
“Yes, I know, I know. But what if he needed nudging? There’s no harm in telling him to look out for his own destiny. Common sense in fact.”
“Yes, but no one should be nudged into his destiny. For all we know you may have pushed him too far; he could become some kind of crusader, or, should the worst come to the worst, he may end up dead at the hands of those Orcs you were talking about.”
“Huinder can handle Orcs any day. That’s why I spent five years training him, so when he does meet his evil, he can fight it rather than watch it consume this world.”
“I don’t question your motives, Elminster, just your method. When you requested that you care for the boy, we didn’t stand in you way; you had a free reign, providing you didn’t spoil him.”
“I haven’t spoiled him.” Elminster stated obstinately, removing his pipe from his mouth. The smile had gone from his lips, and he seemed no longer the old man but a powerful bastion of knowledge, “I have cared for him for five years, raised him and taught him how to live. I have not ‘spoiled’ him, I have merely prepared him.”
“I imagine only time will tell, my old friend. I just fear for the future, even if it is in your hands.”
“I know the feeling, Simbul.”
“Goodbye, Elminster. May Mystra bless you.”
“And you.”
Elminster watched as the glowing ball slowly dissipated and vanished, leaving no trace of it ever being there. Without a second glance at the phenomena that occurred, he raised himself to his feet and turned to look at the hut. He smiled warmly as he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, and whispered a final message to Huinder; “Good bye, my young friend. May the Gods protect you.”
Having said this, he picked up his staff and with one final, loving glance at the humble abode, he slowly walked into the night.

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There it is in all its first-chapterish glory. If you like it (or not) please say so, Im especially looking to write more maturely now; I went on a spree of writing short stories in a very childish language and am hoping to escape that.

Fallen Angel

PS. Sorry if its hard to read, it has indents on MS Word....

[King coel]

Very nice, wish i could write like that...

[Indraugnir]

Looks very good to me. Keep it up.

[Fallen angel]

Thanks, I guess that means I've transcended my more immature writings.... Here's Chapter 2. Thanks for reading!

Fallen Angel

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Chapter 2: Into the Dalelands

*** Twelve years later ***

The sun slowly rose over the Thunder peaks and touched the edges of the small hamlet of Peldan’s Helm. The village lay in a small pocket of clear land, almost totally surrounded except for a small Eastern pass by the Cormanthor forest. It formed the first bastion against such threats that reside in the Beast Country to the West for Mistledale, a small but prosperous region of the Dalelands. Many men from lands afar such as Cormyr or Shadowdale used the town as a staging point for grand hunts, in order to bring home some such trophy as a giant’s head or other such item.
In the farms surrounding the remote settlement cockerels crowed and the beasts of burden slowly came to life as the rays of the sun touched them. Farmers led their carts, laden with produce from the harvest, into the market, the wooden wheels clattering down the cobbled streets that ran between the wood and brick houses. Within the houses, families slowly began to rise. Innkeepers chalked advertisements on their boards while regular townsfolk began to clear the marketplace in the centre of the village for the arriving farmers. The priest in the Church of the Triad arose from his modest bed chamber and began to prepare for the worshippers later in the day, alone save one penitent man in front of the altar.
The Church was in the shape of a tapered rectangle, with the rectory attached to one side. It was built of ancient stone and wood, and bore the comforting musk of old Cormanthor wood, being one of the first buildings erected when the village was founded, with an arched roof, similar in style to the grand temples in Waterdeep, Cormyr and other such lands of great power, but not in size; the Church was only large enough to seat forty men comfortably, sixty five if necessary, in the large pews leading to the triangular altar housed in the very end of the building, each corner bearing a depiction of one of the Gods of the Triad; Tyr, Torm and Ilmater, the Gods most commonly associated with justice, loyalty and kindness. All was silent inside the temple, save the sounds of the man muttering his prayer, and the occasional footsteps of the priest echoing in the recesses of the house of the Gods.
The man in front of the altar raised himself, and before turning to leave kissed each of the Deities on the forehead. The priest, placing hymn books in place before every pew, smiled to see that at least some of the populace still held respect for the Gods, even if it was just this one man. He knew this one man well, in fact. His name was Gindal, the son of the blacksmith and a farmer’s daughter, and one of the best men known to the village for a long time. He could frequently be seen either in the smithy, helping his father cast horseshoes, arrowheads and other items in demand in the remote Dalelands, in the forest honing his formidable archery skills or in the temple, offering his praise to the Triad every morning at sunrise. Today was no exception, and Gindal gave the priest a friendly smile as he offered to help lay the books for the service later that day.
Everywhere in the village glowed with life, except for one small house towards the forest, slightly out of the way and secluded. The garden was large and overgrown, long grass lining a muddy path leading to the front door, surrounded by creeping ivy. Crumbling stonework formed the outside of the small building, rotting wooden beams adding support to the poor masonry. Within the house, a lone young woman slept, half on a small bed surrounded by crumpled manuscript. A burnt out candle rested on a small table beside the bed, faded curtains blocking the early morning Sun. As a cockerel crowed nearby, the figure suddenly burst into life, with a startled cry. She immediately stood up, and flung the curtains back on their precarious rails. She cursed as the sunlight struck her face, rushing out of the room, pushing her shoulder length hair out of her face as she did, revealing a dirty face with crystal blue eyes. She stubbed her toe as she rushed into a small corridor outside her bed chamber.
“Hack!” she swore, biting her lip to stop herself crying out in pain. She rushed down a narrow flight of stairs with peeling wallpaper, and into an untidy kitchen. Crockery lay discarded surrounding a small basin, in which days old food floated in slimy water. She pulled a makeshift plug out of the crude basin, the water slowly draining away. As she watched, an old piece of something stuck in the plughole.
“Hakh!” she tentatively plunged her finger in to scoop the residue out of the hole, wiping it off on a small table, also buried under piles of parchment, mostly covered in intricate script. She ran outside, picking a bucket up and pushing frantically down on the pump outside her front gate, dressed in the same clothes she slept in – and lived - in for the past few days.
“Hakh!” she cursed as a measly few drops of water dripped out of the rusty pump, lined with moss. A cart drove past, flinging dust in the air, making her normally pretty features even dirtier. She swore animatedly at the driver, who gestured back with the same vigour, causing her to shout back even more obscenities and kick the ground furiously, ramming her foot into a particularly sharp stone on the gravel and mud track.
“Hakh!”

