A Land Far Away

This thread is for all writings based on Zalanthe Moonglow after the time of her creation (ie her arrival in the Silver Marches). The previous thread will be kept clean and is strictly for writing that fills in the story of how she became the woman that she is. I make no promises that these stories will be in chronological order.

Fourthpeak Expedition


Zalanthe looked around. The stars looked lovely out here, so far from any kind of flame or magical light, though, as always during the night, she glowed with a faint radience. The darkness was deep and dense; the moon was barely a quarter into its cycle, but her keen eyes pierced the veil cast over the world. She could see the priest, Ian Greybeard, walking slowly across the less than sturdy wooden bridge, his footsteps echoing through the still, cold air. Beneath him could be heard the groaning of scattered undead, mindlessly wandering deep in the ravine below. Next to her stood Rhothomir the mage; expert ranger Trapper Wind and the ever arrogant Laque, all with bows at the ready. All were tense, including herself. They hoped for a quiet crossing, despite the warnings. Zalanthe’s fingers fitted an arrow to her longbow as she waited.

*clomp, clomp*

Zalanthe held her breath, her mind drifting. It had been a quiet walk up here through the hills behind the mudhole of Rivermoot. Some goblins decided to make a nuisance of themselves but were easily dispatched, one of them with a particularly sharp shot from her own bow that pierced the goblins eye, stopping it dead in its tracks. Zalanthe smiled. Berendil might have even been proud, despite the fact she had yet to receive training from him.

*clomp, clomp*

Zalanthe heard arrows being drawn around her. Even Rhothomir, though she was sure he had a small handful of reagents in his hand, ready to unleash arcane death upon anything that might appear. Her eyes glanced to Trapper, the human womans muscles taught beneath her form fitting leathers, her eyes staring intently at the opposite side of the bridge. Laque looked bored, as though this period of caution was hardly worth his attention.

For her part, Zalanthe could not keep her mind in the present. Further back she drifted, to a warm night outside Silverymoon. Trapper had found her and their talk turned swiftly to the elven woman’s concerns. She watched her human friend drinking herself to death, lying to all and sundry and offer herself to seemingly anyone. A deal had been struck that night, one that Zalanthe was regretting. However, she would not be seen to break the agreement, especially since Trapper had kept her side. So here she was, in the frigid mountain air outside Fourthpeak, crouched in the dark, waiting for undead to take the bait.

*clomp, clomp, CLOMP*

She blinked, shaking her head to clear it. Ian reached the other side of the bridge and turned. He was almost about to say something when she noticed something move on the edge of the bridge, a few feet from where he stood. Hands. Black, rotten hands. With a quickness that surprised her, the pair of dreadful wights pulled themselves onto the bridge. Trapper screamed a warning and took a step forward onto the bridge before loosing her first arrow, fitting a second to her bow before the rest of the group could even respond. Ian began chanting words to some manner of divine spell, attracting one to him, while the other shambled towards Trapper.

With Zalanthes first arrow flying wide and the wight already within reach of Trapper, she dropped her bow, flicking the shield expertly off her back and unsheathing her gleaming elven blade, charging forward. This would prove she was not a slouch, some delicate flower that needed to be protected or, worse, left at home only to be admired by those with nothing better to do. No sooner than she had moved, the wight looked to her, its eyes black and souless. Empty. Uttering words in the language of the dead, Zalanthe suddenly stumbled. Her armor grew heavier on her back, her arms felt like lead and her head began to spin. Gritting her teeth she slammed into the wight with her shield, knocking it away from Trapper. As the beast got to its feet, her sword struck down like lightning, cleaving cleanly through the dead flesh, though the wight did not even flinch.

Arrows flew past her head, the bows of Laque and Trapper singing in the night. For a brief few moments Zalanthe was blinded, her sensitive eyes dazzled by the arcane energy that arced around her body and slammed into the creatures chest. Her mind swam and her head had begun to spin but the fight was not over. With a final swing of her sword, the wight finally fell, its body pierced with a dozen arrows and slashed by powerful, though inaccurate, sword strikes. Looking up, her eyes barely able to focus, she saw Ian standing steadfast, chanting another divine spell. Another bright flash and another foul wail erupted as the wight was seared with holy power, filling the air with the stench of burnt, rotten flesh.

Zalanthe struggled forward and almost fell to the ground. Her legs would barely moved and her stomach began to churn. Moving almost like the wights themselves, she attempted to strike at the remaining undead, taking all her strength and will to keep her arm swinging, hacking chunks of black flesh away. Then, as suddenly as it had all begun, it ended. A perfectly placed arrow, probably from Trapper, pierced the base of the wights neck, finally bringing it down. Zalanthe pulled back, wavering, dropping her sword and shield and fell to her knees. With a cough she leaned forward onto her hands and vomited rotten, black bile over the edge of the bridge. Her skin had paled even further, even losing much of its glow as the dread touch of the wight coursed through her veins. Rhothomir leaned down, helping her to her feet, struggling as she leaned heavily on him.

“You alright to walk back to camp?”

It sounded to Zalanthe as though she were in a cave, the soft voice bouncing around her skull like an echo, making her groan. Barely a second after she summoned the strength to nod her head, Laque led them off with Trapper and Rhothomir in tow, the moon maiden staggering slowly, yet defiantly, at the rear, stopping now and then to empty her stomach of yet more bile. The climb felt like it too hours, though in reality barely 20 minutes passed before the group climbed the stairs of the dwarvern supervised fortification. Zalanthe was done, her body giving way completely against a stack of crates, the weight of her heavily armoured body knocking a couple over. She breathed deeply, the world seeming to spin before her eyes even as Laque bent down over her.

“What you are feeling is the the life draining effects of the wight. Their touch can kill most men.”

His words faded in and out as she struggled to maintain consciousness. Smiling weakly, she spat out a few words of defiance, though did not feel at all like they meant anything. Rhothomir had busied himself setting up a tent for her and helped her crawl into it, passing out a moment later into deep, dark dreams.

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Zalanthes rest came in fits and spurts, her eyes opening repeatedly through the night. Each time, there sat Rhothormir, studying his spell book or stroking her dirty hair gently, whispering her gently back to sleep, though her dreams were of little comfort. Memories distorted and visions of horrible beasts. Often the sounds followed her after waking. The howl of wolves, the soft footfalls of shambling undead and, curiously, even a high pitched moan or two. Eventually, though, as the wights touch began to fade, she rested without trouble.

