Prologue the First, or, Into the Pomarj!

 

Gradsul, Kingdom of Keoland

"Good morning, captain," the young half-elf said, touching his brow in salute to his superior officer.  And a good morning it was, indeed.  It was late spring, and the waters around Gradsul were calm and blue.  There could be no better day than this to set out on campaign.  "Looking forward to heading out, sir."

"Ah, leftenant," the aging seadog replied, tapping his own brow in return.  He was genuinely glad to see that the admiralty had assigned Rum Nimruil to lead the contingent of marines on the upcoming mission. "It has been some time since you've been aboard this old boat,"

"Yes, sir, it has," Rum agreed.  It had been quite a long time, in fact, since he had been stationed aboard the Arabella.  "I believe we were dealing with a gang of Wild Coast slavers in '51."

The shipmaster frowned.  "Bad fighting, that was.  Bad fighting."

"That it was, sir,"  Rum agreed.  The skirmishing had been close and bitter in that campaign.  The slavers were tough, and had magic-users in their ranks.  They had also had among there number a gang of strange, unarmored men who fought with their bare hands.  Those had been the toughest bastards of all...  "I hear we're headed east this time, to the waters around the Pomarj.  I'll take orcs over that any day."

"Aye, that we are, Mr. Nimruil, that we are.  I assume then that your commander has already briefed you?"

"Aye, captain," he replied. "A counterinsurgency, I was told.  The last holdouts of the old baronies are being harried by the orcs and goblins of the Lortmils, so I and my marines are landing to sweep and clear."

"Well, that is mostly true.  It seems that now that the old baronies are toppling one by one by the orcs, pirates have begun to make common cause with the conquering horde.  If the buccaneering villains start taking refuge in friendly ports that close to Keolish shipping lanes, well... let's just say that the admiralty has taken a renewed interest in the goings on in our former territories."

"I've only got twenty men, sir," the young marine offered in a measured tone. "It's going to be a tall order to take out a pirate's port if they're dug in."

"Not to worry, Mr. Nimruil, we will not be sailing alone.  We'll meet up with the Astrea and the Aurora along the way.  You'll have sixty of your number by the time we hit the small outpost of Lowport.  I am told you are the senior leftenant on this one, so the field command will be yours."

"Very good, sir," Rum replied.  "Do we have any reliable maps of this place?"

"Everything we have is relatively outdated.  Nothing since the orcs overran the Barony of Ambras three years ago, anyway," the captain reported.  "Even so, we have a former resident of the place who can give us information about the port's layout.  One of the younger sons of the deceased Baron, I'm told.  He's already aboard and waiting for us belowdecks."

"A knight?"

"Well," the captain said thoughtfully, "technically, yes.  Not much more than a boy, though.  I don't think his blade has been wetted yet, to be honest.  Being a younger son, I suspect his House felt they could spare him if anything went wrong..."

* * * * * *

Despite the dim light of the captain's cabin, Rum could easily pick out the young man's features from across the room.  He was tall and sturdy, black of hair, clean-shaven and dark eyes deep set.  He wore a longsword at his hip, as well as a breastplate emblazoned with what Rum assumed was the crest of his fallen house.  By Rum's measure, he did not think this was the young knight's first campaign.  Something about his demeanor said otherwise.  One way or the other, Rum knew he upcoming events would settle the truth of the matter.

the Young Knight

"Have the marines arrived, captain?" the knight asked as the two sailors drew near.

"They are stowing their gear as we speak," the captain answered.  "This is leftenant Nimruil, the royal marines' squad commander."

"Leftenant," the man nodded in return.  "I am Sir Robilar of House Ambras.  I intend to retake Lowport in my family's name, and your assistance in doing so will be crucial."

The knight gestured down at the map spread out on the table.

"We have much to discuss today, we three."

 

Chapter the Second, or, Tangled Webs in the City of Spiders

Erelhei-Cinlu

Rum inhaled deeply from his long-stemmed pipe and took in the familiar scenery of Grindl's Cradle.  Although he had been gone for some years, little had changed in the place.  The finest scum of the Foreigner's Ghetto was always on full display, and from his vantage point he could keep an eye on all its comings and goings.

After leaving the meeting in the gnome's study, he had looked for his preferred spot in the darkest corner of the tavern.  Unfortunately, the small table had been occupied by a lone bugbear, but a menacing glare and a tightened grip on his falchion had been enough to deter the creature from making a contest of it.  The mangy goblinoid vacated the space and shuffled off into the crowd.

