Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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Ithildur
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

((comic book timed sometime in the past few months IC, during his most recent visit to Silverymoon))

With slow, deliberate steps, Aglaril walked his room within the Lady's College dormitory. He cast his gaze about the room, which had gone for some time without it's occupant, knowing in the back of his mind that he would soon have to find a new place of residence.

His days as a student in this place had come to an end.

Silently the Gold Elf laid out the items he'd brought from Laniara's room. It too, would soon be cleaned and rented out to another, for it's resident would not ever be returning, would never again rest her head against a pillow in this mortal realm.

They're all leaving me, one by one. How long before I too, join them, and depart?

Aglaril leaped onto his bed lightly, then lay down and closed his eyes. A flood of memories came rushing into his consciousness at once, far too many of them scenes of battle. Too vivid, these pictures, scenes of black red blood staining the white snow covered ground, of flashing blades, heroic stands, the deadly dance of death, lethal arrows being loosed from strong bow, spells of power shaping the weave into forces of destruction and protection, of loathsome orcs dropping by the dozens, by the scores, rippling muscled hairy arms wielding falchion, axe, spear... memories of being skewered more than once by wounds that would have slain, were it not for the miraculous grace of healing virtue from potions and magical trinkets.

The garish faces of the orcs eventually faded from view, only to be replaced by that of gnolls, ogres, duergar, monstrous spiders, giants, drow and mind flayers, then ... far worse things... faces which might be described as fair, but deathly pale, pallid, a feral and twisted kind of fair, which would shift into countenances so savage, monstrous and demonic, fangs and claws, axes with sharpened blade which cut into his flesh, through skin, muscle, sinew, and even bone... the deathly chant, the touch of horror, the black energy that enveloped him with pure negative energy, sucking the very life out of him in an instant...

Two final images flashed through his mind, worse still by far than all of them - similar, yet different: two elves, or at least forms that were once elves, but became something else, vile things of horror, for a time at least.

Aglaril abruptly jerked into upright sitting posture, eyes open wide, blinking. A bead of perspiration flowed down his forehead, into the scar near his eye, stinging, yet reviving him to alertness.

No... I can't dwell... it will slow me, paralyze me. Reflect, remember, but avoid being drowned by the memories. Adapt, analyze... and find a way, a weakness. Do not plan as if you will fall, but as if you will live, at least a few more centuries Corellon willing!


Aglaril opened the secure latch, where his extra spellbook was kept, along with his notes and several other discrete items. He carefully placed Laniara's spellbook there, as well as a few other items, and took out the notebook. Opening the pages, he began to add a few new entries under a section titled

Long Range Plans:

<various redacted entries>

<etc>

<etc>

The elves in the Moonwood... are under Elenaril's protection as well as others. Though the village will always be a refuge and a home of sorts to me, as long as Elenaril remains there I will defer to him, and my plans and suggestions will remain mothballed. But I still say... they must change their old ways.

The Eye of Warcrown... I remember the conversation with Alyra, and await word of such a campaign being waged someday, but for now I must focus my thoughts elsewhere. I dream at times that one of these decades, I and others will aid Felbarr in retaking most of old Delzoun, and that they will in turn aid me in my plans for the Marches.

One day I will see to it that the temple Everdusk in Silverymoon receives a donation that puts a smile on Elaith's face. I will also insist I pay for a new haircut for the venerable priest.

<various other redacted entries, including one section sub titled 'The Sword Coast: a Place to Begin'>

Concerning allies... while Swords Edge are a talented crew with many resources, their ethos, methods, motives, and ultimately life spans may prove less than fully suitable. As well, they do not have the reach nor resources that are required for these plans; whether they will even exist as an organization or live long enough to be relevant decades from now remains to be seen. At the moment, their aims and mine parallel each other for the most part, or so it seems.

The mercenary group called Endless Vigil... are an unknown quantity, a wildcard... in more ways than one thanks to Deva.

Deva merits an entry to herself, but not here.


The 'Guardian'... <redacted entry>

Duke Eltan seems a man of honor, but must deal with politics, the interests of his city first and foremost. And he too, has the lifespan of mere decades left, though likely he will outlive most adventurer types. Still, my interactions with him were such that in a pinch, I can place a good deal of confidence in the man, and I would aid him if he sought it, especially if he is able to provide resources I may need.

The Song of Morning... while relations with some of them are strained as a result of them daring to even hint at the possibility... of stealing the recovered remains of the Baelnorn's lover, they are still allies with ethos and priorities quite close to my own, at least in theory. They also hold sway over an entire large town, a town that needs to be viewed as an ally of any sort of reestablished stronghold or settlement in the ruins of Firewine. As with the others, the question of whether they will be a constant power in the decades and centuries to come remains to be seen; certainly individuals like Keldath will not live long enough, and if he passes, what will become of the temple, or the town itself?

Gullykin... I bear great fondness for most of the Halfling folk and have come to enjoy passing through the village during my patrols, though I neither expect nor ask much from the hin in return other than in the way of goodwill. They also are the closest settlement to the ruins of Firewine, and I hope to have their friendship, or with that of their children perhaps, when the day comes and stage 3 of my plans comes to fruition. My heart is glad that our efforts were able to lift the threat of the shadows from the place, and my regular vigil of the Wood of Sharp Teeth hopefully helps make their lives a little more safe... though ultimately, I must achieve one of my more difficult goals to truly ensure their well being as well as that of a resettled Firewine: the driving out of every green dragon from the Wood.

