Initiation

[eli`atriedes]

Prologue

"Yes…yes…no…yes…," muttered Selfaril. He was looking down at his map of the region, his eyes darting back and forth across it, as if very quickly running scenarios in his mind. If this is going to succeed, I cannot overlook a single detail…

Still muttering to himself, his finger landed on the city of Mulmaster, where he ruled as High Blade. With over six thousand soldiers at his command, not counting the Cloaks, his personal contingent of wizards, he was a widely respected and feared man. His recent alliance with Zhentil Keep further convinced his enemies and allies that he is not one to cross. The alliance confused his subjects, for he had spent years keeping Zhentil Keep's influence away from the eastern region of the Moonsea. They were confused because they did not know the truth: "Selfaril" was dead. The man who now used his name had murdered him: his twin brother Rassendyll, who sympathized with the Zhentarim. He had used his brother's corpse to fake his own death and took the throne himself. As far as anyone was concerned, he was Selfaril Uoumdolphin.

He lifted his finger from the map and it landed on Vaasa, the kingdom to the north, across the Moonsea and the Galena Mountains, and then on Damara, which is east of Vaasa. Tensions have been rising between the two neighboring countries for years and war seemed like a very real prospect. "Perfect," he whispered with small chuckle. With a careful use of his spies and bards, he can convince either Vaasa or Damara into finally making a move, plunging the Bloodstone Lands into war. Just the distraction I need…

He then moved farther south, his finger tapping on the kingdom of Impiltur. This was a wild card, he knew. Impiltur was allies with Damara, but it had a strong reputation of neutrality. It is unlikely that Impiltur will send troops to Damara's aid….supplies, maybe, but not troops. Still, he did not care whether Damara or Vaasa won the war he hoped to encourage, so this detail may prove unimportant. It would be nice if they wiped each other out…that would save me some trouble…

His finger then moved north again, stopping on a small area in Southwest Damara, a place that he knew was there, even though it was not labeled on his map. In the hills between the Earthspur Mountains and Earthwood lies the small town of Icehill. Scarcely a thousand people lived there, happily going about their lives, unaware of what Selfaril was planning to do.

The town, or more specifically, the area where the town was located, had something Selfaril desperately wanted. Something simple, mundane, something he had a fair abundance of already…

Resources.

The Earthspur Mountains were packed with gold, silver, iron, gems, and bloodstone, just waiting to be mined; it would be enough to make him the wealthiest man in the North if he could claim exclusive rights to them. In addition, there was the Earthwood, a forest covering over a hundred square miles of hills just south of Icehill. Legend has it that a powerful druid, in order to protect it from the cold of the Great Glacier, enchanted this forest hundreds of years ago. Since then, it has never been covered in ice. However, the property that most drew Selfaril's attention was the forest's resilience; it grows back whatever was cut from it in just a few short years, supplying almost limitless lumber. Moreover, monsters that commonly inhabited the other forests in this region tended to avoid the Earthwood, making it that much easier to control. I have to make them mine…

His eyes then fell upon a spot on the map just a few miles west of Icehill and his jaw tightened. No longer did his eyes dart around; they focused on this one location with hatred so intense, the map might have set fire had he been trained in the magical arts.

The Monastery of the Yellow Rose…

The finger that rested on this spot began to tremble until the hand became a fist that crashed down on the marble table on which the map laid. A thunderous noise echoed through the chamber as the marble cracked from the force of the blow. He slumped down into his chair, attempting to calm himself.

"The one thing standing between me and untold wealth are those damn monks!" Selfaril said through gritted teeth. The few hundred monks of Ilmater that resided in the Monastery concerned him more than the entire military force of Damara. It is not possible to take Icehill without the monks finding out first, he thought, his mind racing again. Even the weakest of them could easily take out a half-dozen soldiers before falling, the stronger ones many more than that! I have to even the odds if I am to succeed. But how?