Rum had  taken the empty seat and began to carefully mull over the result of the meeting  and his future options.

The Matron Mother of House Eilserv had sent two of her least untrustworthy offspring to deliver an involuntary proposition that would take him back to the surface after only a single sleeping.  He wouldn't even have time to sell any of the goods he had accumulated in the sunlit realms.  He hadn't decided whether this turn of fortune was good or bad.  Only time would tell.

As he sat in thought, the mangy bugbear suddenly reappeared from the crowd.  It also appeared to have multiplied, as three more like it had also materialized.

It seemed there would be a contest after all...

"I recommend finding another table, boys," a silky, female voice chimed in from somewhere behind the thugs.  The tallest of the four turned as if  to threaten the newcomer, looked down, then froze in place.

"Better pitter-patter, before I skin you alive and drape your mangy hides over my bedposts,"  she suggested. "NOW."

The bugbears skulked off without a sound.

"Buy a girl a drink, sailor?" the woman asked demurely, taking a chair without being asked.

The slayer warily considered her proposal.

"Hello, Allistyn."

"Rum," she said, nodding at him and reaching for the bottle of hazy violet spirits a passing barmaid had just dropped off only moments before.  "I see you still breathe the smoke of that wretched surface weed."

She feigned a petite cough, as if his small contribution to the foul air of the place had offended her delicate sensibilities.  

"You didn't say goodbye the last time you left."

And there it was.  His attention narrowed sharply to every move the half-drow female made.  He watched as she poured herself a glass of the mauve vintage.  Was she looking to make good on a slight?  That didn't make sense.  She would have just knifed him in the back and been done with it.  What was she really after?  She was always after something, some hustle, some bit of coin to be had.  For Rum, the half drow sorceror-rogue Allistyn Alaunira would always be the bleeding, dark heart of his home city.  Lusty. Cold. Unpredictable.

Dangerous.

"I'm afraid I won't be staying long this time, either," he answered.

"So I've gathered.  I saw the poorly disguised nobles slinking out of Grindl's study right before you and the other blackguards followed them out.  Must be something really hush-hush for all the secrecy."

She smiled at him sweetly and tossed back the entire glass of the strong, purplish liqueur.

"I've accepted a commission to guide a crew back to the realms of Men and Dwarves," he supplied.  It was going to have to be half-truths and omissions from here on out, and he knew he'd rather have been dancing with a Hepmonoland cobra then sitting next to her at that very moment.

"The everburning light?" she said, pretending to be disappointed.  "Well, if it doesn't have anything to do with our beloved home, then it is of little use to me."

"So, all else being equal, I'll give you the chance to make it up to me and say goodbye properly this time," she said, this time pouring them both a drink.  She tossed hers back a second time and then poured herself yet another, never once taking her eyes off him.

The night was about to take yet another turn.  Promising. Unpredictable.  

Dangerous.

Allystin Alaunira

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

In the darkness of the woode a soft voice whispered, and the child heeded its call.

The youngling wandered ever deeper into the dim forest, following the beckoning tones to it knew not where.

Upon an instant, the closeness of the path opened and the child stood before a withered oak of immense size, bent and nearly broken.  The great bough leaked dark ichor from many gashes that had been rent into its trunk, and its branches hung low under the burden of a great, unknowable sorrow.

As the child approached the horrible sight, the soft voice suddenly twisted into a scream, and the youngling realized that he, too, was screaming.

Rum bolted upright, instantly awakened from his dream.

"Lolth's tits!" a familiar voice growled next to him.   "You come back to my bed, and this is what I get in return?"

The slayer looked over at his companion, taking a moment to clear the thick cobwebs in his head.  Allistyn... Grindl's Cradle...  Dark Lullaby...

"I should have known better than to drink the gnome's poison," the slayer mumbled, reaching for his clothes.  "Every time I do I end up regretting it."

"Yeah, I had a good time, too," the half drow woman smirked, putting away the the thin blade she had reflexively drawn when Rum had awakened her.  "Asshole."

"I didn't mean you."

"I know what you meant," she said dismissively.  Her own pounding headache attested to the potency of the Stoneheart's brew.  She noticed Rum's face, then, and her tone changed uncharacteristically.  "Your eyes are bleeding again, paleskin."

She reached out and wiped away the half-dried streams of crimson from the slayer's face.  She knew what it signified.

Allistyn Alaunira had always had the magic in her blood.  She knew that Rum had it too, even if he didn't believe her.  Sometimes his eyes wept sanguine tears when he slept, and sometimes his subconscious mind would move small objects around while he dreamt.  She could feel the kinship in their blood, the magic.  She could also feel that his came from somewhere far away under the accursed sun, while hers came from somewhere... darker.  Nevertheless, it was there.