* * *

Almost the entire village was slowly migrating towards the centre of the town, for the market. The small marketplace bustled with life, with interested patrons yelling to be heard over other bidders. Farmers shouted back to the masses, money exchanging hands at almost every stall. A pickpocket lurked in the stinking masses, slitting purses at every opportunity. Wildfowl ran amok as a farmer’s pen broke open, a large cow ambling through the crowd, scattering the serfs as it wandered around the centre.
Only a few people were not making their way towards the market, one of whom clutched several rolls of parchment to her chest. Her face was covered in dust and grease, and her clothes were creased and dirty. She strode out, through the streets, towards a small building near the outskirts of the village. It was relatively new, with whitewashed walls and black wood supports on the outside. On the low doorframe swung the sign; ‘Dreer and Son; Scribes’.
As she stepped through the door, she was greeted by a dingy smell of rotting wood mixed with old pipe weed. She involuntarily scrunched her nose in disgust.
“You’re late again, Mira,” snapped an aged man with a sneer from behind a desk piled high with parchment. A brace of candles shed flickering light over his wrinkled features. His face seemed as dull grey leather, drooping off his cheekbones, making him appear almost as a bloodhound. His eyes were small and cruel, topped by thin, black eyebrows, contrasting with his thin, pale, white hair, sparsely combed over his mottled scalp. A large scar ran down the entire of his left cheek, from his lip to his ear, making him seem almost to be grinning in the most evil and sadistic fashion.
“Sorry, Mr. Dreer,” she quickly replied, shouting over the pile of parchment on his desk, “It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what you said last time. And the time before that. And, if memory serves, the time before that!” he growled back. Mira ground her teeth as she prepared for another of his lectures. “You don’t seem to understand, Mira. I try to run an organized and reputable scribe’s office, where people can come to have signs penned or letters written for them. I pride myself on running it efficiently and quickly, without irregularities. You, however, seem intent upon ruining that notion; almost every day you arrive late, sometimes by more than an hour! If there were but another literate person in the village I would dismiss you here and now. As it is you are very lucky that your skills are so highly in demand…very lucky indeed.” As the words slipped over his tongue he wrung his hands and screwed up his eyes in a vain attempt to look menacing. Mira struggled to stifle a chuckle; he had already lectured her three times this week and she had no doubt that as soon as he found someone else literate he would make good on his threat. The fact didn’t worry Mira; she doubted there were many more literate people in the whole of Mistldale, let alone Peldan’s Helm. She grudgingly grasped the quill in her hand and began to translate the shorthand letter she had taken down from a merchant to his daughter in Ashabenford. It was mundane in the extreme; he dwelled at length on how he had made much money in a transaction with a farmer called Genron, and then went on to outline his stay in the only inn in the village; the Lion’s Mane. Mira stifled a yawn as she continued to read through the shorthand, when a passage caught her attention. She pulled the single candle shedding light on her desk closer to the parchment to make more sense of the frantically scrawled shorthand:

“I was returning to the Lion’s Mane but only last night when an incredible phenomenon occurred in my presence. It was dark, the only light being shed by the moon from the bleak, cloudy night sky. The shadows were long, and as I hurried through the streets, having stayed out later than I would normally presume to do so, I spied a light emanating from outside the village, unnatural in colour and intensity; it hurt the eyes to look directly at it. As I watched, it grew in both size and brightness, until it seemed as if the entire village was bathed in it’s glow. Then, suddenly, it vanished, leaving no trace that I could see. I vowed to inspect the site of incidence the next morning.

“As I awoke the following morning, I nearly forgot the events of the previous night, so late had I been to retire. However, after breakfast, I remembered my wish to view the hill outside the village, and set off as soon as I had finished eating the delicious bacon and sausages. It was a hard trek up the deceptively steep hill, but within roughly an hour of leaving the Lion’s Mane I had reached where I supposed the light to have shone from.

“I was greeted by a smell of burnt grass and scorched earth, and surely enough I spied a shape scorched into the grass; a five pointed star, with long legs; about three feet long each, creating an impressive pattern. The entire design was encased within a circle. I remember standing within the circle and feeling charged, as if by some mystical energy. It was quite surreal in feeling, and I recall being chilled to the bone by the unnatural experience. I could not spend much more than a minute within that circle without feeling nauseous, and I left the place immediately. Today I intend to inform the authorities of the obvious sorcery that has taken place in the village, as I doubt such actions could be anything but dangerous for all those involved.”

Mira was taken aback by the passage; she had never seen any use of magic before, and used to doubt it’s very existence despite what many had said. But here was an account, telling of what appeared to the remains of some powerful ritual. She made a mental note to herself; she would have to go and see this for herself, after she left the scribes this evening. She shunted this to the back of her mind and grudgingly began to write out the otherwise boring letter in Chondathan.

* * *

Mira gratefully gulped the clean air down as soon as she left the sooty scribe’s office; it was her lunch hour, and she intended to make the most of it to talk to the market goers. The single major road the village was built on was jammed full of hustling people and crawling carts, slowed to less than walking pace by the pedestrians. The mid day Sun beat down on the dry cobbles as the unmistakable smell of civilization assaulted Mira’s nose. She stepped out into the street, and turned out, towards the market when she recognized a face in the crowd, struggling against the crowd towards the edge of the town.
“Deowain!” she cried out, waving her hand in the air, dropping several rolls of parchment in the process. Disregarding the dropped parchment, she pushed her way through the crowd towards a tall man with long, unkempt hair. She grasped him by the shoulder, almost pulling him over in his surprise.
“Deowain! Where are you going? I’d have thought the market was in town centre, as is normal…?” she asked, smiling broadly.
“Good morning to you too, Mira,” he replied, returning the smile. He was tall, much taller than Mira who had a rather slight frame, and broad shouldered. A bow was cast over his shoulder, a sheathed sword at his hip, and he was clad in what appeared to be tough leather. “I was to meet Gindal outside town today, for a small fayre. I was told there would be an archery contest, and I fancied my chances.”
“Ah, yes. I think that a fayre should be more enjoyable than anything I could do in a lunch hour. Anything away from the scribe’s! Do you suppose Gindal would mind if I joined you?” Mira asked, hopefully.
“I doubt Gindal would mind if the entire village followed me there.” He replied with a small smile, “Please, walk with me.”
Mira fell into step beside him, tucking the parchment under one arm as she walked. “You look ready for a small war, Deowain.” She inquired, “Surely the archery competition is not quite that dangerous?”
Deowain chuckled as he replied, “Ho, no Mira. There is talk of some strange beast in the forests, a beast in the shape of a man that kills with a word and instills terror with a glance. In fact, a battle with such a beast could well be a small war…”
“What, a real monster, in the Cormanthor forest? I suppose it is not unheard of…”
“I would not say a monster as much perhaps as a very powerful wizard, the likes of which I doubt has been seen since in the Dalelands before. And who knows of the lands beyond?” he intoned, his voice trailing off into thought.
Mira’s mind was racing; this talk of wizardry reminded her of the chilling words of the merchant she had scribed that very same day;

“Obvious sorcery that has taken place in the village… I doubt such actions could be anything but dangerous for all those involved.”