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As Lathanders light washed away Selûnes stars to start another day, Zalanthe awoke, finding the tent empty. She sat up with a soft groan. Her body felt weak, though thankfully the rest of her symptoms had disappeared. Crawling out of the tent, a hand covering her eyes from the bright sun, she found Rhothomir, Trapper, Laque and Ian sitting around a fire, warming themselves and sharing some food. Their heads turned, all with smiles (some warmer and brighter than others), looking to Zalanthe. Smiling weakly back, she strode to the fire, snatching a piece of bread from Trapper moments before she could take a bite.

“I told you it would take more than that to knock me over.”

Brilliant writing, Swift...thanks very much

For those involved in this session, please forgive the inaccuracies that may exist in this story. I lost the log of our entire session and, therefore, the dialogue between characters. I tried to avoid having to write in much discussion due to this.

A dark and stormy night

Thunder boomed, lighting streaked across the sky and rain tumbled down. The small band of elves strode as quickly as they could through the trees. This part of the Moonwood was particularly dense, and progress was slower than they might have hoped. All around them came the howling of wolves, though they knew well it was not simple four legged beasts that stalked them.

Deeper in the forest, the evidence of their foray was already decaying. The dead loggers were likely already being picked at by crows along with other rodents and scavengers. Their tools had been rusty to begin with. The foreman's tent would perhaps last the longest, if it were not blown away by the howling wind.

The loggers had ambitions, she would give them that, ambitions matched by the mud holes pathetic council, but they had got what was coming. Zalanthe grinned behind her mask. Months earlier she had let her disgust be known for what these humans had done to the forest, so this was only fair repayment. Ironically, the group had still failed in their task but it bothered her not a bit. Zalanthe did not consider herself particularly cold or vicious, but the thought of a group of human loggers being torn to shreds by black bloods did not bother her. What <I>did</I> bother her was the fact they were still hungry.

The howls grew louder and closer. Battle at this point was a certainty. They had had their chance to run, to try and reach the village safely, but that risked somebody falling behind and while Zalanthe had her doubts about some of her companions, it was universally agreed that flight was not an option.

In the front of the group strode the ever calm and confident Laque, leading them on in the absence of a true tracker. Behind him strode the Tricksters children, Kyoro and her twin Myoro, both nervously tugging at the strings of their bows. At the back and beside Zalanthe, sword and shield drawn, was Daertho. Like hers, his eyes darted left and right, and he often turned to watch behind them as the black bloods crept closer and closer.

Suddenly, as another loud clap of thunder shook the ground, the attack commenced. Shrieking and slavering, the Black Bloods came, gnashing their razor sharp teeth as they crashed into the group from all sides. Silver blades flashed like lightning and silver tipped arrows whizzed with precision from the twin bows of Kyoro and Myoro. Like a dancer, Laque ducked, weaved and counter attacked everything the lycans could throw at him. Daertho slashed at whatever he could reach, though always he kept one eye on his love. For her part, Zalanthe did what she could to protect the twins and give them time to loose arrows into any foe that moved. Growling words of death at the black bloods, she let the power that Corellon granted her flow into her blade, every slash more damaging than the last.

Amid the chaos of battle, nobody saw the small, wiry lycan creeping up on the group from their rear. A distinctly womanly shriek made Zalanthe whirl around, crashing the hilt of her blade into the jaw of an enemy in the process. The smaller beast had quietly crept behind Myoro before making its presence felt, sinking its teeth deeply into her side and dragging her to the ground. Before Zalanthe could even move forward, Daertho swung his sword down, cleaving the neck of the creature and tearing it away from the elven woman, using the blessings granted to him to keep Myoro standing and battling.

Zalanthe smiled, but the black bloods did not relent. Feeling clawing hands raking at her thighs, she whirled around again. Two lycans pounced immediately. The first went tumbling into the mud with a deft swing of her shield, but she could not throw the other off as easily. Crashing teeth first into the pale woman, bright, piercing fangs sunk into her arm, digging through the tight chain links to rend her flesh. With a cry of agony, Zalanthe tried to shake the creature off, with no success. She winced and closed her eyes tight as a bright flash flew passed her eyes. What she initially believed was lightning turned out to be Laques sparkling blade, removing the lycans head from its beastly shoulders, leaving its teeth firmly embedded in her arm. Ever the gentleman, he kick the head free and then grabbed her hand, hoisting her up to rejoin the fray.

Throughout the battle, the group had inched closer and closer to the village and, deciding perhaps that the danger was getting too great, the black bloods relented as quickly as they began, letting the wounded elves quickly made the village walls. Surveying the group with a frown, Laque spoke.

“Has anyone been bitten?”

With a whimper, Myoro raised her hand. Moments later, with a grim smile to the younger twin, Zalanthe raised her hand as well. A soft whisper from behind made the injured women jump.

“Belladonna” cooed the elf in green. “Eat these pouches, both of you, and pray you fall sick, as that will show that these herbs will be enough.”

The two moon elves opened the pouches, taking one sniff of the pungent mixture of herbs and recoiled back but, under the watchful eye of the elf in green, dutifully ate all the leaves and flowers as instructed. Not more than a heartbeat later, Zalanthe felt her stomach churn. Groaning and bending over, she winced from the pain; feeling like her stomach was trying to turn itself inside out. Glancing to her right she watched Myoro curl over and vomit.

“Good, it worked for you both. You should rest now”. He nodded to Zalanthe “I think you will be fine in a few hours, but your friend may find herself needing quite a bit more rest.” He motioned to the tavern behind them, while Laque remained to talk in hushed, but urgent whispers. As the injured women staggered towards the building, Myoro turned and smiled weakly to Zalanthe.

“You too? This is my second time”

“Would not have it any other way Myoro” Zalanthe replied with a similarly weak smile, before coughing and staggering upstairs to the waiting care of Kyoro.

Damn was hoping to see a were-elf come out of this. An enjoyable read as always.

My first, really dialogue heavy story. I hate writing lots of dialogue.

Revelations

“May I say.....that bit about being the mortal vessel for a god, perhaps the worst easy ending lie I have ever seen used in an emotional break up.”