"You know, you might consider doing something with that talent of yours some day," she said, rising from the bed and pulling on her own clothes as they prepared to part ways yet again.  "I'd be happy to teach you a few new tricks when you get back."

"Just like always."

Chapter the First, or, From Light into Dark

The Stranded Schooner, 

Hokar, Hold of the Sea Princes

"Will ye have anuther, Rum?" the young barmaid asked him, looking down admiringly at the handsome ranger.  She fancied him a ranger, although she did not necessarily know this to be the case.  She imagined all handsome half-elves dressed in rough leathers to be rangers, whether they be pale as the fey, or as dark-skinned and dark-haired as this one.

"Yes, luv, keep them coming," he replied heartily.  They did not serve ale where he was going, and he was not going to be back for quite some time.  He had been preparing for an upcoming journey over the last two hunting seasons, with his preparations taking him from the Hold of the Sea Princes to the lands of the Tiger Nomads in the far north and back again, all the time accumulating the stores of goods he would need to trade when he reached his final destination.

The young barmaid set a fresh tankard before him, just as the bells of the Church of Procan began to peal.

"Noon already?" he sighed.  "Well then, here's to your health, Penny!" he saluted, quickly downing the mug.  Without further adieu, he rose and took his leave of the small inn.   As he passed the door of the Stranded Schooner he retrieved his stout spear from where it rested amongst all of the other patron's weapons larger than a dagger.

He headed out into the streets of Hokar, flipping up the hood of his cloak and pulling it low over his face.  It was a bright spring day in the lands of the Sea Princes, and the initial burst of sunlight stung his eyes like hot needles.  The pain always lessened after that first shock, but Rum also always preferred the shade to the glare of the mid-day sun.  The sooner he could get out of it, the better.

He made his way quickly to the nearby coach and showed the driver his pass.  The other waiting passengers failed to note the brief conversation between this newcomer and the coachman, as well as the driver's puzzled nod and shrug when the hooded traveler pressed two gold coins into his hand.

The half-elf climbed aboard and took his seat, making sure to pull the window shade down all the way.


* * * * * * *

"Driver? Driver!" The aging dame half-asked, half-demanded as she poked her head out the coach window.  "Why are we stopping?"

"Just a brief stop, mum," the coachman replied wearily.  "Need to check the horses right quick, is all."

"Well, then," the half-elf sitting next to her suddenly announced, rising from his seat.  "I believe I will take my leave."

As he slowly made his way to the door, the same lady accosted him, "But young man," she said incredulously, "We are still half a day from Dry Gulch, there is nothing out there but rugged foothills and scrub!"

"True enough," he replied rather contentedly.  "Just the sort of place I was looking for."

Once again pulling his hood, he stepped out onto the faint trail and stretched his legs a bit before taking stock of the place.  After Rum had exited the coach, the driver quit his 'inspection' of the horses and clambered back up to his seat, tipped his cap to the hooded traveler and quickly got the coach moving again.  This was not a safe area after dark, and the sun would soon be setting.

As far as the half-elf was concerned, the darkness couldn't come quickly enough.

The Foothills of the Hellfurnaces

* * * * * * *


He walked off the trail and into the rough foothills until he came to a more familiar spot-- a large copse of junipers nestled near a winding creek.  As he arrived at the banks, the sun had nearly dipped over the horizon.

With the coming of dusk, he shed the hooded cloak and set to his preparations.  He would have to be ready before midnight, and even after he had finished here, he still had a good hike in front of him.  It would be slow going over the uneven, rocky ground, so he needed to get moving.

Stripping down to his breeches, he slipped into the cool mountain-fed stream and began to wash off the dust that had accumulated from his recent travels.  Apart from the elvenfolk, the peoples that dwelt under the sky did not bathe often enough for his liking, and finding accommodations on the fringes of their societies was a challenge.  More often than not, he had to find a spot such as this to feel truly clean.

He submerged himself several times in the creek, and as he did so, the substances that he regularly applied to darken his hair began to rinse out.  He continued to work at it until he felt certain that all of the dye would have washed away.  With this last bit of business done, he waded back up the bank to his small, fire-less campsite.

Rather than picking up the leather and coarse cloth he had tossed to the ground before jumping into the stream, he instead reached into the finely tooled haversack that he had hung from one of the junipers.  One by one he drew forth a series of items that never should have fit into such a satchel by themselves, let alone all together.