She considered confiding with Deowain about the letter, but thought better of it; this creature Deowain spoke of sounded so much more like a beast than someone carving strange pentagrams into the hillside near the village. Anyway it was unlikely that the information would help in any way.
“What are you planning to do about this beast then, Deowain?” she asked, for a sword and bow seemed unlikely weapons to use against such devilry.
“Shoot it, if the chance presents itself. If not, run it through with my blade. But probably not today, I only bring my sword in case it makes itself known at the fayre – which I doubt it will, for fear of it’s own hide.”
“You feel confident enough that you might kill it?”
“More than merely confident. Even great heroes and villains of ancient times, and of the present day, must stop with an arrow through their heart.”
“Yes, but it was the skill of the heroes, and villains, to stop that arrow from getting there.”
At this point the buildings on either side suddenly thinned out, and they took the opportunity to move away from the crowded street. The grass was long and green, waving against their legs in a cool afternoon breeze. They strode up the hill, parallel to the road, out of the small basin that the village was based in; it was surrounded, on the South, West and North by the reaches of the Cormanthor forest and on the final, Easterly side, by a series of small hills, over which a single road out of the town leads. As they crested the top of the first hill, they were greeted by a collection of tents, spread around a basin between four hills. Central to the fayre, occupying the only flat piece of land, was a roped off section, in the shape of a long rectangle. Many men stood around the rectangle, stringing bows and sighting along them, testing their balance. Surrounding the archery range were tents of all shapes and sizes, housing men and women selling ale, food and other produce that remained unsold after the market. Rolling up onto the foothills were smaller stalls, offering their services as bowyers, craftsmen and such. Already people were beginning to arrive from the main road and try their luck at such attractions as the apple bobbing or hanning, a local sport where contestants test their strength and coordination by seeing how many potatoes can they can throw at painted targets, accurately and strongly enough to rupture the poor vegetables.
Deowain looked over the fayre, smiling and waving as his eyes chanced upon a face well known to him; “Gindal! Gindal!” He began to walk down into the fayre, followed closely by Mira. A man sat on the ground looked up at them; he was stringing his bow tightly, but set his work aside to greet Mira and Deowain. He was tall, but not as tall as Deowain, and a lighter build. He wore his hair much shorter, hanging free about his ears. His features were rough and chiselled, with a day of stubble set into his chin. His eyes seemed to gleam with energy, as if he were a well of untapped power.
“Deowain! Mira! It’s good to see you. I trust you’re ready for the archery, Deowain?” greeted Gindal with a smile.
“Yes, more than ready! I feel strangely confident today. I think you may have finally met your match!”
“It may surprise you to know, Deowain, that I am in fact not the best archer in the town, by a long way,” he grasped Deowain’s shoulder firmly, “You have more than enough talent to beat me.” Deowain smiled at the praise; somehow, Gindal always knew the best words to choose.
“That would be why you’ve won the last four contests in a row, Gindal?” replied Deowain with a slight smirk. As good friends as they may be, proving him wrong was always fun.
“Ah, that’s as I practice, regularly. And I join trips into the forest to purge Goblins and other such pests. You have the same skills, you just don’t develop them as I do. But know this – you are anything but a poor archer!”
“Gindal’s right, Deowain, you’re hardly a poor shot. I can hardly handle a bow, let alone hit a target at a hundred paces!” chirped Mira, smiling broadly.
“Come, Deowain, The targets are standing, let me show you your true skill with a bow!” grinned Gindal. They walked off towards the targets to fit in a last half hour of practice before the competition.
Mira wandered around the fayre for a short time, before returning to the village, lest she be late again, and suffer another grilling from the hawk like Mr. Dreer. She sighed inwardly at the thought of returning to the dingy scribe’s office. She remembered fondly her youth in the realm of Amn, in the sprawling port city of Athkatla. She thought back to the boy she met there, only a servant boy when she met him, who had swept her off into a life of excitement, danger and, ultimately, exile. Her eyes welled up with tears when she thought of the evening he had been torn from her, many years ago, fighting for the people in this strange land she now called home. Wiping the warm tears from her eyes, she turned back, away from the scribe’s office. She headed instead to the Church, grasping the gem he had given her all those years ago close to her breast. She slowly walked across the path up the low hill in the centre of the village, on which the Church of the Triad stood. Walking through the ever-open gate, she trampled towards the far end of the graveyard, and knelt before a lone, secluded grave. She laid her parchment on the muddy ground, and after kissing the tip of the stone slab, rested her chin on her chest in prayer.

“Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead,
Spare the immortal soul of Damen,
My love on Toril,
And ease his passing through your sombre gates,
Into the Land of the Blissful Dead.

“Tyr, Torm and Ilmater,
Masters of the Triad, Keepers of the Peace,
Bless my home and soul,
And help to protect me
From the evils of the world.
I thank the Triad,
My immortal Lords”

She knelt before the grave for many hours, as the clouds blew past and the Sun sank towards the horizon. Mourners came and went, and when the shadows were long, and the day was old, Mira stemmed her tears, and slowly, painfully, rose to her feet. She ambled down the streets of Peldan’s Helm, alone and despondent.


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[Indraugnir]

Hi. Just saying I'm still supporting this story. I don't know about anyone else, but I like to see something unique that isn't about Druchii killing people

[Mornar shethurith]

Hi. Just saying I'm still supporting this story. I don't know about anyone else, but I like to see something unique that isn't about Druchii killing people

Well, it is a Druchii website. But I like this story a lot too, except I have one criticism. If Huinder is only ten years old, how on earth did he put the deer's corpse over his shoulders? Body builders would have trouble doing that, not only because of the weight of the deer, but also because of its inconvienient shape. Much less carry it any signifigant distance. I guess I'm being pretty hard on the details...

