New FR story

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This is a new story I am working on. Read it and find out what it's like and about. But if you don't like drow, and you don't like Valygar from BG2, you probably won't like this story. Suggestions and comments readliy accepted. But there are potential spoilers in here for those who haven't read the Time of Troubles books. Tell me what you think, and maybe a title.

Prologue

1232 DR, the Year of the Weeping Wives

Has any drow ever known the true glory of the sunset? Surely no purebred dark elf has ever been able to fully withstand the glory of the setting sun, let alone the noonday sun. But that is my earliest memory, that of the evening of my birth.

Apparently, I came from my drow mother’s womb, causing her death in the process. Distraught, my human father carried me to our then home and only left in the evening, cradling me in his arms to witness the last dying rays of a glorious celestial body. The first thing my eyes ever opened for. It was said that the face of Azuth appeared in the very last shafts of that light and smiled for me.

That memory of the sun has kept me alive during my troubled years, under the persecution as a half-drow. But the joyful memory has not kept vengeance out of my heart.

1248 DR, the Year of the Cockatrice

In all the history of the drow, I have never heard of a family mourning the loss of a family member. Maybe they regretted it or felt it was disadvantageous for their family’s power, but they never mourned. Never even considered a family member to be loved.

But on that fateful Mirtul day, my father and only known family member was killed. An arch-mage by the name of Gwaynnor came to call and struck my father down with lighting before my sixteen-year-old eyes.

I had met many mages before and even got along well with some of them. But at that moment, the course of my life changed. I pledged the rest of my life to wiping out all magical people, from the lowliest apprentice to the greatest Magister. I would become the greatest slayer of wizards of all time, I vowed. I swore that whenever I came across a magic-user, I would perform to the best of my abilities to slay them, through whatever means possible. If it meant even tricking others into doing it for me, so be it. If it meant taking my raw hands around their puffed up necks, it would be done. I would be a bane to the weave.

1268, the Year of the Daystars

Do all drow worship Lolth? I would not be like them for all the gold in Faerun. For I have found my true idol. Previously, I followed the human god of revenge and retribution, Hoar, and still do. But I have found the light, or dark as it were.

While searching for mages within my ancestral homeland of the Underdark, I came across a particularly powerful drow wizard. A battle ensued, and a magical figurine that could summon a tower was lost. It was of no matter, for I care not a whit for such trinkets. But in the folds of the dead drow’s piwafwi, I found the symbol of my new god. Kiaransalee, the drow god of undead, but more importantly vengeance.

The dark beckoning of the holy symbol drew me to a shrine of this competitor to Lolth. The priests there, not arcane casters showed me the power that the god offered. The power that could be leant to my quest.

With power came knowledge. Knowledge of a sword deep within the High Forest that could fight back against even the most powerful of magic.

1284, the Year of the Dying Stars

Weapons are wondrous things. Without them, you are weak, powerless and ineffective. With them, you can achieve great glory, power, and prestige. But not all weapons are good. Ryldaonar is one of those.

In the heart of the elf-infested wood I found this weapon of darkness. Taking a hold of the handle buried within the soft green loam of the earth, I could feel the evil take a hold of me and order my mind to step aside.

This sword was magical, and I had been training all my life against the arcane. I easily brushed aside the feeble mental intrusions of the sword, making me doubt its worth. But it proved itself to me when a score of woodland elves came upon me with death in their hands. After the traitors were slain, I accepted the dark visions offered and forged an eternal pact with the sword.

I would slay wizards with this sword, the purpose it was intended for and that it hungered for. Each death would feed the soul to it, increasing its power. In return for the wielding it desired, it would grant me an equal share in its power, the power of immortality of steel. As long as it was intact, I would live forever. As long as I lived, it could not be even dented. So it was in the best interest of us both to keep the other alive. Nothing could hurt us, we could kill all.

1292, the Year of the Wandering Waves

What is in a name? Until this day, I had none. My mother never expressed any desire for a particular name, and my father decided to let me choose my own. So for the first sixty years of my life, I went by the name of ‘Drow’ or ‘Nameless.’ But then came the day when my life and my swords would forever be entwined.