The Selunites have established a major temple and more; like the Lathanderites they are close in ethos, and we would fight for much of the same causes... however I do not expect Theresa to don battle gear herself any more than I would Keldath, unless the threat was direct and dire enough. Ultimately much that can be said for the Song of Morning would apply with them also... though I remember the curious letters which baffle me still.

I have heard some things concerning the Harpers, but as of yet have had no contact with them that I am aware. If the things I've heard are true, they may be the allies I've been looking for, or my worst nightmare come true... or perhaps both.

Evermeet and Cormanthor... In Leuthilspar I was born, and for Myth Drannor my heart at times yearns. Two great capitals of my People, yet so far from me now, so very few communications, and even fewer visits. But one day, that will change, especially if I ever manage to master the spells of the fifth circle.

Among kin, there is only one I would call an ally here in the Sword Coast: Daertho. Stalwart and conservative, trustworthy but inflexible. Corellon, I pray that he outlives me by many, many decades!

How can it be that there are no other kin in this region that I can look to for aid...? I must search for them and other allies in order for any of these plans to come to pass.
Last edited by Ithildur on Tue Oct 22, 2013 2:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Brokenbone »

((Fun reading. And surely SE has the resources for the "above goal" of some priest getting a haircut!))
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Brokenbone wrote:((Fun reading. And surely SE has the resources for the "above goal" of some priest getting a haircut!))
(Thanks. *snort, cackle* edited a single word, bah, still reads funny.... just imagine other entries outlining various sketchy 'plans' for the Sword Coast region before the paragraph on the SE!)
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Aglaril lay on the hard floor, replaying the scene in his mind over and over again.

The others had burst into the chamber first, a dozen steps ahead of him, and the group had found themselves on a narrow elevated platform; for precious seconds there was no way short of a dimension door for Aglaril to move closer forward. He had to bite his lips as he watched it unfold, and silently prayed that the matron's fury would focus her rage upon the darthiir.

At least the plan had was working to some extent. Several times he saw the matron's lips moving, her hand and fingers gesturing, trying in vain to begin her spells... but finding no sound coming forth, shrouded in complete silence. At least for a while.

He watched as she somehow found a spot that was free from the silence, and began unleashing bursts of unholy divine power.

Aglaril knew relying on mere swords would be foolish here; she had to be taken down swiftly. Deva had given her allies the ability to ignore the effects of the Silence, thus he began conjuring the orbs as quickly as he could, hurling them towards his target. Out of the corner of his remaining eye he could see Merrin had chosen the same tactic; a part of his mind registered Merrin's laughter and comment, but Aglaril was too focused to reply.

He could still see in his mind Morgan dropping to the ground. He saw the matron's last spell strike the area, only moments before she leapt off of the platform with a scream of rage, her face drenched with acid, burnt with fire from the orbs. A few moments later, Rhaggot's axe separated her head from her shoulders.




A score of different scenarios and options ran through the Elf's mind as he visualized the scene of battle once more; perhaps if he had been able to get closer, started launching the orbs sooner. Perhaps if he had taunted the matron, kept her focused on himself only. Perhaps if he had been quicker to act, getting to her before the others. Perhaps he should've leaped onto someone's shoulders, muttering an apology as he bounded past them!

Aglaril lay there for hours replaying one scenario after another before finally rising to his feet. Bringing out his journal, the Elf forced himself mentally to change tracks, forced himself to recall yet another less than pleasant scene: one of another Drow female, bound and gagged helplessly, with the tip of his blade pressing against her neck, a divination allowing him to scan her thoughts.

Traitorous Dhaerow.

Traitors! The Conclave... I am betrayed!

Hateful enemies... how many have they killed, murdered, raped, tortured, and worse? How many has this one...

Do it, please do it. Don't let them take me...

Monster. She cost me an eye.

She believes she was set up.

She's a monster. They all are.

She's terrified.

Her kind cannot be trusted. If they feel a hundredth of the terror they bring to others, it is only justice.

There is ... the one. He's different, they say.

What wretched, twisted lives they lead; they all should be put out of their collective misery.

She may have been set up.

I pity her. I pity them all.

She's helpless, and terrified.




The Elf stared at the blank page of the journal, then slowly packed it away again before exiting the tiny room. It was becoming clear that this trip to the Darkness Below, like another one years ago, would give him some things to ponder on.

This time, Aglaril wasn't sure whether that was a good thing at all.
Last edited by Ithildur on Mon Nov 04, 2013 1:43 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Brokenbone »

((Yay battles!))
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Blindhamsterman »

Great read. Lovely to see he's alive and getting involved in a great deal :)
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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Aglaril had been spending even more time than usual in recent days with his drills, drills that had become nigh daily rituals by now. Getting fully used to a new blade always takes a little time, especially for an El'Tael who had only days ago regained the sight of both eyes.

The Bladesong concerns the mental, even mystical aspects of bladework as much as the physical. You must attune your mind, body, and soul to each of your weapons, Aglaril.

Mind and body... body and soul.