[Indraugnir]

I also noticed that, but I just passed it off as something that wasn't supposed to be normal (the Warhammer world isn't exactly normal). By the way, I really like all of the little details you put in your story (I think I'm still in that stage of immature story-writing you were talking about).

[Fallen angel]

Thanks for all the support! This chapter sees things beggining a bit more, but I'm beggining to use up my ideas for where it should go. That and I'm in the middle of my Art GCSE . As for the deer, thats something that I didn't take into account, though Huinder is very special....

Fallen Angel

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Chapter 3: Bumps in the Night

Deep into the night, the village of Peldan’s Helm lay sleeping. Almost nothing moved, not even the farm animals or the land workers. Only a single man stood on guard in the tower to the South, overlooking the road, to warn against the many evils that frequented the hamlet. The man was Deowain, sitting in the tower, lonesome and cold. The bitter wind cut through his thin leather jacket, the pale moon giving almost no light to the rolling grassland, shrouded in a low, cold fog. His torch flickered in the wind, shedding little more illumination than the moon. Deowain wrapped his cloak around him, and, lighting his pipe, settled down for a long night.

* * *

Mira lay in bed, awake but resting. The hour was late, and everyone else in the village was asleep. Her eyes were slightly open, and she breathed lightly, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. She had not bothered to change her dirty clothes, and her fingers were still encrusted with dark ink from the day’s scribing. No light crept in through her open window, only a faint breeze, ruffling her hair. With a visible effort, she silently raised herself to her feet, and reached under her bed for a small belt adorned with various tools and utilities, and a dark cloth mask. She wrapped the mask around her face, leaving only her eyes visible, and strapped the belt around her midsection. She grasped the window frame with both hands, and silently levered herself out of the window, and dropped onto the soft ground below, almost cat like in her stealth and grace. She set off on a light jog, towards the centre of town, her feet making almost no sound against the light rustle of leaves on leaves by the wind.
She stopped behind a bush, growing next to a fence around a small house. It was made in the same style as most houses in these lands, stone with thatched roofs, similar to Mira’s house in many ways. The small plot of land in front of the house was occupied with various types of vegetables, growing in churned up soil. A few wooden planks led up to the door, through which no light was showing. The entire house seemed dead, with no movement, sound or light coming from it at all, much like the rest of the village. Mira tried to swallow the growing nervousness in the back of her throat, and crept out from behind the bush towards the side of the house in silence, keeping low to the ground as if trying to evade prying eyes.
Standing up against the wall of the house, she removed a length of rope from her belt, attached to the end of which was a rubber tipped hook. She flung the hook up towards an open window on the first floor, where it snagged on something inside with a dull clang. Mira froze at the sound, shutting her eyes and waiting for someone to investigate. Heartbeats passed, and no one came to the window or shouted. Tugging on the rope, making sure it was safe, she braced herself against the wall with her feet. She hoisted herself up the side of the house, pulling on the rope and painfully climbing up the harsh stone wall. Slowly, she pushed open the window, and slowly manoeuvred herself inside the house, leaving the window open behind her.
She took a small twig from her belt, and scraped it against the stone wall outside. Tindertwigs the alchemist had called them, and Mira didn’t know by what sorcery they worked, but a dull orange flame burst into life around the head of the small stick, burning slowly. She waved the tindertwig in front of her, illuminating the small room she was in. It was some kind of closet, housing clothes, wood, and weapons – an axe, a rusty sword and a quiver of arrows all lay under various types of clothing. She eased the door open, carefully, taking care not to make it creak and alert someone to her presence. She stepped out into the first floor corridor, and crept silently towards the stairs. She knew this house, and knew exactly where to look for the valuable items inside – a chest under a table held a small amount of gold, and under a false base was an ornate, finely crafted blade, carried from far away Kara Tur by an Eastern merchant, that had found its way into the hands of a Dalelander many generations ago. It had been passed down, from father to son, until it reached its current owner – Deowain. As Mira crept down the battered wooden stairs, she gained in confidence now she was sure nobody was in the house – the only regular occupant was on sentry duty for the town, and would not return until the morning.
She pulled the chest out from under a table set in a meagre kitchen, and sat cross legged in front of it. Taking a short length of wire from her belt, she set about attempting to open the lock, Teasing the pegs within the lock, using her experience as her only guide, the lock sprang open with a satisfying dull ‘click’, and fell to the floor. Mira lifted the lid of the chest, and peered inside.
There was less gold than she expected, and nothing else of value. Certainly there was not enough to sanctify robbing a good friend like she was doing here. Deowain had never done anything to hurt her, yet now she was leeching off his living, akin to the filthy parasites and vile insects that were found under the rocks and fallen wood in the forest. Despite herself, she scooped what little gold there was into a pouch, and levered open the false base to retrieve the sword.
Mira had always admired this blade. She was not a great lover of weapons, and could not use most of them, other than the simplest of crossbows, but this sword had always taken her fancy. It had a golden hilt, fashioned into a great wyrm’s head, with precious stones set into the eyes, nose and teeth. The short blade was set into the hilt without a hand guard, and was perfectly smooth, reflecting the dull light from Mira’s tindertwig in an eerie blue, as if it was glowing with some inner energy. It was as light as a feather, despite the size and way it looked, and was finely balanced, to the point where Mira could even hold it on one finger without it even wavering. It was truly a work of art, and Mira slid it into her belt, along with the lovingly carved wooden hilt. Having taken everything that could possibly be of value, she replaced the false bottom to the chest, locked it and crept out through the window, retrieving her rope as she did so. She padded quietly back to her own home, and the night went on, as if nothing had ever occurred, concealing Mira’s tracks like the sea erodes the sand.

* * *

The forest was just as quiet as the village seemed – more so. None of the usual creatures were moving, and the wind seemed to almost be cut off amongst the dense, dark trees. A tall figure stood towards the edge of the tree line, casting its gaze over the remote village in front of it. It could almost be mistaken for an Orc, save for the lack of fangs or hair. It was muscularly built – broad shoulders, large biceps and a thick neck. Its head was completely hairless, lacking even eyebrows, though its brow was heavily set, with small, squinting eyes. Its nose was pushed upwards, almost as if it was that of a hog’s nose, and its mouth was lined with razor sharp teeth. A lithe, almost reptilian tongue tasted the air sequentially with a low hiss, and a design was etched into its back, as if by fire; a five pointed star, encased in a circle, covering from the shoulders to the small of the back. It took a deep breath of air, testing the smells and tastes, before setting off on a silent sprint, staying just beyond the tree line, travelling at a speed much greater than most humanoids. The forest flew past it, as its feet expertly found their way on the frozen ground, not cracking even a twig. The moon highlighted its pale skin, reflecting off the low mist that enveloped the base of the forest, making it seem almost ghostly in its flight as it sped around the edge of the village. Only a single light attracted attention, shining out from a high point, the other side of the village. The creature began to circumnavigate the village, heading towards the unsuspecting sentry.
Unbeknownst even to its keen senses, a masked figure garbed in black stepped out of the shadows, and sprinted after the creature, stealthily picking his way through the forest as if it was his own home.