Selfaril walked over to an armoire, pulled open a drawer, and removed a gauntlet. As with every time before, he marveled at the artisanship. Made from obsidian by the best smiths in Zhentil Keep, this black gauntlet had been blessed by Fzoul Chembryl himself. He slipped the gauntlet onto his right hand then saluted with it, beating it once against his chest, and then fell to one knee in a posture of fealty.

"Bane, Lord of Darkness, Tyrant of Tyrants, I bow to your supreme will!" he said in a loud voice. "I wish to spread your tyranny to the lands to the east, furthering your goals to rule over all of Faerun! However, I am at a loss! My plan is perfect, but for one thing: the monks of the hated Ilmater! I beg of you, Master, show me how I can rid the land of these fools so that you can take your place as the true god of all that you see!"

Overwhelming pain filled his being as images were forced into his mind. They went by so fast, he could barely comprehend what he was seeing. A mighty beast over a frozen land, killing all that dared oppose it…a corpulent fiend laughing at deaths it has caused…a field covered with heads on pikes, each one with Ilmater's symbol on their foreheads…

When Selfaril was finally able to see normally again, he realized that he was drenched in sweat and his throat hurt as if he had been screaming. A moment later, he also realized that he was not standing where he was a few moments ago, but had somehow ended up back at the table with the map, his armored fist having apparently slammed down upon it. He lifted his arm and saw that the gauntlet had burned the Monastery off the map, leaving a charred hole.

A dark chuckle escaped his lips, growing louder and more intense with each breath. Before long, his maniacal laughter echoed off the walls.

Yes…yes…It will all be mine…

* * *

A few hundred miles away, Father Thernan was finishing the last of his meager meal of bread and cheese. He did not complain about the food; indeed, he considered it an honor. The temple's food stores were adequately supplied with a variety of fruits, meats, and breads, but they were not for him to enjoy, nor any other Ilmatari cleric living there. They were for the poor, the downtrodden, and the lame, those who could not eat otherwise.

The temple he managed was not flashy or attractive compared to the ones dedicated to the other deities worshipped in Laviguer, even though the Temple of the Broken God received more donations than any other temple in town. Instead of upgrading the church to make it more appealing to the eye or other vain objectives, the funds were redistributed back to the poor as food, shelter, and medical treatment. Even though the temple was only designed to hold about three hundred people during the worship services, almost twice that many have been the norm for the past few months. The recent influx of faith and donations has led to discussions among the clergy as to whether or not they should commission the building of a homeless shelter on the edge of town, or perhaps a hospital.

Light filled the worship chamber for an instant, followed by a peal of thunder that shook the building, causing dust to fall from the rafters. Thernan did not react; it had been storming like this all night. Normally he would have a dozen or so individuals taking shelter here on a night like this, but tonight, he was alone. It pained him to think of those poor souls having nothing to protect themselves from the harshness of the storm; he could readily think of at least four children who did not even have shoes on their feet.

He suddenly realized that he might not be able to hear if someone were to knock on the temple doors in such a loud storm from where he was sitting. I should stand right by the door until my shift is over. I would not forgive myself if someone needed shelter from this tempest and I made them stand out in it. Wiping the crumbs off his robe, he stood, wincing a little. Rubbing his shoulder, he thought back to earlier that day, when a visitor to the town had his mule die on him, leaving his cart immobile. Father Thernan had offered to pull the wagon to the stables so the traveler could buy a new mule. Thernan remembers the incredulous look on the stranger's face when Thernan said a quick prayer to Ilmater to grant him strength. He had lifted up the wagon by the hitch and pulled it all the way to the stables, as was promised. He had refused payment for his deed, glad to be of help. Despite Ilmater's blessing, his muscles rebelled against such abuse. Such is the life of an Ilmatari, he thought with a smile.

A banging on the large oak doors of the temple interrupted his thoughts. He ran to the door; his muscles protested the sudden demand. He pulled the door open and two hooded figures rushed in, stopping a few feet from the door. Their hoods were pulled low, so Thernan could not see their faces.