It certainly helps when every part of the body is there, functioning properly, of course; for this Aglaril was glad once more, and grateful, grateful for the kindness of Theresa, who offered her aid without being asked. He certainly was glad as well for her superlative skill and steady hands, wincing slightly at the thought of what it might've been like with someone less skilled poking and probing. He found himself shaking his head in amazement once more as he considered what she had wrought through them, and even more so, the immense divine power which had been channeled through the small young woman.

The Bladesinger took a deep breath and refocused his attention on the blade in his hand, concentrating until the Song began to flow within him once more.

The pommel is still rather short, but it will do, thought Aglaril. The blade had been commissioned (with nearly every last bit of coin he had) with specific instructions for a longer pommel than most of the blades crafted in the Silver Spires, to better fit Elven hands. While it was still far from a true Elven design, it was a far better fit than the cold forged iron blade he'd purchased from Baldur's Gate, and of superb craftsmanship. Perhaps more importantly, the weapon carried with it an enchantment that made it a touch more menacing against creatures of evil.

And it was made of tempered silver.

A blade of silver, forged in the temple of Selune, Lady of Silver, the Moonmaiden... I shall call you Gyrlass-Aerasume, 'Falcon of the Silver Moon'


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Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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"One down... how many more to go, I wonder?" mused the Elf grimly.

His mind recalled the desperate gestures, the eyes of the 'witch' glinting with wicked rage (or was it glee?) as she summoned and shaped the fell necromantic energies. Aglaril remembered wondering whether his defenses still held, and whether the orb of energy he was about to launch for a final, killing attack would be conjured in time, or whether she would complete her spell first. Most vividly, he recalled the arcane syllables uttered in cold, chilling voice...

... a split second before she was cut down by a timely blade, wielded by an unlikely bearer. Those syllables, as it turned out, would be the last ones ever uttered in mortal form by the witch (or so Aglaril hoped); an unknown soldier, a wisp of a woman who risked her life in the line of duty, somehow managed to survive the onslaught long enough, had found a way past the witch's guard, just in the nick of time to land the killing blow.

The Elf smiled, for he thought her reward well deserved. This ordinary soldier, this unknown maiden of modest skill, risked likely far more than any of the so called 'heroes' and adventurers with their greater skill and expertise. As long as there remained ones like her in the Realms, Aglaril thought, there would always be hope that the greater good would triumph in the end.

In the end are we not all - even the most skilled and powerful - merely small players in our respective roles, in the scheme of the entire multiverse and all that it contains?

His next thoughts however, were once more more sober.

"These foes are more powerful than I'd imagined; a death spell of the seventh circle, and the near death of two in our ranks..."

They would have to be better prepared... for future dances with witches.


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Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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Struggling with paradox, balancing apparent contradictions, reconciling two disparate elements that at least on the surface did not go together... this was hardly new to Aglaril. In fact, it was in many ways his entire life now: a Bladesinger who blended martial prowess and the Arts arcana, an Elven protector who for the past year (though but a blink of time to an Elf) had spent his time more with N'Tel'Quessir than with his own kin.

However, his present circumstances while in the Moonshaes were taking things to another level, and the death of Drake only served to highlight this. Life in the Realms could be harsh, and there was little time nor indeed reason to mourn the passing of creatures whose entire existence was one of twisted testimony and servitude to evil and darkness: the orcs, goblinoids, the Drow, the many abberations and vile undead he had crossed paths with. But the likes of humans... they always made things more complicated did they not, even the less noble among them?

Aglaril knew the warnings, the rumors, the reports, many vague and obscure, some contradicting the others... Drake was not an unknown figure among certain circles, even aside from his status of nobility in the Isles.

Nobility... the Elf mused briefly.

Regardless, in the split second's moment of choice, he had not hesitated to turn back before the rest of the group had a chance to regroup, to return to the chamber and attempt to get him out to safety. The lighting was poor, the pale countenance could very well have been the result of exposure to the poisonous cloud (the fool! Why did he linger in that place?) that Fumir had just dealt with, or whatever it was that had laid him low so quickly; with his meager skills in such things, Aglaril could not be entirely certain that the prone man was even alive - but still he had not hesitated.

Or had he?

By the time he somersaulted past the skeletons and reached the fallen man, precious seconds had passed; he recalled how it had felt like time itself had slowed, and remembered how leaden his steps felt, remembered fumir's twin blades flashing. He remembered grabbing the prone Drake, and immediately glancing about, ready to utter the incantation that would take them out... but to where? The rest of the group had fallen back to regroup further down the corridor, somewhere past the corner - but he thought for a moment that he could hear Thais' distinct steps rushing forward... where was she? He had cast a spell of seeing to help him keep track of her; had it been dispelled, or was he imagining what he heard?

Precious seconds... Aglaril made up his mind, and took them through: himself, Fumir, and Drake. He had aimed for what seemed like a sound fallback point: the chamber around the corner. It was enough distance that the skeletons could not bother them for a few moments, yet the rest of the group would be close by. Syllables of arcane power quickly uttered, and instantly they were on the other side. As often with casting such forms of teleportation it took a moment for Aglaril to recover from the jaunt, and precious more seconds passed by even as Fumir scrambled to open a vial.

It was then they both realized Drake was no longer breathing.

Aglaril found himself surprised by the twinge of regret that passed through him, even now, at the memory.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

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Memories.