* * *

Deowain blew into his hands to keep them warm. All was still quiet in the tower, and the village seemed peaceful. Even the owls seemed to be asleep this night. He could just see the spire of the Church, black on black, in the harsh night sky. Clouds lazily crept in front of the moon, obscuring even the Church from his keen eyes. It seemed almost wrong to breath in such deadly silence, such was the solitude of the night.
Suddenly, a crack rung out through the crisp night air, as clear as the fall of a tree. Deowain immediately grabbed his bow and notched an arrow into it. Squinting his eyes, he scanned from side to side. All he could see was the deathly pale glow of the moon on the mist, obscuring his view of the ground and making the world appear to be in black and white. He frantically swept his bow from side to side, catching his breath in short, hurried gasps. Another crack winged its way through the air, this time from the other side of the tower. Deowain swung his bow round, his aim shaking under the nervousness. He croaked out a greeting to the night, his bow seeming utterly futile;
“Hello? Who goes there? Declare yourself!”
The night was silent in its reply.
“I warn you, I do not go unarmed!”
The darkness seemed to close in around him, as his torch sputtered and nearly went out from a gust of wind, blowing his hair into a frenzy.
“Hello…?”
Deowain stood silent in the tower, scanning the ground before him for several heartbeats before he heard coarse breathing, coming from the base of the tower. He jumped, and trained his bow on the trapdoor entrance to the tower. He placed the wooden lock over it, clamping the door down. He heard something scraping on the metal rungs running up the side of the tower. His heart leapt into his throat, his pulse resounding through his body.
The trapdoor jiggled on its hinges with a deep thump, the wood splintering slightly around them. Deowain hurried over to the door, and, aiming straight down through the door, released his arrow. It pierced the wood, and the trapdoor ceased to move. Deowain notched another arrow, and retrieved the one that had become lodged in the door. The head was clean of blood.
With a crash, the door exploded upwards, shattering into small fragments. Deowain fired off his shot in surprise, dropping his bow. He knelt down, fear written into his face, and fumbled for his sword. His clammy hands closed around the hilt, and he raised it into the parry position, the sword wavering in his nervous grasp. A low grunt emanated from the space where the trapdoor used to be, and Deowain stepped closer to the opening. Suddenly, a massive shape flew through the trapdoor, and landed on the floor in front of him. It was huge, at least eight feet tall, and was stocked with muscle over its entire hideous visage. Its hands and toes where clawed with short, stubby talons, but emanating from its wrists were two blades, a foot long and half that wide, jaggedly serrated and construed from bone or other such substance. Deowain swung his heavy blade at the creature’s neck with a cry, but the beast almost lazily raised one of its wrist-blades to block the blow. His sword crashed into the blade and merely bounced off, with no visible damage to the gleaming appendage. The beast then lunged with its other wrist, skewering Deowain’s throat through. He dribbled a crimson stream of blood, as he vainly tried to call for help. He let his sword fall to the floor, as his body went limp and he breathed his last. He slumped to the ground, in an expanding pool of his own blood.
The beast leant low over Deowain, the blades on its wrists slowly pulling back beneath the skin, and, with a suppleness belying its strength removed his outer clothes – cloak, coat and loose trousers, donning them hurriedly before leaping over the rim of the tower, landing on the ground below almost noiselessly. It drew itself up to its full, impressive height, and breathed deeply through its pug nose. Its harsh features seemed to soften slightly, the claws on its toes and fingers dulling, its chin retracting, its nose protruding more. Short hairs sprouted on its head, and it seemed to shrink and become slightly less monstrous. It ran off, through the long grass and small hills towards the forest in the East, its feet falling softly with barely a sound. The black garbed figure followed at distance, bent low so to stay concealed amongst the mist, until the beast broke into a tremendous sprint and escaped the pursuit of its mysterious follower, running off into the South and into the darkness.

--------------------

Enjoy.

[Mornar shethurith]

Mysterious things afoot.

[Fallen angel]

Finished this chapter today. Feel free to add criticisms, I'm not so sure on the quality of this chapter. Also, work on this might progress at a slightly slower rate now that I have to really start revising for GCSEs.....

Fallen Angel

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Chapter 4: On the Trail of a Killer

Gindal stood in front of Deowain’s house, waiting for a response. The morning was still young, the Sun’s warm orange glow peacefully creeping over the still sleeping village. Gindal glanced at the Sun appearing over the vast forest of Cormanthor that surrounded the village, and the tall Church spire that seemed to pierce the dawn, casting a long shadow that came to rest at Gindal’s feet. With a final knock on the door, he gave up on Deowain responding and trudged off towards his position in the village’s single watch tower, the glow of the early morning coupled with the slow, warm breeze creating a lazy, amiable atmosphere.

* * *

The watch tower was a simple construction, built more to satisfy paranoid villagers than to ward off intruders. It stood only fifteen feet high, and stood on four wooden legs that seemed almost as if they were to give way should a particularly strong wind feel that way. The body of the tower was essentially a small box, with an open roof that was cursed openly in the winter months by the freezing watchmen. A large torch stood in the middle of the box, a signal to the rest of the village if trouble was spotted. As of yet, it had never been used. The whole tower stood in the shade of the great Cormanthor forest, dark and brooding, the ancient oaks dwarfing the structure. This morning the scene seemed particularly subdued, as if the trees were mourning, or even afraid. The rays of the Sun had not yet touched the tips of these trees when Gindal emerged on the winding trail that led to the tower.
He cursed under his breath at himself; of course Deowain would not be at home, he had the late night shift the previous night, and was most likely sleeping in the tower, waiting for his replacement – Gindal. He called Deowain’s name as he came to the clearing where the tower sat, and from the base of the tower. He mounted the ladder, shouting Deowain once more when he noticed the trapdoor into the tower was shattered into small, jagged fragments littering the floor. He called up more tentatively; “Deowain?” before ascending the ladder.
As Gindal crested the ladder, he cried out at the sight before him. Deowain’s ravaged body lay before him, vaguely recognisable as a corpse. A lone raven cawed softly, perched on the edge of the battlements, ruffling it’s feathers as Gindal paled at the sight before him.