Thernan fought the wind as he tried to close the door, but his muscles were too weak. Suddenly, one of the figures was there, pushing on the door with him. Together, the wind did not stand a chance. The door slammed shut, causing the temple to grow quiet again. It was then that he noticed the shorter of the two strangers was holding a small child bundled up in a burlap cloth. The child could not have been more than a few weeks old!

"By Ilmater's Grace!" exclaimed Thernan. "A child should not be out in this weather, especially one so young! Come, and I shall fetch you some dry robes and some food, and you may stay here until the storm passes."

"I'm afraid we don't have enough time for such hospitalities," said the taller one, obviously male. "We have come seeking Ilmater's help…or more specifically, your help."

Thernan shook his head. "The little one could easily die of exposure in such a storm. Please, I beg you, stay here until--"

"We can't," interrupted the shorter one, a woman. "Please do not think ill of us, but we are being hunted. We wish to spare our son such a fate. Please take him and give him a better life…" Her voice cracked and trailed off.

"Hunted?" Thernan asked, concern in his voice. "By whom? Why are you pursued?"

"It would be best if you did not know who pursues us" said the man. "But we are being hunted for our…" He paused, as if looking for the right word. "…beliefs. We have committed no crime, nor harmed anyone. Our beliefs are…" he paused again, "…different. But our son should not have to suffer for them. "

"Please," the woman sobbed. "Have mercy on him…he deserves to have a normal life." She became wracked with sobs and she would have fallen over if the man, who Thernan now assumed was her husband, had not been there to support her.

Thernan closed his eyes and silently asked Ilmater for guidance. What would you have me do, Ilmater? After a moment, he opened his eyes and nodded. "I will take the boy and raise him as my own. Has he a name?"

"David," said the man.

"And his surname?"

There was no immediate response, and Thernan understood why. For the man to give David a surname would be to give him a connection that he did not want the boy to have, no matter how much he loved him. Thernan held out his hands. "I see. Worry not, for David will be well cared for."

The woman bent down and kissed the baby, her sadness apparent even though her face was hidden. She then handed him to Thernan. When she let go of the child, her will faded and she cried loudly, burying her face against the man's chest. The man held her close, whispering reassurances to her. When she regained her composure somewhat, she turned back to Thernan. "Thank you. You have given him a future. I am forever in your debt."

Thernan held the baby close and shook his head. "You have no debt. That is not how we work here. I bear your burden gladly." The woman nodded with another word of thanks.

"We must go," said the man, heading for the door. He opened it, causing the sound of the storm to once again fill the hall. The woman bowed and ran out into the night. The man also bowed, shouting another thanks over the din. Together, they closed the door again, the man outside pulling on the large, round handle. After the echoes of the door faded, silence pervaded the worship hall once more.

Thernan looked down at the babe in his arms, amazed to find him still sleeping. Thernan wondered how he could have slept through the whole ordeal. He had never raised a child before; luckily, another cleric at the temple, Sister Ressea, had had several children before joining the church. Perhaps I should go wake her. David woke up at that moment, looked up at Thernan, and started to cry. Before Thernan could discern what had happened, a strange, awful smell assaulted him. It did not take long for him to figure out why. Yes, he thought, as he ran towards Ressea's quarters, his face turning green. I should wake her.

[Audark]

The individual who wrote this story is looking for constructively critical remarks on his work. If this were a book, would you turn the next page, suggestions, thoughts that sort of thing.

He is a new applicant and does not yet have NWN2, he does hwoever show promise so I'd encourage everyone to help him out here, and perhaps he'll reciprocate and join us in our world in game when he gets ahold of nwn2

[hollyfant]

First impression, constructive criticism-wise: too many commas.

[johnlewismcleod]

That prose it too good for me to offer criticism...it's brilliant! I would definitely turn the page.

Can I assume his/her application has been stamped?