Zalanthe froze in place. The wine may have been affecting her, but the words rang crystal clear. How had he heard that? For those brief few moments, her mind raced over how she had gotten others so deeply involved in her past, and herself so deep into a bottle that night to make such a mistake.

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Lettinius.

It all began with him, she knew. Her willingness to allow his advances, only to deny him when something better...no, something more elven, had come along. She could not tell him now. She had spent months protecting her secret, she was not about to let it go to ease even this caring man’s heart. But he was persistent in his questions and, eventually, found her tired and weak and broke her down.

Still, she had not told him. Zalanthe left that to Trapper Wind, close friend and the first person she had chosen to know her secret. To her shock, Lettinius had accepted the reason without question or argument, though it did not help her mood. So she drank. It was as good a thing to do as any. Foolish words were said and unfunny jokes uttered until she excused herself to Trappers room, the intention being to finish her bottle of wine and, with any luck, pass out and not remember a thing, but there she found herself, barely an hour later, frozen by Laques words, not a single drop more having passed her lips.

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She spun on her heels to face him, her lips drawn tight and her eyes narrowing to piercing emerald points. Trapper looked even more stunned, her lips moving but no words coming out. Laque smirked that arrogant smirk and at that moment, Zalanthe felt like striding over and slapping it clean off his face. If she could just force a laugh, even a smile, he would be none the wiser about her.

She couldn't. Her mind had already made the decision before she was aware of it. It would be fun to watch this over confident elf be stunned by his blindness. With her teeth clenched firmly, she surprised herself that she still tried to resist.

“Then I guess I need to learn how to lie better?”

“I mean really, if you must invoke the Seelie court to end this one, what forces of the universe will you call upon to end something meaningful?”

Zalanthes teeth ground together, her fists clenching firmly by her side, her normally sparkling emerald eyes growing dark and cold.

“And you Trapper, I must admit I was disappointed in your role until I realized you were likely just helping your desperate friend do what she did not have the stomach to do herself.”

By this time, to her credit, Trapper had gathered herself once more. Staring into Laques eyes, she murmured softly but calmly.

“Wake up! I don’ lie, I ain’t nevah told you anythin’ that wasn’t true. Evah. Why do ya’ think she glows like the moon? How do ya’ think she can use the weave? Wake up!”

Laques eyes drifted slowly back and forth between the two woman, one, a dark skinned beauty, perched in his lap, her words soothing and calm, the other, a pale goddess whose eyes seemed to simmer with rage. Zalanthe flicked her wrist and motioned them upstairs.

“I was stupid enough to tell Lettinius down here, I will not make that mistake again.”

She led the cosy pair up the steps, glaring at the doorman as she stormed through and into Trappers room. Zalanthe paced by the door while Trapper leaned uncomfortably against the desk. Laque swaggered in and settled down on the bed with a smile.

“So, ladies, indulge me”

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“I don’t believe you”.

Zalanthe sighed in frustration. An hour had passed, where she had spilled every secret to him, every defining moment in her life, everything that had produced the woman that stood before him, and he would not believe her. Looking to Trapper, she held her hand out.

“Have you ever seen me pray, Laque, Trapper?” She smiled as both shook their heads “May I have one of your daggers dear?”

With a flourish, the ranger woman produced a delicately carved kukuri and handed it over. Twirling back to Laque, Zalanthe silently brought the sharp tip of the blade to her palm and slowly dragged it down, slicing her pale palm open. Thick, crimson blood dripped onto the floorboards. Laques eyes narrowed curiously on the pale woman who held her nerve, leaving her hand in front of him for a few moments longer. Then, with barely a word and a few subtle motions, the wound closed up quicker than it had been made. Flicking her hand once to clear the blood, she held her hand steady.

“If I do not pray for my spells like a priest, or a paladin, or even a druid or ranger, how is it that I have the ability to do that at will?”

With another flourish and slight wave of her hand, the candle-lit room flashed was brought to life as a bright radiance shone out all about Laque, temporarily blinding Zalanthes eyes. Another small wave of her hand and the kukuri briefly flashed as she imbued it with divine power. “Shall I go on?”

Despite all her efforts over the past months to keep her secret safe, seeing this males confidence in his knowledge dissipate before her eyes felt incredibly good, though she did not let it show. It was, in fact, quite exhausting to do, and she hoped things would get easier if she had to tell anyone else. Her satisfaction would not last.

“So, what exactly are you?”

Everything that was left came out. Zalanthe spoke of the teachings of the high priests, the often piercing gaze she could feel directed at her from a disapproving god and her fears of revealing herself to everyone. Above all, her hate for having her life pushed in one direction without having been given the choice was the deafening argument for her secrecy. She was trying to be someone else here in the marches, so some success, if Laque was a good measure, but she knew it was inescapable. Eventually it would come back to find her. After a long pause, Laque spoke softly.

“Well, the way I see it, you have two options. Either you stand up and get over your lingering resentment at being chosen by the All father and rise to the occasion, or, the next time you take a blade to yourself, do not call on his blessings to heal yourself”

Zalanthe blinked and tilted her head, her mouth falling open slightly before she promptly shut it again, her right hand still gripping tight around the blade.

“So, I either embrace what I am, or keep living a life of denial and ignore my gifts?”

“Oh no no no”. Laque laughed softly. “Either you get over yourself and realize you have a responsibility to all the realms, not just the Court, but to all of us, me, Trapper, Garlus, the bartender down stairs. Or slit your wrists and drown in your tears.

“How would that make you feel Laque? Encouraging my death and doing nothing to stop it?” she hissed, her eyes narrowing to piercing points, sharp as blade.

“My dear, I have travelled far and wide in these realms. They are dark and evil is many places, but you, you are to be a champion against all that. If you would leave us the weak people to their fate, whose only wish is a little land to grow their crops, to be crushed by Orc and Troll and evil gods...” He paused, as much for dramatic effect as anything else, though his eyes grew as cold as Zalanthes. “If you would abandon these people to that fate, then no, I would have no qualms about watching you bleed out on the floor right here, right now.”

With fingers quicker than Zalanthe could imagine, he whipped a dagger from his belt and held it out to her.

“You can even use my dagger do to it, but, truth be told” his voice softened and a smile spread on his lips, his eyes returning to their warm, soft green color “I would much rather follow a champion of Corellon into battle against the evils of this world than watch her die.”