* * *

In a village as tightly knit as Peldan’s Helm, there is nothing to quite excite the locals as bad news. Within hours every soul in the village knew of the attack, and just about every soul had formulated theories as to what could have done the monstrous deed. Many suspected sorcery, fearing the vast power that the secluded mages could wield. Others suspected a capricious dragon, which would soon sweep down and take all the maidens from the village. Yet more suspected murderous trolls or ogres come to ravage the village. More still suspected the Cormanthor Elves, and called for a massive cull of the fragile Elven culture deep in the forest. Mira was one of the last to find out, sleeping in late after her exploits the previous evening. She walked all the way into town and spent the morning in the gloomy scribes before she heard from a drunkard about an attack on the outskirts of the village. Drawn by curiosity of the macabre, she left the scribers as soon as she hastily copied a local’s account of how he had fared in the archery contest (poorly), and headed for the edge of town.
There was still a small throng of people crowding around the tower as Mira arrived. Spotting Gindal sitting against one of the logs holding the tower aloft, she fought her way through the crowd to speak with him.
“What happened, Gindal?” she asked, curiosity clouding her vision and obscuring Gindal’s pained expression.
“There was…it was horrible…I mean, it is horrible…by Tyr, Mira,” and words failed him as he fell into Mira’s arms, sobbing into her shoulder.
Leaving Gindal to himself on the grassy bank by the tower, Mira pushed through the now thinning crowd to see the disturbance. On the ground before the tower lay a shroud, embroidered with the holy symbols of the Triad, the aged priest of the Triad, Samuel, laying a wreath of intertwined blacktree branches over the covered cadaver and mumbling the rites of the dead under his breath. A trio of ravens perched on the tower above, watching solemnly.
“Who was it,” asked Mira, leaning over to a townsfolk watching the grave scene.
“Oh, just a local boy, shame really, he came so close in the archery yesterday…Dowaian his name was, such a pity. Dragons they said it was. Really, dragons around these parts? I’ve half a mind to send my sons off to Ashabenford, then there’s the folk who reckon it was Elves. Never cared much for Elves, leeching off our fine town…” the woman’s voice seemed o drift into nothingness as Mira registered the words. Deowain, one of her best friends, was dead – and now, of all times. Immediately she thought of the blade lying on her bed at home. The Sun broke out from behind the dark, brooding clouds to reveal the more grisly details. Dried blood seeped through the fine cloth, and Mira noticed the grisly, blood flecked hand breaking out from underneath the shroud as if reaching out to her, for help – or to condemn her for her treachery.
Mira instantly felt a wave of nausea break over her as the full extent of her actions took hold of her. When Deowain most needed her, she had not been at his side. She had been taking advantage of his absence; she had robbed him of his most treasured possession, his memory of his family. Even though she had no way of knowing the danger he was in – or saving him – she resented herself, and the petty being she had become.
Gindal walked over to, setting aside his own remorse for the loss of his closest friend. It ate at him like a whole inside, but he reminded himself that others, beyond him, were feeling grief and sorrow. He sat next to her, tentatively placing a comforting hand on her back.
“I’m sorry, Mira,” he whispered softly, tears still welling up inside him. Her own tear streaked face turned towards him, then jerked back upon making eye contact.
“What’s the use, Gindal?” Mira sobbed, “I try to help, I try, but then I can’t, and then I betray them, and then they die…everyone, Gindal, all of them.”
“We all feel that way, Mira. But there was nothing we could do.”
Mira simply sobbed into her arms, not bearing to face Gindal, Deowain’s closest friend. She wondered what he would do if he discover Deowain’s knife in her house. Perhaps killing her with it would be a mercy, she considered.
Gindal stood up slowly, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and went to stand by Samuel who was completing the ritual to speed Deowain to Kelemvor, and then onto the realm of the Triad where his spirit would be at peace, having fulfilled itself in this world.
“Why, Samuel? Why should Deowain die?” asked Gindal suddenly, throwing the old man.
“’Tis not for us to know, my son,” he replied slowly, “But rest assured that Deowain’s spirit is already in the presence of the Triad.”
“But I want to know! I won’t accept that he was fated to die that day. If I wanted to, I could have saved him.”
“It may seem the easiest thing to do, Gindal, but blaming yourself won’t help.”
“I don’t blame myself; I blame the foulness that took Deowain.”
“Leave it be, Gindal. Whatever has happened is gone, it makes no sense to go wasting yourself on some ill begotten journey, through body or mind…a quest, of sorts.”
Gindal stood silently next to the priest, deep in thought. “How do you mean, a quest?” he asked quietly
The priest looked up, taken aback by Gindal’s sudden question, “I do not mean anything, forgive me for laying such an idea in your mind.”
“Please, father, the talking helps.”
The priest sighed inwardly at the young boy’s questioning. Why couldn’t people just accept life – and death – as it happened? He was an old man, ill suited to having the burdens of the village placed upon him. Still, his faith in the Triad would keep him strong. “A quest of redemption is just a saying, really. An abstract idea, for when someone feels harrowed by the troubles – and not just anyone, mind. Normally it is particularly unhinged individuals, or people with nothing to do but fight, who go on such a quest…”
“Why?” interrupted Gindal, completely drawn in by the priest’s idea.
“Because that is what it is. Fighting. Going out, and slaying whatever you think has caused you grief, as an animalistic way of ridding oneself of the pain – by transposing it to others. Like I said, a very barbaric idea, not something I would condone at all. Best to mourn as others do, and overcome the pain on a spiritual level.”
Gindal again stood silently, lost in his thoughts of valiant quests, slaying evil dragons and forging legends. He wondered if perhaps this was his calling; to avenge Deowain’s death, and to root out evil, and to end it. He could go where he wished, perhaps all the way to the Swordcoast to the West and then all the way back to Thay in the West. He had never heard of anyone from Thay, nor anyone travelling to Thay; he pictured it as a land of eternal fire, massive demons soaring on their vast pinions in the scorched sky, scorched by the might of the Red Wizards.
He knew in his heart this was not the life for him, however. The thought of demons soaring in a scorched sky did not fill him with valour, he felt ill with fear and dread. If he departed now he would not get past Ashabenford before homesickness struck him and he returned home. He turned to Mira to console her, Deowain’s death seemed to have touched her deeply, yet she had vanished. With a sigh, Gindal left the tower and began the walk back t his home.
* * *