The memories of an Elf are a difficult thing to describe to the N'Tel'Quessir, certainly, especially when relived through the experience of reverie, the trance of the Fair Folk: both far more real, tangible and concrete than those of shorter lived races, and at the same time distant, often decades, centuries removed from the present.
Aglaril had been standing for nearly six hours now at a small clearing, atop a lonely slope within a reasonably safe section of the Moonwood. This test of waiting was perhaps the most difficult part for him, for Aglaril in spite of his strides could hardly be accused of possessing the patience of Labelas Enoreth.

Unless it was a matter of life and death perhaps, which he reminded himself with effort, that it very well could be someday.

The Sword Coast would've been a better place for this, mused the Elf. Almost immediately after the thought flitted across his mind, he looked up to the sky once more, nodding to himself as he laid out a small parchment on the hilltop. The sky was finally growing darker, not with the approach of dusk but with the gathering of clouds.

Illeleste, Falling Rain. A style of elven bladework which is foundational training for most Bladesingers, relying on parrying and dodging an enemy's blow until an opening for a decisive strike appears.

As the rain drops began to fall, Aglaril drew his blade and took a deep breath. It had been more than a decade since he had seriously attempted this drill back on the Isle under the rather distracted eyes of his father. He remembered vividly how the elder elf had drawn his thinblade, winked at Aglaril, and proceeded to put on a dazzling display of agility, accuracy, and reflexes in the light drizzle, using only his blade to keep a small parchment on the ground completely dry by precisely deflecting raindrop after raindrop before they could land on the parchment.

Aglaril remembered too, that after a few minutes of the display, his father simply bade Aglaril to draw his blade and do the same, then walked away as his attention was caught away by a pretty etriel. After some minutes of frustration and anger, the results had been a drenched piece of parchment and a vow to never attempt the drill again.

A matter of life and death, Aglaril reminded himself, and bent his legs slightly at the knees into a balanced stance, his longsword held out before him over the parchment.

With a distant thunder, the first few raindrops began falling from the sky.
Aglaril's mind reached back further than it had in some time... until he remembered the delicious droplets falling onto his youthful ruddy face.

They fell one by one, slowly at first then faster and faster, as the blessed rainfall of the Isle brought life and refreshment to all living things in Leuthilspar that day. The young Elf would normally have extended his tongue as far as he could, grinning from ear to ear at the sweet taste and cool sensation, then bursting into laughter as he ran his hand through damp golden locks. He would then have ran home to help his mother bottle the gifts of the Seldarine in anticipation of an exquisite batch of Everquisst, or perhaps something even more exotic, brewed with a touch of subtle, yet clever use of the Art

But that day, he did not taste sweetness. The young Elf stood with longsword in hand, the point of the blade lowered and drooping as it touched the ground, a thing that was frowned upon by any self respecting Velahrn. His head was lowered, and his shoulders were drooping as well. His heart only knew bitterness as the drops fell faster and faster, the parchment that lay at his feet drenched and spoiled.

He could hear his father's coy laughter fading away in the distance, along with his light footfalls accompanied by that of an even lighter pair of graceful feet. He heard briefly an unknown (though in some ways all too familiar) high pitched feminine giggle, but that too, was soon drowned out by the gentle sound of the falling raindrops.

Aglaril felt something warm, something hot trickling down one cheek. He did not notice that the sound of Leuthilspar's rainfall this day did not carry their usual levity, rather sounding somewhat of a strange melancholy.

Instead, the young Elf perceived the sound as taunting, mocking his utter failure with his blade, and mocking the dull ache in his chest. His eyes narrowed, and a sword flung in anger clattered to nearby stone pavement.

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Last edited by Ithildur on Tue Feb 10, 2015 8:24 pm, edited 8 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Ithildur wrote:((Theme song for Aglaril... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGDA0Hecw1k))


"Tsk, Aglaril... you really believed Corellon visited you in a dream?"

The crisp, smooth sound of drink being poured expertly into the crystal goblet underscored the words. Through the thinly veiled layer of what might've been sympathy, the true tone was unmistakable, Aglaril thought to himself: the tone of nonchalant skepticism, perhaps even a hint of mockery.

"And this... voice you believe you heard, telling you to return, without explanation," The elder Elf paused to take a sip before continuing, a small smirk forming on his lips. "What next, my dear Aglaril? I suppose you'll be telling me you're a chosen vessel of the Lady of Mysteries! Perhaps become a man of the cloth or some such."

The last bit was not spoken with any degree of reverence, Aglaril knew. Some part of him felt a twitch of anger, but the emotion passed quickly as Aglaril lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of his father.

Surprisingly, the elder elf averted his eyes. It was subtle, and swift, but Aglaril saw it. Curiosity and wonder, followed quickly by his own skepticism took hold of him.

"Why did you come, Osu?" Aglaril queried rather accusingly. "You've had little interest in returning to the Sword Coast, or anywhere outside the Isle in general since you retired from your adventuring days to settle down." It was his turn to take on a slightly mocking tone now, the last words spoken with deep irony. "Surely you've better things to do than to find passing amusement at my expense under the guise of checking up on me?"