First came a set of well-tailored clothes cut in a style that few in the lands of Men and Dwarves would have recognized.  Next came several pieces of metallic armor, followed by a finely carved bow of large size, and at the last, he drew a long, curved, two-handed blade of masterful workmanship that glinted dangerously in the starlight.  When finished, he stowed away the spear he had been carrying, as well as the soiled clothing, placing them into the enchanted haversack for storage.

After a moment of lacing, buckling and straightening, he drew forth a polished mirror, which he hung on the juniper right above the pack. As he inspected himself in the darkness, he came to a certain conclusion.

"Rotten Ralishaz, I've gotten pale!" he grumbled to himself, rubbing his chin and pointed ears.  "That's what I get for staying away for so long..."

It was true, of course.  The longer he tarried in the lands under the sky, the more his skin lost its true luster.  He had been away nearly two years now, as time was reckoned on the surface.  Eventually, his skin would resume its natural hue, something akin to the sky on a moonless night.  He would have to be closer to his homeland, though, for that to happen.

"Soon enough..." he said to himself.

He shook out his damp hair and inspected it next in the reflective surface.  As expected, all the dye had washed away.  What remained was a mane of fine hair white as cotton.

Nodding to himself, he reckoned himself as presentable as he was going to get.

He returned the mirror and other remaining items of his small camp to his pack and set out for the designated meeting place.

Juniper Creek

* * * * * * *


"Give the pass word, half-elf," the guard at the front of the small cave demanded in the trade tongue known only to denizens of the sunless realms.

"Desselderakathe," he responded in the guard's native tongue.  The guard was svirfneblin.  It had been a very long time since Rum had spoken any words at all in their language; he hoped the word he had given was still correct.

"Aye," the svirfneblin nodded, regarding the armed and armored half-elf warily.  "And what be thy purpose?"

"I have come to trade, and to take passage to Erelhei-Cinlu."

The small creatures eyes widened at that.

"Then thee shall have words with the master of the caravan."

The half-elf bowed in the courtly manner of the noble houses of his father's people, as much to make an impression on the lowly guard as anything else.

The hairless gnome waived Rum on, who then began his descent into the lightless tunnels beneath the foothills of the mountains that Men and Dwarves called the Hellfurnaces.

The Cavern Guard

* * * * * * *

The large chamber had been set up with a number of trading stalls, so that goods from the surface might be exchanged for goods from the Underdark, and vice versa.

Amongst those gathered at the small, impromptu trading post were a motley mix of races from both worlds.  There were the members of the deep gnome caravan, of course, with their pack lizards cordoned off in a makeshift corral.  There were a few surface gnomes, as well.  That was to be expected-- a clan of the short folk lived in the foothills beyond.

Then there were dwarves, also to be expected . . . and a small group of hobgoblins.  That wasn't going to go well if tempers flared.  Regardless of the truce demanded by the svirfneblin at such gatherings, bloodshed was not unknown.  Rum decided to keep an eye on the militant creatures, just in case.

He knew his own presence would be remarked upon by the others, though not likely challenged.  A well-armored warrior bearing a gleaming falchion would find little trouble from those such as these.  Rum also knew that the fact that he saw as well as they in the utter darkness would be chalked up to some kind of powerful surface-elf magic, further proof against any mischief-making.

After browsing the wares on display, he came upon the master of the caravan, and offered his greetings-- "Firrble-Niv."

The deep gnome regarded him for a moment, then replied -- "Nivil-Firrb."

"I recognize thee, half-elf," the seasoned trader told him.  "Thee traveled with us to this place some seasons past, as I recall."

"You are correct, Master Schniktigg," he affirmed.  "I am Kena'fin Nimruil, known by Men and Dwarves as 'Rum.'  I once took passage with you at Two Rocks.  If I might, I would take passage again, only this time back the way we once came."

"We shall pass the Two Rocks, aye.  We two may strike a deal this day.  What do thee offer?"

Ken'afin Nimruil smiled inwardly to himself.  He knew what the deep gnome would want from the store of goods he carried in his enchanted satchel.  The gnome would not want the Burneal tiger furs that would fetch such a high price in Erelhei-Cinlu, nor would he want the raw blocks of northern sablewood that the noble houses of the city prized so greatly.

Gnomes wanted gems, and gems Rum had.  The caravan master's eyes lit up as soon as the half-elf produced the small pouch, and the negotiation was swiftly concluded.

The prodigal son of Erelhei-Cinlu had secured his passage home.

Ken'afin Nimruil