Zalanthe spun on her heels, walking across the room to a wooden desk, stabbing the kukuri deeply into it, even as Laque sheathed his own dagger, and gripped the desk with both hands, her pale fingers losing all semblance of color. “I am not ready for this. I am not ready for that kind of expectation.” Moments later her head tilted to Laque as he sat down on the edge next to her.

“My dear, the realms I have seen could have used you long, long ago. Like it or not, it is time you stop pouting about past ills and get ready.”

Zalanthe gritted her teeth. Her fingers squeezed the desk harder, shaking it even with Laques weight resting on it. She did not want to hear this. She did not want to be a leader or a beacon. It was too much, but the words echoed louder and louder in her mind. With a growl and then a sigh, she let go of the desk, rolling around to lean against it next to him.

“How do I prepare to be something I have spent half of my life wishing I was not?” She laughed, albeit weakly, resignation in her voice.

Laque slid his arm around her, holding gently around her waist, pulling her slight, yet powerful frame to his. “Life is full of difficult choices Zalanthe, but if you choose option one, I will be by your side to help you prepare for what you are to become.”

Zalanthe smiled and laughed, a laugh filled with joy.

“I did not want your face to be the last thing I saw in my mortal life anyway”.

Excellent work and a good show of the type of "A" game RP Laque and Zala bring to the game.

Authors Note: Sorry for all those that were at this event that are not named. In the interest of writing something cohesive, it was better to name just a small number (which happen to be the ones my focus was most on anyway) and grouping everyone else.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdQDYrOAht4

The Battle for the Hold

Zalanthe sighed and leaned heavily against the stone pillar. She was sure it was the only thing keeping the accursed cave from collapsing. Hours had passed since Daertho, Elenaril and Myoro had descended deeper into the cave and the undead had yet to give the rest of the party more than a few minutes of rest. She was exhausted and overcome with terrible sickness, knotting her stomach and weakening her limbs. Every step felt like a trial, every swing of her sword a personal battle that she had to win. Whatever malady that she had been struck with, it was working rapidly. To make matters worse, she was running out of blessings. The All Father had touched her, yes, but deliberately (and wisely) he had limited her. She should have been thankful, but this day...or was it night now?...she needed more than he would give her.

Perhaps this was a test? Never in her life had she needed to stretch this far, to exhaust her blessings so completely. Or maybe she had just been frivolous early on? Laughing softly to herself, she looked around, glad to find the efforts were taking their toll on more than just her. Even Gruuhilda, the foul female orc blood, was laboring. Zalanthes heart screamed at her for blessing that creature, giving it new life and sealing the wounds the beasts tore in it, but her head reluctantly agreed. Along with herself and Jonas, a human of no small strength, they were the main line, keeping the apprentices and rangers safe. This was not the day to let the orc blood die.

The chanters around the edges of the room continued in their deep tones unabated fussed little by the large group of irregulars invading their domain. In the middle, between the two pillars, swirled a vortex from which the undead poured, controlled by the chanters who shrugged off any attempts to harm them. Their secrets lay deeper and everything rested on those who ventured below to bring things to an end. For their part, the rest of the irregulars were tasked with holding the door until either the three elves returned or all hope was lost.

From amidst the swirling, the pale elven woman spotted the now familiar lurching of zombies, seemingly most common of the undead they had faced. Not particularly threatening by themselves, a group was dangerous when their attacks were focused on one target. With a cry she shoved herself off the pillar towards them, Jonas and Gruuhilda a few moments warning. Swords slashed, maces smashed and hammers slammed their rotting flesh. To their credit, the apprentices, be they priests, wizards or fighters, had so far given a good showing, displaying restraint and sense, though not enough of the latter. As the shambling terrors fell dead again, Zalanthe stumbled through the group to the stairs, slumping down to catch her breath, her stomach twisting again, making her curl forward and vomit between her legs, adding to the sickly mix already staining her armor from head to toe.

“Ya feelin’ sick sweets?”

Zalanthe sighed and forced a smile. Even in such dire times, there was Trapper, keeping an eye on her, making sure she was safe, if not always well. It had not escaped her notice that the rangers’ arrows constantly pierced her target before any other. It worried the elf somewhat that Trapper was as handicapped as everyone else, barring the elf alone, in not being able to see a foot in-front of their faces in the pitch black room. She did not yet have a ranger’s arrow in her neck, though; proof of the human’s skill, but it still niggled at her mind.

“A little, must have been one of the ghouls. I feel almost like I did up at Fourthpeak”

Trapper frowned, though Zalanthe did not see it. A kick to her back made her lean up as two arrows whizzed dangerously past her head, the sounds of battle commencing once again. Small skeletons had come through the vortex without notice and were already attacking the apprentices. For a few moments, the elf debated joining the fight, but the decision was quickly made for her. Gruuhilda and Jonas smashed the skeletons to pieces, Trappers arrows ripped vital bones away and the apprentices hacked with a mixture of fear and wild abandon. Lettinius Holds’ voice rose again and again above the din, inspiring them all on. Before she knew it, the skeletons had fallen into a scatter of bones.

“What was that for Trapper?”

“Just thort ya’ might like ta’ join in” the woman replied with a faint grin. With a groan, Zalanthe pushed herself up, hefting her shield and gripping her sword gently, preserving every ounce of energy for battle. She strode back to the edge of the vortex just in time, a larger zombie stepping into the room, immediately lurching towards Gruuhilda, tremendously powerful hands tearing at her armor and razor sharp teeth sinking into her green flesh. With a bestial roar, she swung her mace down, splitting the foul beasts’ head apart, but the attack continued. The next swing went wild, dead fingers tearing at the orc bloods arms, rending great wounds in her flesh.

Time seemed to slow for Zalanthe. Each footstep took an age and she seemed not to even breathe. Her mind raced, watching the orc blood stagger from the withering assault, the tremendous power in the dead fingers, the wounds being inflicted upon it. She wanted it to continue, wanted the orc blood to fall. She was simply too late she would say. ‘My weapon was elsewhere, I simply could not reach her until it was too late’. The defence was already building in her mind, though few would even bother to mention it. Battle is battle after all, and sometimes people die. Besides, Corellon would surely rejoice at one less enemy of the Tel’Quessir, even if she was only a half blood. She licked her pale lips, watching Gruuhilda’s blood flow from her wounds. Reason, though, gnawed at her mind, growing louder and louder until, with a scream, she let her final blessing flow through the orc blood, giving it the strength it needed to finally put the zombie down.