A twinge of regret passed through the younger elf even as the words left his lips, but he hardened his face, eyes locked onto the other elf unflinchingly. He knew fully what to expect, for this kind of exchange was the perfect setup for the not-so-subtle verbal sparring that Arinelar quite thoroughly seemed to enjoy. It had been a pattern for years, decades, almost a dance that Aglaril had often unwillingly, sometimes quite eagerly found himself locked into... a dance that he did not enjoy ultimately, a sparring contest that pained him deeply, and one that the elder elf was nearly as proficient in as with his actual blades.

Surprisingly, Arinelar simply turned away; the still athletic elf's broad shoulders seemed to sag ever so slightly.

What new trick is this, I wonder?

Aglaril's habitual instincts would not allow him to lower his guard. Decades. Decades of experience had taught him that nothing Rinel did was what it seemed; everything was a setup, a sleight of hand, a diversion to catch one unawares or distracted - it did not matter whether the sharp, cutting thrust would come in the form of blade, words, or simply a look; Aglaril knew well enough that it would come, sooner or later.

"It was your mother's idea," replied the elf simply. "And I agreed."

Since when did you start listening to anything that came out of her mouth? The thought formed in Aglaril's mind, but he remained silent for the moment, still wary.

"Osi... mother...." the younger elf spoke after a full ten minutes of complete silence in the room. "And you did as she asked? Why?"

Rinel shrugged his shoulders, with something more akin to resignation than apathy in his movement. His grey eyes, however, rose to meet Aglaril's gaze for a moment.

"Because I wished to," came yet another plain answer, followed by words that sounded more tired than defiant. "Is that so wrong? Does it offend you to hear it?"

Aglaril, for the moment at least, could not find the words to reply.


The two blades locked together with a ringing flash for a brief moment, and for a time the sound of quiet panting and controlled breathing were the only sounds in the large sparring chamber. Two pairs of eyes, one emerald and one a keen shade of grey, met for seconds that seemed like hours.

"Forgive me, Aglaril."

With a flick of wrist the younger Elf spun away into a defensive position and looked towards the older, his expression clearly reflecting disbelief, suspicion and doubt.

More games, O'su? Very well, so be it... but know that I am not the same Elf that you once could toy with like a cathshee playing with a mouse.

"You would ask me for such a thing? You of all people..." Aglaril smirked. "The very notion of asking such... of me, the only seed of your loins that escaped the liberties afforded by your truest friends, Cassil and Nararoot..."

Aglaril drew no small satisfaction from noting that Rinel pursed his lips together with narrowed grey eyes. His sarcasm had found its mark.

A score. I shall press the advantage while the opening remains.

"You know it's true, O'su; you and I both know it, though I've only had the courage to say thus on one occasion. I know what I am to you: a disappointment, a distraction, a drag noose around that neck of yours which you keep on a swivel."

The two blades, a finely crafted silver longsword and an even more exquisitely made Elven thinblade, exchanged a series of feints, half feints, a thrust and a slash, before coming together once more in a brilliant clash.

"A disappointment, did I say?" Aglaril pressed on, his words, the heat and sarcasm behind them building a momentum of their own accord now. He ignored the unfamiliar expression on the countenance of the older Elf as he continued the dance of blade and word. He could feel his unique training in the Bladesong now giving him distinct advantage in this exchange: his mind and body were honed to capably balance and blend simultaneously several distinct, seemingly disparate elements - the Art of the Blade, the Weave, and the Dance. It was easy enough to channel aspects of his mind and tongue that otherwise would be engaged in spellcasting into more suitable expression for this exchange. In some ways this was a dream come true for Aglaril: thrusting, probing, jabbing verbally, searching mentally for a weakness to exploit, while he danced and kept his blade moving swift enough to match the speed of the elder Elf... at long last!

"Allow me to correct myself; a disappointment would mean that you actually had hopes or aspirations for me, perhaps gave some token thought towards my existence, no?"

Aglaril could not be sure whether it was anger that he saw flash on the elder Elf's face this time. For the moment he did not care, and continued on, his own blade easily deflecting the flurry from the lighter blade of his opponent.

"The fact is, I did not even register as a disappointment to your eyes; is that not closer to the truth? Perhaps an annoyance would be a more fitting word, like a bad odor, a wafting foul stench that bothers, but passes soon enough and is quickly forgotten when the scent of perfumed and soft skin draws near!"

"I... have my share of regrets," came the reply, accompanying a rather feeble attempt to bypass Aglaril's formidable defenses. So feeble, in fact, that Aglaril immediately smelled a trap, a setup like so many other times prior to this match.

"Ah yes, regrets. Most assuredly you do, O'su, this I know full well. My only question is which is the greater: the day that you decided to forgo the customary herbal preparations, or..."

The blades crossed and clashed once more, but this time, the sudden force behind Aglaril's attack caught the elder Elf completely by surprise, enough to knock the thinblade low and to the side.

Aglaril's eyes narrowed, and he went for the kill, his voice rising uncharacteristically towards a heated crescendo.

"... the day that you began your pretense at love and settling down, and decided to ruin MY MOTHER'S LIFE!!!"

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It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Aglaril stood over the fallen Rinel, the tip of his blade held a tad too close to the throat of the elder Elf. Only the flat of his blade had been used in the felling attack, of course, along with a bit of pommel, and much to the younger Elf's pleasure, a well placed knee to the abdomen.