Mira sat still on the ground, head in her arms. She had cried all the tears she had 2 cry, and she wished as though she could cry those tears a thousand times over. Father Samuel was speaking to Gindal, trying to comfort the young man. Mira admired Gindal in so many ways; he was such a straightforward person and so trusting. It was hard to imagine disliking him. Besides all this, he was so similar to Damen, she often found herself compelled just to reach out for Gindal and…
“Well, it’s just a saying, really. An abstract idea, for when someone feels harrowed by their troubles – but not just anyone, mind. Normally it is particularly unhinged individuals, or people with nothing to do but fight, who go on such a quest…” Mira wished she could fight. If, for anything else, it would come in useful if she was ever caught in her night-time raids,
“Why?” Gindal always seemed so inquisitive, so eager to learn. Innocent, in a way; again Mira found herself attracted to him, yet almost in awe f him at the same time.
“Because that is what it is. Fighting. Going out, and slaying whatever you think has caused you grief, as an animalistic way of ridding oneself of the pain – by transposing it to others. Like I said, a very barbaric idea, not something I would condone at all. Best to mourn as others do, and overcome the pain on a spiritual level.”
Mira began to think about Father Samuels words. At that moment she wished so much that she could get rid of her pain, no matter if it meant giving it to someone else. They probably deserved it, she mused. The idea seemed appealing; of letting all her sorrows go in an orgy of destruction, even if she did not survive. She didn’t feel like she deserved to live anyway.
In that moment her mind was made up – she was going to seek out Deowain’s killer, and avenge his death with his own knife. Mira stood up, unshaken in her convictions, and walked briskly back to Peldan’s Helm. She was thinking of the merchant’s letter – what of the strange pentagram on the hill, and the spark of light? Whatever it was, it was certainly responsible for Deowain’s death, so it had to die, and if it wasn’t, then it would probably know something useful – then it might have to die anyway. She ran back to her house, collected all she might need – a small pouch, what food wasn’t mouldy or inedible, a few of the bizarre tindertwigs and of course the knife. The knife will taste blood by the next month, she swore. On her way from her home, in a spree of rationality, she nailed a notice to her door, addressed to anyone who might be looking for her, explaining simply that she had gone, and would not be coming back. As she stepped out the door, the first few drops of rain began to fall on her path, and thunder rumbled over the massive forest. It was hard to tell if it was the rain trickling down her face or a salty tear, but all was quickly covered when she pulled her travelling hood low over her face and she began her trek, letting her feet take here wherever she went. The first place they took her was out of Peldan’s Helm, and into the Cormanthor forest.

* * *

No-one noticed Mira was gone for several days – she was not dearly missed. Life in the small community was still reeling from the attack on Deowain; guard patrols had tripled, not least because of the sudden influx of new guardsmen. Every man in the village had dreams of glory, of holding off the imminent invasion by the Elves, or the dragons, or whatever else lurked in Cormanthor. Very few did not join the guard – mostly drunkards, or those with important jobs already such as Samuel, or the local smithy – or his son. The death of Deowain had rocked Gindal and he now stayed in permanently, aiding his father in crafting in a zombie like fugue state. Every so often he would go to the Church, but just wait in the grounds, a solitary figure set against the sky on the hill at the edge of the hamlet. From here Gindal’s shadow would creep slowly over the town, touching each house in turn as the Sun wound its way over the sky. At evenings and mornings, he noticed grimly how his own shadow spread all the way to the edge of Cormanthor, stretching across the whole of his home village, tickling the trees with his fair hair. It was one such morning, a week since the attack on Deowain, that Gindal suddenly thought of Mira. He had not seen her since the fateful day at the tower, and he resented his selfishness in hiding from his friends, when they needed each other most.
He left his vantage point on the hill, walking briskly through the eerily quiet streets to Mira’s house, the other edge of town. Long shadows were all around him, and the latest owls sounded their calls. It would soon be light, and he would have to wake her. He passed a few silent farmers on his way; they had stayed late after the previous day’s market, drinking themselves stupid in the Lion’s Mane. They were in for a thorough thrashing from their wives when they arrived home at such an hour. He arrived at Mira’s house just as the Sun touched it, and he walked up the weed stricken path to the door. He didn’t notice the weathered note, now on the floor, until he had waited several minutes for an answer. He slowly mouthed the words to himself as he read it – “Gone to Cormanthor to hunt. Won’t be back.”, and with this simple statement Mira truly left Peldan’s Helm.
Gindal stepped backwards with shock. He had never said it to her, but Mira was incompetent. He had only been into the very outskirts of Cormanthor, and even then with half a dozen other well armed men. He did not count such times as the happiest of his life. Mira was inexperienced, she couldn’t even hold a sword the right way, and she had walked into the middle of the most dangerous place in leagues, perhaps in Faerun. He cursed aloud, kicking the gatepost in frustration. No matter what grief he felt on Deowain’s part, Samuel’s words were true, there was nothing he could do. He must concentrate on the now – and the now was Mira. He sprinted all the way back to his own home, where his family was still asleep. As quietly as he could, he gathered all he would need to try and find Mira in all the vastness of the Cormanthor, or possibly die trying. Being a blacksmith’s son, he could find all the best weapons, and took with him his trusted bow, with which he was an expert shot, and his father’s pride – a longsword, pride of place in the store, weighted to perfection, a blade so sharp it could cut straight through any armour his father had made before. His bow slung over his shoulder, his sword sheathed at his waist, he donned a long cloak to protect him from the elements – thankfully not so harsh at this time of year – and headed for the forest. His family would wake an hour later to find their shop apparently robbed, their son apparently missing, and would quite well never be any the wiser.