Zalanthe spat and whirled around, stumbling back to the pillar for support. She cared little for the grunt that Gruuhilda passed in thanks. She cared little for anything . All around her, the apprentices either complained about their lack of supplies, or jovially discussed the situation, almost as though the threat of death was not rearing its head every few minutes. She was tired, she was sick and she had no way of keeping anyone alive, and still the chanters continued their deep, steady voices seeming to channel power into the vortex.

Suddenly the ground trembled violently, knocking many off their feet. Curses arose and prayers were uttered. The roof above them shook, chunks of dirt falling all around them. Again the ground shook. Half a dozen voices groaned in pain, sharp spikes of ice thrusting out of the ground, some harmlessly striking air, others piercing feet and grazing legs, freezing those in place. A dark wizard had crept through. Moments later, the irregulars came down on the caster like a storm, leaving little more than a tattered cape and ice burns to prove it had existed. The ground shook again, throwing people this way and that, cracking the earth beneath their feet, making the situation even more perilous. Zalanthes eyes shot towards Trappers. It was her call, as decreed by Daertho. A slight shake of the head was answer enough. Her keen eyes noticed the words mouthed by the ranger. She smiled grimly as she stood up straighter; her blessings may have been gone, but Trapper was right. Stand tall.

Another terrible shake, the tortured earth seemed to groan beneath their feet. The chanters voices started to change, getting higher and more strained. Only Jonas had managed to keep his feet, almost to his detriment, as out of the vortex strode a fell undead as tall as the room itself: its flesh was black and cracked and fire burned within it. Its groans filled all their ears. Zalanthe pushed off the pillar and charged in. Gruuhilda was roaring in her foul orc tongue, while many of the apprentices wisely chose to sling stones and arrows from a distance. Jonas staggered from a mightly blow, his shield arm broken, his legs fractured, blood oozing from a myriad of scorching wounds. The creature groaned with every strike it suffered but kept standing, swinging its mighty arms down, repeatedly knocking irregulars clear across the room. Zalanthe struggled to her feet after one such blow, her back having near wrapped around one of the central pillars. The other shields of the group fared little better: Gruuhilda was back on her feet but struggled to land any meaningful blows, while Jonas weakly attacked, lucky to be standing at all.

With a cry, the trio of elves returned. Elenaril dashed at the creature while Myoro pelted it with deadly accurate arrows. Daertho called upon the power of Corellon to aid in the undeads destruction. Their timing could not have been better as, although the three were heavily injured themselves, they brought just enough to the battle to turn the tide.

“Prepare to retreat!”. It was Daerthos’ voice, rising above even the bard Lettinius. Trappers harsh voice echoed the call, ushering the new blood back out the door, leaving the struggling giant to others. Barely a minute later, the creature finally collapsed, crashing loudly to the ground, gouging a great hole in the earth. Not a moment after that the remaining shields ran. Gruuhilda picked Jonas up roughly and dragged him out. As she stepped out of the cave and into the night, Zalanthe blinked hard, the difference between the deathly black cave and the moonlight bathed world as different as night and day. Even as her eyes closed, the sounds of battle continued both in-front and behind her. Elenaril dashed out of the cave, undead fingers grasping vainly at his legs, crying for them to move as he came crashing through the tightly bunched group.

The ground was held against them, but with little effect. The remaining undead on the surface were easily dispatched as the group surged ahead, not one of them eager to remain in the fens any longer. The earth groaned beneath them again, their foes swarming out of the cage to nip at their heels, weary sword arms periodically sweeping around to keep them at bay until, as the moon slowly began to sink from its highest point, the irregulars escape the fen. Two Argent Legion guards stood nervously on either side of the river, ready to ferry the tired and wounded adventurers to the High Hold.

Zalanthe staggered out of the boat, her pale cheeks burning red with fever, her shoulders sagging with the weight of the chain. Turning back, she blinked in surprise, just catching the sight of the increasingly shapely Trapper dashing back into the fen, making her cry out in vain. She leaned against the wall, breathing raggedly, her keen eyes scanning back and forth over the fens, tension rising by the second. It felt like hours before the ranger reappeared with the severely wounded Jonas and one of the apprentices, Isoiolia in tow. Relief washed over the pale elf as she watched them stumble towards the boat. As they stepped in, a piercing howl rose up from the cave, followed by the sight of a chanter running like the wind from the fens and toward the trio. Pushing off quickly, the argent legion soldier rowed them quickly to safely, horrified eyes fixed on the chanter who stood seething and hissing on the far shore. With all the energy left in her body, Zalanthe grabbed Trapper in a tight hug, almost hauling her out of the boat.

“Thank the gods your alright” she murmured in her ear, before all strength failed, slumping heavily against her.

“Whoa girl, come on, let’s get ya’ to restin’, you’ve had a long night”. With a firm hold the ranger guided Zalanthe down into the soft grass just outside the walls, skilfully setting up a small tent. “Don’t ya’ worry ‘bout the dead, plenty of us out ‘ere to keep ya’ safe”. With a groan, Zalanthe crawled into the tent. As she began to fade into unconsciousness, she thought she could feel fingers stroking her hair gently and the warmth of a smile on her face. She grumbled. Surely he could have waited until she was healthy to show he was pleased with his child.

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

Crawling out of the tent, Zalanthe cried out and shaded her eyes. Dawn had come and gone and the sun was high in the sky. She was still weak and riddled with energy sapping disease, having never truly slipped into peaceful reverie, though at least spiritually she felt as though she had recovered. The irregulars were still milling around the keep, dividing the spoils of war and tending their wounds; the priests were hard pressed inside the small temple and could spare little. Pulling her hood up to protect her eyes, she looked around. Spotting Trapper across the camp, she walked unsteadily towards her. She seemed worried, almost frantic, pacing back and forth, talking increasingly loudly to each person.

“Sweets, gods thank ya’ you’re up. Have ya’ seen Lettinius? No one can find ‘im!”. Shaking her head, the pale elf looked around. “We gotta go look for ‘im!”. Groaning again, Zalanthe nodded, trudging towards the boat. Trapper rounded up the Twins, Elenaril and one Derek Black and dragged them to the boat. Reaching the other side, Trapper went straight for the fens, the others following as quickly as they could behind her. As they crept closer to the cave entrance, a painful groan began to rise. Before Zalanthe could blink, Trapper was gone, rushing towards the sound.