At last.

"Yield," demanded the younger Quessir, his voice calm and his mind racing. For a moment his emotions soared in triumph, but soon gave way to a strange, vague sense of dissatisfaction, which only grew at seeing the look on his father's face.

Rinel did not reply, instead looking up at his son's face with a rather wistful, plaintive expression. He seemed to be studying the younger Elf. Or was he?

It's yet another trick; he's looking for a way out.

"Aglaril," came the silken smooth tenor voice finally, though the younger Elf wondered again if there was almost a hint of resignation, weariness to it.

"You have come a long ways, it seems. But you..."

In spite of himself Aglaril felt his eyes widen then narrow quickly as he noted where the gaze of the elder Elf shifted towards. It should have been a familiar enough thing to him by now, and without looking he knew that the elder Elf had managed to subtly hook one foot around the back of his ankle. He knew his father's skillful trip could readily take down an unguarded foe, especially when it was aided by magic hidden in the curled points of those thunderously loud, green, obnoxious boots.

Aglaril half leaped, half stepped back out of the trap while keeping the point of his blade stationary; strangely, Rinel did not seem inclined to attempt the takedown.

"Your old tricks won't avail you O'su, not this time, not this day. Admit it, I've finally bested you. Now YIELD!"

Somewhere in the back of the Bladesinger's mind, the thought of magically setting Rinel's magnificent hair on fire if he refused to yield seemed like a fine idea, for a brief, tempting moment...

"I yield,"

The two words were spoken simply, quietly, and so apparently disarmingly that Aglaril lowered his blade without even realizing he did so.

He also did not realize for a few seconds that his jaw hung open.

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Last edited by Ithildur on Tue Feb 10, 2015 4:51 am, edited 1 time in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

"I yield, son," came the words again. Aglaril could not have been more staggered if he'd been hit on the head by one of Zorran's vampire Orogs; the words barely registered, and when they finally did, he found himself simply staring at Rinel.

"Well, Corellon's lithe buttocks, lad! You've managed to best me; I concede, yield, surrender and more if that's what you wish to hear from me! Now could you be so kind as to to give me a hand up?"

Numbly, Aglaril did as requested, though he wasn't stunned enough to dismiss all suspicion as he extended his arm warily towards his father. There was no trick this time either, however; merely a small, barely audible snort as the all-too-spry elder Elf regained his feet, an act that they both knew well enough required absolutely no assistance.

It did, however, require an obvious physical gesture: an extension, an offering, and an acceptance. Aglaril wasn't sure what he felt, other than perhaps surprise, still the ever present suspicion, and an odd sort of ... detachment.

How curious... Aglaril thought to himself, though he felt something else for a split second when emerald and grey eyes met, and he found himself quickly averting his gaze.

He pulled the elder Elf up, nearly hard enough to pull the arm out of it's socket.


***************************************************************************************************


"Forgive me, Aglaril... there's so much..."

It was some hours after the sparring match, and the pair of Elves had long stood by the ship, silently watching the docks' bustle and business without saying a word.

"There's much that I need to speak of, to tell you... to explain."

"Explain?"

The word was spoken in a manner that clearly conveyed what he felt: incredulity, doubt, disbelief, and fraught with the cold, frosty edge of accusation.

"To think that mere explanations could undo who you are, what kind of quessir you are, what you've done. You simply have no idea, do you?"

"That is not the meaning of my words, Aglaril..."

"No." Aglaril cooly observed the helpless look on Rinel's face as he cut him off, once, then twice with a gesture, as the elder Elf attempted to speak again. Somewhere inside, he realized this felt almost soothing, and rather satisfying, as an all too familiar perfumed scent wafted towards them from somewhere in the City. The lips of the scion of House Shaelara curled into a small smirk as he heard the sound of light, feminine footfalls approaching: the steps, the movements, the legs of a dancer.

"No time, I'm afraid, O'su... There's a rather delicious pair of thighs attached to a pretty little thing by the name of Deva you see. You'd like her too, I'm quite sure, a pity really... but I'm afraid I haven't the faintest interest in arranging for the two of you to meet for a few reasons; I'm sure you understand!"

"Give my love to O'si... that is if that means anything to you at all truly, after all this time. I suppose we'll meet again sometime or other when I grow weary of Faerun and miss Leuthilspar, yes? After all, we've still a few centuries to ... work things out as they say I suppose?"

With a shrug Aglaril spun and began to walk at brisk pace, doing his best to ignore the sound of his name being called once... twice... The third time he heard it it was spoken by an altogether different voice, a female human who still spoke with the distinct twang of a former street urchin. With an effort the Bladesinger put on a grin, and convinced himself that a night of indulgence with Deva would ease the unexpected ache that burned in his chest.

Without fanfare or even thunder the cloudy skies overhead resumed the familiar rainfall of the Sword Coast, as Arinelar Shaelara wordlessly boarded the ship with uncharacteristically heavy footsteps.

It would be the last time Aglaril would see him, before the arrival of the Sending some months later informing him of his sire's passing on.


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Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

Why should I lament ... for him?

Thick, nearly impenetrable darkness surrounded Aglaril as he mentally extinguished the dim magical light. The Elf was sitting leaning against a wall, in a place that he fully knew few dared to roam, much less roam alone.