* * *

Gindal was on the road into Cormanthor. Although he was not truly in the forest, the trees were thickening slightly, though not enough to block the fierce morning Sun. The dusty trail was flanked either side by expanses of green fields peppered with trees, birds chirping merrily. He was following word of mouth accounts on where Mira had gone, and so far he had seen no sign of her passing – though, he told himself, the week gone by would wash such signs away. It was as he came to a fork in the road, one side going east the other going north, that he realised he had no eaten for at least a day. He sat on a large rock by the track. It was warm to the touch, but not unpleasantly hot, and provided a relatively comfortable place for him to plan his course of action. Spying a figure on the north road, he stopped his impromptu meal and watched the figure slowly approach, from a small speck moving parallel with the forest into a fully fledged man, garbed in a long black cloak. A dark scarf was wrapped round his face up to his eyes, which were in turn cast into shadow by a hood over his head. Under his cloak Gindal caught glimpses of some form of armour, very slight and not much good but armour the same. Swinging from his midsection was a scabbard holding a sword which disappeared into the shadows of his flowing cloak. His boots, also black, had seen much use and were flecked with mud. The man walked with a strange manner, hurriedly as if being pursued, but not overtly fast – just hurried. Nor did he seem to walk evenly, always one leg was the leader, moving faster than the other though this leg changed. He did not stand straight, more with a curved back leaning forward, his head facing floor mostly except for when he stopped to take in his surroundings, which he did without prompt at seemingly random intervals. Gindal instantly recognised him – he was a tracker of Cormanthor, a figure outcast from society who lived in the forest. He knew very little of such a people, if indeed a people they were. No-one spoke to trackers and trackers did not speak to anyone. It was rare indeed for the tracker to be seen outside his home in the forest, and Gindal felt a surge of wonder at this bizarre individual.
The tracker stopped at the fork, continuing to face south the direction of his travel. The birds had stopped singing, and the air was completely dead. Gindal found himself transfixed by the figure, and could not help but stare at him.
The tracker turned his head to face the forest, then back round to face the road Gindal was on. He seemed completely oblivious to the man before him, a mere ten feet away on a rock. The tracker then slowly turned and walked, much more slowly, over to a cluster of rocks directly opposite Gindal, under the mottled shadow of a tree. The light played over his concealed features and his eyes seemed almost to glisten. He simply sat, staring into the distance past Gindal. The silence was overwhelming, and Gindal found himself more and more drawn into this individual until he decided to speak;
“How fare you, tracker?” he asked quickly. The tracker instantly fixed his eyes on him and he wished he had not spoken and looked away at the ground.
“Do you care.” The reply came slowly, measured, but in a voice not so unlike Gindal’s. It was not so much a question, but more a statement of apathy – but as for whether it was on Gindal’s part or the tracker’s part Gindal could not guess.
“Yes, I do. How are you this morning?”
“I don’t.” Again the tracker spoke slowly and smoothly, as though daring Gindal to ask again. The tracker pulled his hood lower over his face, concealing his gleaming eyes entirely. Gindal was glad.
Minutes passed as Gindal removed some bread from his pouch and slowly chewed it over. Still the air was calm, and the tracker said or did nothing, until Gindal stood to leave. He would take the path straight into Cormanthor, being the path Mira was more likely to choose if she wished to get herself killed the quickest – which she apparently did.
He stood, glanced at the still unmoving tracker and turned to depart when the tracker’s question pierced the air;
“Where are you headed.” Again, the tracker did not seem to question, just state and expect an answer. Gindal glanced back – the tracker was still sat against the tree on a rock. He could have been dead if he had not just spoken.
“I am headed for Cormanthor. Do you care, tracker?” retorted Gindal. He turned his body round to face the man on the rock.
“You seek something. Something foul. Though I daresay you do not know what you hope to find.” The tracker spoke softly, little more than a whisper. Gindal could only hear because of the deathly still air.
“I seek a friend, no foul being.”
“Then you do not know what you hope to find. I will tell you it is not your friend; you do not need to seek your friend for she is already safe.” Nothing moved after the tracker’s profound statement. Gindal even forgot to breathe. Slowly, the tracker reached down for a stone with a gloved hand, toyed with it for a few seconds and discarded it.
“Mira is safe?” asked Gindal hesitantly. How was this tracker involved with Mira? And did this mean he was involved with Deowain? Gindal suddenly found himself flare up with anger at the sheer pompousness of the tracker.
“I care not for her name.”
“Then what is your name, tracker? Tell me that!” Gindal challenged. The tracker’s head twitched slightly to the side, almost looking at Gindal. The tracker drew in a breath, two, three. He spoke softly now, even slower than before, almost hissing.
“I care not for my name either.” For the first time a hint of menace was detectable in his voice.
“Where is she, then? Have you taken her?” Gindal found himself losing patience with this man. The tracker seemed to have all the answers, but did not want to impart them, “Damn it, where is she?!”
“She is safe, that should suffice. Who says it is your choice to find her? She is dealing with what she feels.” Yet again the tracker displayed a disturbing amount of knowledge, and Gindal began to feel genuinely afraid of this man. Had he killed Deowain, he kept asking himself? He could do, he seems to have such power…“You would die before you drew your sword,” the tracker said calmly, picking up the same stone again, and again discarding it. Gindal was taken aback, and noticed his hand had wandered towards the hilt of his sword. He quickly crossed his arms firmly over his chest.
Suddenly, the tracker stood up, taking Gindal by surprise. He moved with the grace of a cat, lithe and yet incredibly dangerous. “I also seek a foul being. We will seek it together.” The statement took Gindal by surprise. Of all the tales of trackers he had ever heard, never had anyone accompanied a tracker anywhere – least of all at a tracker’s behest. Both men stood surveying the other, taking in build, height – even odour. Gindal stood tall and strong, his fair hair lying bedraggled over his brow, his eyes still red from grieving for Deowain – both tears and lack of sleep. His chin appeared as if set in stone, his cheekbones prominent and defining his features harshly against his hair. The tracker, however, hid his facial features behind his low hood, with a scarf wrapped around his lower face. His eyes glinted underneath the shadow of his hood, reminding Gindal of stars in the night sky. Despite his manner of living he was quite small and stood a head shorter than Gindal (though Gindal could not help but feel intimidated by his presence). After a few minutes, Gindal spoke slowly.
“If I go with you, on your…quest, or… hunt,” he asked rhythmically, “You will take me to Mira?”
“She is in the forest, though that should not concern you;
He slowly fell into step behind the black garbed figure, trudging into the dark Cormanthor forest in search of his friend.

[Indraugnir]

Just posting to say I haven't forgotten about this story and that Mornar and I are with you all the way.

Just a comment, though. Chapter 1 actually seems like it is more of a prologue than a chapter 1, so you might think about changing its title to "Prologue: A Man is Made" or something like that.

[Mornar shethurith]

Well, I would add criticisms, but there isn't anything to criticize, other than I can't get enough of it!

[Fallen angel]

Sorry guys, I'm still working on it (I promise) and its definately going places, but I have exams starting in less than a week so I need to revise to. As soon as I finish Chapter 5: The Tracker (or it might be Chapter 4 if I make 1 the prologue) it'll be right here.

Fallen Angel