We fought a wizard that day; absorbing his mighty magiks and deflecting them back on him. We cut through his meager defenses and defeated his powerful spells. As he drew his last breath, he uttered a curse upon us. We would forever be bound together. My sword could never leave me more than a few meters; else I would be stuck. He accomplished this by taking part of my soul and trapping it within Ryldaonar, and taking a piece of the sword’s sentience and imprisoning it within me.

But his curse did not have the intended effect. Instead of trapping me to a destiny by the sword, as I already was, he merely strengthened our bond. We were as a single entity then, each an extension of the other. Immortality was assured. It was then my sword lost its name, and I was guaranteed never to have one of my own. We were together forever, and together we were Ryldaonar.

1306, the Year of Thunder

Oaths are powerful and binding words, and part of my original vow was fulfilled that day. I had sworn to slay every mage, even the Magister. Although when one Magister was slain and another was appointed, it was still an impressive feat.

We were actually hunting a wizard name Orten Imdrar. The sword was thirsting for wizard blood and we were chasing him across the land. He flew to the Magister, the appointed of Azuth and we found him cowering behind Magister Aragalath Tarsil.

A lengthy discussion followed, primarily about the presence of Azuth’s favor upon us since the original me had been born. It turned out that that placement of patronage placed what could either be considered a curse or a gift.

We attracted magic. With the right circumstances, we could have been an arch-mage and risen to the status of a god of magic. But as fate had it for us, my power attracted wizards, mages, sorcerers, witches and their ilk and we were to slay every one of them. After that enlightening conversation, we battled.

With the presence of two powerful mages, we had the opportunity to destroy some of the Weave and weaken the presence of magic. The Magister was the only one that truly battled us; the other mageling just danced about. We fought with our sword and body until we reached the throat of the Magister when Orten leaped between us.

He took our sword through the side of his ribs and fell backwards hard onto the Magister. So it was that it was he who killed the chosen of Azuth, albeit by accident. We were cheated of the power of the Magister and Orten got away and became the new Magister. Fate is a fickle mistress.

1329, the Year of the Lost Helm

I have often wondered if fate has a special rival for us all. For a half-drow, part sword wizard slayer, fate had to have something special in mind. For we had been growing powerful lately, and slacking off in the luxury of that power. It was that negligence that gained us our most powerful foe.

We were resting in our tower on the moors of the Thar. Then fate came calling. It might have been an irate wizard that came to be my enemy, as it stands to reason. Or it might have been a rival mage slayer, jealous of our power. But it turns out it was a druid, a weak servant of nature and balance that came to disrupt me.

She arrived at our door and cast divine spells that cracked the stone and disrupted the land. We were forced out to face this meddler, where we held no advantage but the sheer power we had accumulated. A fierce battle ensued, the priestess of Silvanus claiming us to be disrupters of the balance.

Nature rose against us, and the water of her soul quenched even our inner fires. She beat us down, in the name of her god, until we where defenseless beneath her cruel wooden staff. She let us live, and that was her mistake. For from that point onward, we had a new reason to accumulate power. We would slay wizards yes, but we would need the power to eventually come back to kill this Great Druid.

1343, the Year of the Boot

What surprises do the gods hold for us? We wonder. In their sadism, do they plan a gross betrayal at the worst moment? In their kindness, do they foresee a time when we are to be great, awarded with much riches? Neither, in our case. Although today they held a special surprise for us.

When I started to kill wizards, I never dreamed my power would come this far. When we became one, even then, we did not think that we would grow so strong. We believe the common folk refer to it as ‘being epic,’ although we have been so for quite some time now. For with each death, our power grows.

We came upon a city, filled with mages, wizards and all manners of magical casters. Infiltrating Raven’s Bluff, we found their Ministry of Art, a purely magical institution. We knew then and there that we must kill all within, to purge the land from a school that would create more evil ones.

We came upon our first victim for the Ministry, our last victim for some time. A minor mageling he was, barely cursed with even minor cantrips. But we slew him, and we knew power. This small one had had enormous potential; enough to become my equal were I involved with the Black Arts. But we, Ryldaonar, slew him, and gained his soul.

Sights beyond what any mortal had ever glanced graced us, for we were not mortal. We were powerful; we were immortals. The next step for us was god-dom.