“Lettinius! Gods help ya’. Zalanthe! Here!”

Shifting into a shuffling run, Zalanthe chased after Trapper, crashing around the corner to the cave mouth. There in a pool of blood lay Lettinius, writhing helplessly, his armor slashed to pieces, blood slowly running from the many wounds littering his body.

“Oh gods, Lett!” The blessing virtually jumped out of her as she reached out to him, sealing many of the wounds and bringing life back into his limp body. Shooting up to sit, he gasped and choked, spitting blood from his throat, a faint smile coming to his lips as he saw his saviours.

“My thanks”

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

Lettinius and Zalanthe reclined leisurely in the comfortable benches of The Golden Oak, talking softly amongst each other. Lettinius had quite recovered from his ordeal thanks to a priestly touch and a good deal of rest. Zalanthe, though happy and relieved, looked deathly tired. It had been two days since the foray into the fens, and she had yet to catch any rest, one thing or another always coming up just as she was ready to slip away, such as now. Glancing up, she caught sight of an elven male, dressed in green leather and fine gold chain striding slowly towards them, her tired eyes sparkling, a smile curling across her lips. Of all the people in the marches Zalanthe wished had been with her, it was this man, if only so he could see with his own eyes his words of advice put into action.

“Forgive my tardiness, I am afraid the troubles of Settlestone held me up longer than I wished, though rumor has it you fared well enough on your own.”

Zalanthe smiled, pouring another cup of water, sipping at it.

“Better if you could have been there. There is still more to be done.”

Brilliant, Swift...thank you

Oh Berendil as the disapproving mentor lol, I'm sure he would have given Zalanthe much credit for acting in good sense and healing those who stood beside her regardless of race.

I look forward to having Berendil take a little more interest in Zalanthe in the days to come, see what he thinks of her nowadays.

Authors Note: This story was mostly inspired by a song that bounced onto my ipod on the way home from work one day, which instantly made me think of Zalanthe. I proceeded to play it over and over for the next 20 minutes. The lines that are fully in italics are lyrics from the song that I felt really underlined her thinking at the time of this story.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOUqKWhvkro


Forgive me father, for I have sinned.


Solitude at last. It was not that Zalanthe did not enjoy the company of her friends, but sometimes she needed to be alone, and more it was becoming increasingly hard to manage. This time though, she had done it, through sheer force of will by keeping her eyes open while all others had fallen into well earned sleep.

Climbing the hill near the market, her legs screamed for a break. When they had not been holding her up, they had been almost constantly moving for the last couple of days, travelling along some road or path, taking her somewhere that always seemed terribly important. More so than before, this destination was vital. Slowly, as the road started to flatten, she sighed and smile. Everdusk hall, at last.


Find me guilty when true guilt is from within.


Pushing the ornate doors open, she paused and looked over the bright hall, her eyes settling on the large statue at the far end. She shivered. Eyes shifting, she saw Waterstill instructing one of the younger clerics. He would be glad to see her here, she knew, but that was not a conversation she wanted to have. At least, not then and there. There was only one more conversation she would have before finally finding rest.

Sliding her shoes off, Zalanthe slipped quietly into the hall, stepping off to the side to pass behind the pillars, her mind beginning to wander. Was it really weakness to admit you were wrong? That you had done wrong? No, surely not. Even the strongest people make mistakes at times which must be atoned for. Even then, so often mistakes turned into good fortune, did they not? No, she thought, she was not weak; the last few days had certainly shown that. Scared perhaps. She had only prayed once in the last 40 or 50 years and that was days earlier before the fight for High Hold.


So point your fingers, point right at me


Pausing for a moment in the shadow of a towering column, the elf watched Waterstill a few moments longer, quickly shifting forward as he guided the young cleric towards the stairs. She looked up at the statue or Corellon, briefly, before sliding to her knees and bowing her head. Small crystal tears began to trickle down her pale cheeks as she stayed virtually motionless, her lips the only part of her to move, mouthing her silent prayer, her confession, her apology.


For I am shadows and will follow you.


She did not get an answer, but then, she did not expect to. Her limbs were still weary and her shoulders still felt heavy with burden. Standing with a groan, she turned away from the statue. At least she had been frank and truthful for the first time in many, many years with her father.

Her father?

Zalanthe paused mid stride and blinked.

Her father?

She frowned a little, shaking her head to clear the thought, yet it remained in her mind. In a way, she figured, it was true. A part of him was within her and always would be. There was no denying he had made her what she was. She continued on, reaching the wide open doors of the temple. Just then, Waterstill returned and spotted her, calling out.

“Zalanthe? Zalanthe, please wait a moment, I would talk with you.”

She strode quickly out the doors, tugging her hood up over her eyes, murmuring softly. “Another day Waterstill.” She shook her head hard again as she descended the slope, trying to shake the sudden whisper from her head.


One and the same are we

as always an interesting read

Authors Note: A little bit of fun. Started out as an intro to an actual story about Zal, but then I got curious about the impressions she might have made on the guards and sort of went with it

Impressions

The moon was high and the stars sparkled in the dark sky, bathing Silverymoon in a soft, pale light. Misty rain drifted down from the heavens to sweep over the walls and light woods that surrounded them. Guards were talking in soft tones as they watched the gates or patrolled the road, with the occasional laugh breaking out at a particularly tasteless or funny joke.

"So I said "If that's all you got, 'tis no wonder she felt like a virgin!'"

Laughter rose all around and the recruit grinned from ear to ear. It was all lies of course, he had merely observed the conversation he recited from across the tavern one eve, but he needed to make an impression. It was the young mans first night of gate duty since basic training, and he was eager to become 'one of the boys' as soon as he could.

"I'll bet that was one fine piece of ass you had there. Ahhh what I would not give to have my youth again" mused one of the older men.

"Like a doll I tell ya'! And not a spec of hair anywhere below her neck! Wished I had of...". The young man trailed off, drawing another round of laughter. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, gazing out into the woods. "By gods I think I've seen a ghost!"