Not quite alone...

Aglaril whispered a series of simple, familiar instructions to his sole companion, in a strange language that none but the two of them could comprehend. The reply was a series of soft, high pitched squeals and pings from a tiny creature that rested on his left shoulder, a creature whose small eyes might've flickered with hint of surprising intelligence if seen in brighter light. With a silent flutter of wings, the unlikely companion left the perch of Aglaril's shoulder and flew off into the darkness.

With his diminutive scout alert and nearby, Aglaril allowed himself a moment to relax somewhat in the long-abandoned campsite. Without realizing it the Elf cupped his face in his hand as if weary or burdened by his thoughts. In this place he could not afford to settle into full reverie even with Rayne alerting him through their empathic link, but the memories came flooding back.



**********************************************************************************************************


"Poisoned? By whom?"

Aglaril found himself pacing the large chamber's marbled floor rather agitatedly, looking to his mother's large, oval shaped, emerald-colored eyes. He could see the look of pain in them as she spoke.

"Aglaril, you know that your Osu made his share of enemies in his younger years..."

"Yes, and I doubt his more recent years were somehow all that different. But more importantly, how is it that no clergy of the Seldarine came to aid him?"

"They did, Aglaril." came the soft, gentle reply.

"Apparently they were ineffectual?" Aglaril shot back, an hint of disbelief and confusion in his voice. "They seem to have failed quite miserably, no? There he lies, the irrepressible, unvanquishable Arinelar Shaelara, foremost among the roustabouts and scoundrels of House Shaelara! Very much vanquished I'd say; he's as dead as a piece of driftwood found by the shores of Velueth, by the gods!"

The only response to his outburst was a saddened glance.

"Well, I'm sure he will be missed dearly by all, especially the Etriels of Evermeet, the sillier ones at least."

The last words came spilling out in spite of himself, dripping with sarcasm, and hung in the air. They were met by complete silence from his mother, as she turned her gaze to the younger Elf, then walked toward him with slow but graceful, deliberate steps. For a moment Aglaril felt like he was a small lad again, one who had crossed a line that he knew should not have been crossed, and was about to receive a strong reprimand at the least... or perhaps something more severe.

Aglaril averted his gaze from his mother as she spoke in a calm and gentle tone.

"I have forgiven him,"

Still not looking at her, the younger Elf pursed his lips, a hint of anger in his eyes as he clenched a hand into a fist. But he remained silent.

"Aglaril..."

His mother spoke his name gently, with no hint of reproof or judgment; there was sadness, grief, and yet a kind of strength and clarity in her voice that he did not remember often hearing.

"Aglaril, my child... you've been gone from the Isle for some time. You do not know."

"I do not know... what, Osi?" he replied slowly, unsure and full of doubt. "It has not been that long that I've been gone; surely you do not mean that in the space of mere moons, a few years, everything is different?"

"No, not everything," came the reply.

There was something in her voice, her tone, that made Aglaril pause and wonder, and finally look up at his mother's face again. Though Celene Shaelara would never be considered strikingly beautiful or regal for an Elf, she still was undoubtedly fair to look upon in her own fashion, and as Aglaril grew to appreciate in more recent decades, she had many subtle, hidden qualities which he had failed to appreciate in his younger years. In that moment he felt he could see these in her now, perhaps stronger than ever, in the midst of what he knew deep in his heart was a time of bittersweet grief held in delicate balance.

"Rinelar was quite capable at being ... creative about finding new and inventive, and at times cruel ways to break your heart and mine over the decades, Aglaril, it's true."

Aglaril lowered his gaze once more, a touch of regret washing over him as he remembered he was not the only one with grievances against his father.

"There is much that he needed to answer for, perhaps atone and ... make amends for... not only to you and I, or others he had wronged. But now..."

"I do not know how you found the strength to live with him, to endure," Aglaril cut in softly. Silence filled the chamber once more for some time before he continued. "I realize I speak of severing ... sacred bonds that are not easily broken, of ties that reach to the depths of heart, body, soul, spirit, in ways that non Elves could not fathom, but many others would have left him."

"And taken you with me," came the reply, and a gentle nod of understanding with it. Aglaril knew this was not unfamiliar territory for either of them; indeed it had been a source of some vexation for him for many years.

"At the time when I came closest to making such a decision... had I made it, I believe it would have ... ended me. You know this, my son."

The silence resumed for a while, Aglaril unwilling or unable to answer.

"It was no ordinary poison, Aglaril," At long length, Celene spoke again.

"Rinelar knew that he had been poisoned for some time. I do not know exactly how long, but it was many moons, perhaps even a year. It was a magical, excruciatingly slow acting poison concocted for him, he told me finally. He knew, but he did not tell anyone, for so very long."

"At first I think he believed he could shrug it off, let it take it's course and wash out from his system; he's dealt with ordinary poisons before more than once the hard way, and his pride got the better of him. Over time he realized this was... different."

"He finally confided in me and we sought aid, and for a time it seemed that the poison however strange and potent, was mostly eliminated. Still, we were told it would take time to completely purge it due to how long he'd waited, as well as it's magically enhanced potency. As well, we were advised that Arinelar's state of mind, strength of heart and will, would make all the difference in completely eliminating it and remaining free of such. It was during this process he began to change."