The other guards stopped laughing, their eyes following after his. Sure enough, flittering through the trees was a pale, wispy figure, thin and full of grace with long, snow white hair. As the figure glided over the grassy earth, a soft and sweet elven voice carried through the gentle breeze to the guards ears, sounding like music to the young recruit. Growing nervous and, though he would not admit it, scared, the man reached for his bow, knowing little else to do in such a situation. "Nobody told me this gate was haunted."
"Thats because it isn't." All this time, Knight-Sergeant Kendric had stayed silent, amused by the anecdotes of the recruit while he filled some forms for his superiors. He could see the concern on the boys face, and the fear building in his eyes and needed to set him right. It had become a regular talk for him of late. Bloody recruits, he thought, never get decent training any more.

"That there is Zalanthe, Lady Moonglow if you ever need speak to her. Elven lass, showed up about a year ago. Spends most her nights out here it seems. Usually attracts quite a crowd. Makes the nights pass a bit quicker." He smiled slightly at the recruit.

"Elven?!" the recruit spat back. "Tha' hells do we keep lettin' them in for? Condescending toads, the lot of them."

"Watch your tongue, boy" bellowed Kendric, "we let them in because The Lady says so. Aside from that, I won't hear a bad word about Lady Moonglow. I hear that she and her kind are a major part of why the Hold isn't overrun with zombies and skeletons."

At this the recruit tempered his anger. His class in training had never trusted elves and many nights had been spent discussing the various different ways in which they proved their uselessness, but he quickly saw that it was not the prevalent view. It hardly stopped him though.

"That thing? She'd be lucky to even be able to lift a sword, let alone swing it hard enough to hurt anything. Looks like a stick ta' me."

"A stick?" laughed Kendric. "Son, I’ve seen her fight before, she could certainly put you on your ass. Probably wouldn’t even break a sweat. If you ever pull a day shift out here, you might even get the chance to see for yourself. Sometimes all those adventuring types train and spar just out there.” Kendric waved his hand towards the open grassland leading towards Rauvinwatch Keep. “They do it properly too, not like you academy boys. No armor, no magics, just them and their weapons. Beat the hell out of each other sometimes. Usually keep a priest nearby to mend them up if they get a bit rough.”

A few of the older guards nodded or murmured their agreement, one or two keeping their eyes towards the shimmering figure. It was not uncommon to see two or more practicing their blade skills outside the gates and it had come to be an enjoyable break from the usual monotony the gates usually provided. However, the recruit was not deterred.

“Bah, maybe so, but what’s the use of someone that pops up now and then to lend a hand? We are pressed as it is for patrols and the like.”

“Yeah!” piped up another man “Besides, from what I hear if she isn’t spending her time out here, shes shacked up with a procession of men over there in the Oak. That elf Shatril reckons she has a new one just about every day, and not just men! The Gem needs better people protecting her than that.”

“What that lass does in her own time is none of your business, and I will thank you not to make it the business of my mine or anyone under my command. She can do as she likes so long as her sword is there when the Lady calls for help” replied Kendric in an even tone. With a wink, he continued “Not that any of you fella’s would say no if she asked you in for a night.”

All the men in unison cried out their objections, proclaiming their faithfulness to each of their wives or partners, many of them quite untrue, though Kendric kept that quiet for the sake of his men. Soldiers who were happy at home were happy at work.

At that moment, Zalanthe strode out from the trees. Her dress was as white as her hair, sheer though not obscene, allowing the moonlight to strike her entire body instead of just her face, leading to the much more noticeable radiance. The recruit and a number of others did not hear her musical voice grow louder, nor notice her glow as she approached them. Kendric coughed and cleared his throat.

“Lady Moonglow” he nodded politely. “Out for your regular nightly walk?”

Every guard stopped what they were doing and turned towards her. The more experienced of them merely flashed a polite smile before looking away, while the younger ones stared longer, none more so than the recruit, his jaw nearly hitting the ground as his eyes gazed, for the first time, over the elven beauty in-front of him. None of them could notice the difference in her eyes, the sadness that filled them, but once she flashed a brief smile, it barely mattered.

“The moon is more beautiful out here. Am I allowed back in?” she smiled and giggled softly.

“Of course you are. Go right in Lady.”

She smiled to Kendric and nodded politely, walking gracefully into the city once more, leaving the recruit to be rebuked or, more likely, teased mercilessly, by his own men for his brazen stares.

Kendric turned to the recruit. Even in the pale light he could see the boy was blushed as red as the blood in his veins. He then laughed uproariously, drawing the rest of the guards attention to him. The recruits’ hands were over his lap, furiously working to loosen his codpiece a little.

“Look out men, I think the boy has changed his mind about elves.”

All the men laughed and the recruit knew that he was never going to hear the end of this.

Very Good a humorous departure from hard sad truths

Brilliant as usual, Swift...more please

Reflections

Where had it all gone wrong?

She had left. That is what it was. Belly swollen and full of confidence, Trapper had left the marches for a faraway place, a place Zalanthe had barely even heard of. That was not hard, though. She had barely heard of most places in this wide world. She still remembered that last night as though it happened yesterday. Under a weeping willow outside of Rivermoot, laying arm in arm, just talking and laughing, sharing stories of things they had done and things they would do. She even gave Trapper her teddy bear, which she had carried ever since the day her parents turned her over to the temple 120 years before.

She still remembered the pain of saying goodbye, too; her last hug; her last kiss; the taste of her lips...

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

Zalanthe sighed and shook her head a little.

“This has actually turned into a beautiful evening.”

She sat outside the Swords Edge guild hall in Baldurs Gate with Dorian Orthallas, an undeniably beautiful man and one she would normally have taken a more personal interest in. With flowing dark hair, sharp features and just enough elven blood to be noticeable...well, she had cast her eyes and spent time thinking of worse males.

“You are quite right. I am somewhat glad my friends have been distracted” she replied with a soft laugh.

Dorian had chosen to preserve her dignity and save her a dance under the moon dressed in little more than the rays of light it gave off. His vote had tied things with Trapper and Lettinius at 2 apiece. Glancing to her right, she cast her eye over the nearby shine to Auril, sighing softly and shaking her head at those she saw standing there.

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

The miles to Baldurs Gate were long and the boat ride was truly uncomfortable. A number had come out to say goodbye to her, though Alyra Ashendown was the one Zalanthe was mainly interested in seeing. It seemed their friendship had blossomed since Trapper had departed, so much so that she was considering applying for the Knights in Silver in the hope of working under Knight Ashendown. The past, though, called to her again like it had done so many times before in the Marches. A promise she gave to Commander Taegan and not only was she yet to repay it, she had fled his unit. Desertion some might have called it. Regardless, she needed to set things right, so she had to leave.

Myth Drannor.

Its name conjured images of a wondrous city and, at the same time, a dark and dangerous place. It had been retaken though, and had she been in a firm state of mind, she might have even seen it, but Zalanthes mind was broken by the death of Celendur, so now she had to travel hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles to the forests of Cormanthor to find it, and find her Commander. Would he be angry or would he understand?

Myth Drannor.

It was her ultimate destination of a long journey, but there were many places to stop along the way. Baldurs Gate was the first. She missed her friend, her lover, and it would soon be time for the birth of her child. With luck, she thought, she may even be there to see it.

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

“In my 25 years, none others have ever caught my eye.” Dorians’ voice was smooth and clear, though his eyes widened ever so slightly as he hastily added to his words. “Excluding present company, of course.”

Compliments from random, beautiful strangers had become less frequent for Zalanthe but even now when one came, her mind was only half there. Laque was dead and Trapper wished for the Aurilites and, worse of all, Xujja the demon blood, to avenge his death and recover his possessions. Against both her and Lettinius’ council she had ‘suggested’ it to the demon and Zalanthe was sure she would end up regretting it. She shook her head faintly to clear such thoughts.

“And here I thought my looks were fading already” she replied with a laugh and a bright smile that seemed to shine almost like her skin under the nights moon. She did not <i>mean</i> to flirt with him; she was taken and he was inexperienced, but she found she couldn’t help it. She smiled at him as she listened, suddenly aware of her aching breasts. A small murmur escaped her lips and she sighed. The baby must be feeding again.

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

“Gods...it hurts Tera...”

Zalanthe cradled Trapper gently while the midwife coached her on. “Doing good sweets” she whispered. This had been the moment Trapper had been waiting on for over a year and Zalanthe ever since she arrived in the Gate a month earlier.

Another contraction came and with it a tremendous effort and howl of pain from Trapper. Tera, the midwife, seemed unconcerned. She had had two children already so this was a very natural process for her. To Zalanthe, it was as alien as much of the world had been the first time she had arrived. Her closest friend was in pain and there seemed little she could do. At least in battle she could heal her friends’ wounds and keep her standing, but the pain here was different. Zalanthe searched her mind, blinking and smiling faintly, murmuring to herself. “I wonder...it shares the pain of battle...would it work...”

“On the next one, push Trapper. You are nearly there.”

Trapper and Tera paid her no heed until she moved her nimble fingers over Trappers belly and murmured softly in her ear. Tera was shocked but had little time as Trapper gasped and began to push.

Zalanthe howled in pain. She felt a crushing pain in her pelvis. Her vision blurred for a brief few seconds as she fought off her bodys attempt at passing out.

“Ahhh...gods...Zala...what did you...do?” Trappers’ eyes were wide from hearing her friends cry of pain but, wisely, kept her mind focused on more immediate matters.

“Later...Trapper.” She groaned with Trapper as she gave one final push, finally delivering the baby into Teras’ waiting arms. With that, Zalanthe collapsed back on the bed, her vision swimming again, gasping for breath, swatting her hand in front of her face in a vain attempt to push the black shapes from her vision.

As it turned out, her spell had indeed worked. Trappers pain was lessened to a degree as Zalanthe took on part of it herself. It confirmed in the woman’s mind that she truly was too young to consider going through such pain for herself. Elven children could wait. Her spell, however, had left a residual side effect. It would seem the spells effects were somewhat permanent whenever the baby was fed.

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

Dorian continued with the tale of his elven grandfather telling of the pain and sorrow he suffered and the subsequent ways he made things right. It interested her. There was a very real similarity between his grandfathers’ views and her own, though his changed dramatically while hers seemed set in stone.

“Parents never stop loving their children.” Her voice lowered as she looked into her lap and slipped into her native tongue, murmuring “I hope.”

“I do not know why I can tell you such things.” Elven flowed from his lips, almost as fluent as any full blooded elf, making her look up again. “Something just feels right. I feel comfortable.”

“I am honoured you chose to talk to me” she said with a soft, reassuring smile. “I have not had the chances to sit down and talk without worry for many moons. Perhaps next moon I will share myself with you.” Her eyes widened, almost stumbling over her next words. “Figuratively, of course”

“I knew your meaning.”

Despite his firm reply, she thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile flash across his lips. Or perhaps she simply wished he had smiled? He had not the stamina of the elven woman and so turned had decided to turn in for much needed rest. To Zalanthe, the night spent in quiet conversation was nearly as invigorating as a nights rest, but now that she was denied that conversation, her mind began to trail off again.

Where did it all go wrong?

She had left. It all stemmed from that. She had left and everything had changed. The miles had changed Laque. His personality towards her, Trapper and Lettinius seemed to change on a nearly daily basis. Lettinius had become easy to tire and tremendously in debt thanks to Tymora deserting him and requiring two costly rescues from the Fugue.

As for Trapper, she seemed the same lovely girl she had been when she left Zalanthe all those months ago under the willow tree. The pregnancy seemed to change her, too, as did the deaths of Lettinius and Laque. The year before, she had declared her intent to kill Louen after his arrival in the Marches on account of following the evil god Bane, yet that very night she had worked out a deal for a demon blood Aurilite to avenge her occasional lovers death.

Zalanthe stood and rubbed her eyes as the rays of the morning broke over the cities walls. Laque was dead, Lettinius was as close to it as you could be while still breathing and Trapper seemed to be losing her mind.

She smiled.

She realized then, she did not care. She did not care Laque had died; he lived fast and dangerous and had simply run out of luck and while she had cared for him once, she felt outcast by him during her time in the Gate. She did not care Lettinius was still weak; he was alive and with her, even if her own principles had prevented her from contributing to the fund to bring him back. She did not care that Trapper was making irrational decisions; she still loved her and knew soft words and a light touch were more effective than any lecture.

Turning on her heels, she slipped into the guild house. Trapper, she was sure, was waiting for her to come to bed.