Aglaril looked up once more, regarding his mother with a skeptical, yet wondering look on his face.

"Perhaps it was the fact that he was spending a great deal of time being tended to regularly by the clergy. There was one Moon elf priest of Sehanine in particular, who he seemed to form a bond with in a way I've rarely seen with Rinel and another quessir. I believe they spoke much of things that await beyond this mortal plane... which is unheard of for your Osu."

"He and I were spending more time together as well, certainly," Celene paused, a wistful smile briefly forming on her face before continuing with a shrug. "Or perhaps he was simply realizing how tired he was of certain things in his life. Regardless, he was doing well, Aglaril, in so many ways, for a time. So well in fact, that he desired to seek you out for a visit. He said it was long overdue."

Aglaril continued to stare at the space in front of him, his thoughts beginning to gnaw upon itself.

"He came back from the trip unwilling to speak of what occurred. After that, things... seemed to fall apart."


**********************************************************************************************************

Aglaril sat with his face buried in his hand, his mind and heart in vastly deeper gloom than the surrounding darkness.

Why should I lament ... for him...




The Elf was jolted from his thoughts suddenly by the familiar sense of dread and danger, the fear felt by another - followed by a sense of small relief - Rayne had detected something alarming, and was now returning to him, shivering as he hid himself under Aglaril's cloak. He could sense the fear was strong, much stronger than usual even for this place.

The Bladesinger rose to his feet, quietly drawing Gyrlass from its scabbard, narrowing his eyes as he strained to see - even his low light vision was put to the test in this place.

He finally saw, and understood his companion's fear.


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Last edited by Ithildur on Wed Nov 30, 2022 1:11 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Rising Up - Scion of Shaelara

Post by Ithildur »

"My blade has been far too idle... while troubles plague the isles."

The words that he had spoken earlier echoed through Aglaril's thoughts once more: words spoken without bravado, simply summing up the regret, the quiet, distinct frustration rising within his heart as the weight of the night's revelations sank in.

Elves might experience and view time differently than most, yet it was unavoidably clear - in the end time waited for no one, human, dwarf, elf, not even the gods perhaps. These isles, the many people who'd been suffering, captured, enslaved, and worse, were not going to get a pass - their enemies certainly were not idle, and now... the malevolent threat lurking behind the scenes was aware of the new threat... and beginning to exert it's presence.

The words in truth had also been meant to bolster his own heart and resolve. The realization sank in slowly now, even as a confession he'd allowed to slip out also came back to haunt the Elf - a confession that was in stark contrast to the earlier statement, yet equally true, and perhaps coming from a much deeper place.

"I almost wish that I could remain here for a long, long while Camellia... sheath my blade, and.. forget all this."

It was a moment of vulnerability that took Aglaril himself by surprise (why would he say such a thing to her of all people?) here in this place that reminded him so much of past memories and distant hope, with various statues of the Elven gods, the verdant tended green, the small unicorn... and the lake. Perhaps it had something to do with the power of the grove, this place of sheltered beauty - a place hiding the very power of divinity manifest, breaking through to the physical realm in subtle, measured glimpses.

Like the girl herself. The hatchling babe. A shard... a fragment and a wisp, so small and tender... frail enough only days ago to succumb to the sway of an elementary enchantment, and yet, here in this place, revealed at last.

Aglaril suddenly began to laugh, without intending to. Here in this place as he sat in Reverie, eyes open wide and the memories running through his mind, a flood of emotions - and something deeper - bubbled up from deep within.

The Elf's tears flowed freely even as he laughed - a strange, almost musical blend of weeping and laughter, bursting forth like a fountain that had long been clogged and dormant. Images and memory flooded his consciousness - vivid images he had not looked upon in many, many years, even decades: a pair of smiling faces, a small young face with wild golden locks, tiny hands reaching earnestly for a sheathed thinblade much too large and just out of reach, sounds of happy laughter, the potent, rich scent of golden flowers... the memory of the first time his spirit had been crushed.

For a moment it was nearly delicious, sweet... even the last stinging memory - but not for long. Soon the other images and memories came, and Aglaril like so many other times in recent years, found himself powerless to stop them - images of carnage and battle, death and horrors... faces of former companions either missing, lost or dead, mixed with the rusty smell of blood, the putrid scent of disemboweled corpses and ichor, sulfur-stink of demons, and worst of all, the indescribable smell of the undead... Aglaril fought to counter these with the faces of his more recent and current companions, but as always he found it was a losing battle. In the end, it was his own accusations against himself, and the vivid image of a silent, pained look, that left him reeling in despair.

Only the strength of one final memory pulled him back from sinking deeper into blackness: the face and words of another immense power veiled in frailty - Amlaruil Moonflower of Evermeet - the Sad Queen who knew bitterly well the weight of immeasurable loss and grief, and yet pressed on to persevere out of love and duty to her People.






His laughter had long subsided, and though his cheeks still glistened wet in the moonlight, the tears were soon forgotten or ignored as well. Aglaril forced himself to full wakefulness, telling himself that this was neither the time, nor the place.

"My blade has been far too idle..." he kept repeating to himself as he walked off restlessly, preparing his mind for Illeleste under the lonely moonlight - leaving behind the silent, watchful gaze of the statue of Corellon Larethian.








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Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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