Dazed with our power, we staggered outside to the streets, leaving the body of the young mage to be found by those more powerful. Doubtless they would blame his death on some minor assassin. But we stood there, reeling in our might, and saw what would be the proverbial final journey.

A stairway, circular and rising upward to infinity, with dismembered white hands protruding at any and every odd angle, stood before us. We knew we had to climb it. There have been stories that the gods themselves use these stairways to descend to the mortal world when they see fit, and always the stories say the gods quickly descend. But for us, blackened half-drow and beautiful cleaving longsword, the journey was incredibly long.

We crawled up the staircase, afraid to speed lest we fall. Gawking spectators came to see the ‘dark elf who crawls on air,’ including some wizards. But we were not interested. I had to get to the top. Ryldaonar started to warn me, that we should descend back down before it was too late. But it was too late now. I reached the top after what seemed a century or more. A god stood there, he of the gauntlet, the god of guardians, Helm.

I prepared for a fight, readying Ryldaonar in my hand, but Helm opened wide a portal in the shape of his symbol (the arrogant bastard) and let me through. Those below saw me with the god and gasped as we disappeared into thin air.

We entered the realm of the gods, possibly a mere meeting hall; a ruined temple on a swampy deserted island on a bleak black sea, but it was impressive none the less. I looked beside me to see Helm, gazing respectfully at an empty throne at the head of the ruins. Suddenly, I felt strangely empty. It had been growing ever since I laid a hand on the stairs of the gods, and now had climaxed. I felt halved, and I looked down to see if Ryldaonar was still intact. It was not there.

A cold steel hand put itself on my shoulder and I turned around. There was my sword, the intelligent thing, in a humanoid form that defied description. It pointed with a razor sharp hand to the throne where a being of incredible light, darkness, and sheer power sat. Helm informed me that this was the lord god overseer, Ao. Ao descended and put each of his hands on my shoulder and the equivalent of Ryldaonar’s. He spoke some words I’ll never forget, but yet will never be able to remember. Then he pronounced us too powerful to be mere mortals. Even should we be immortal, it was nothing compared to the immortality the gods experienced, therefore in their eyes we were mortal.

He asked what we wanted to do with our power, would we return as mortals, to continue our life together, give the power away to other beings in existence, rise as a god or gods, or something else that our mortal minds could devise.

I chose to be a god. It chose to be a god. According to Ao, this was unacceptable. It was a rule now that no two mortals could rise to be gods at the same time. Although something in his voice hinted that he doubted it would always be that way. Then Helm whispered something into Ao’s great ear, and Ao agreed. We should both become gods, but because only together were we powerful enough, we were to become a god together.

And so we rose in power once again, as Ryldaonar. The lowliest of the gods, but still truly immortal never the less. We took on new portfolios, that of revenge, sentient weapons, half-drow, power through evil, and wizard slaying. Together, we inspired a new cult on the surface of Faerun, the Cult of Ryldaonar.
Our clerics dedicated themselves to the wiping out of wizards wherever they went, killing more dark artists than we could have done in a century’s more time. Half-drow, whenever they were born, dedicated themselves to our causes and us. We competed with Hoar and Kiaransalee: the other gods of revenge. Many fell warriors rose because of their worship in us, and each one when they died was transformed into an evil weapon.

In fact, a while after becoming a god, we were taught the forging of weapons by the Duergar gods of metalwork. We forged five new longswords; each infused with a piece of our power and many other abilities. We could think through these weapons, and when we sent them from the heavens as gifts to our faithful, the first one each slew entrapped their soul in the blade, making them truly sentient weapons. They then progressed as weapons and wielders just as we had. These were glorious years.

1358, the Year of Shadows and the Time of Troubles

There must be gods of irony out there somewhere. Only fifteen years as a god, and we are thrown back down, as mortals to live with mortals and be as mortals. Curses to the god or gods who stole the Tablets of Fate.

We were as a spirit with a blade, seeking an avatar in which to control our destiny with. But we also had an Idea. There were other gods in a position like mine, thrown down but with portions of their power secreted throughout the land; Bhaal and Mystra come readily to mind. We had five swords, Bhaal had progeny and Mystra had a necklace. We would find our swords, regain their power, and once again truly live.

We found our cult near the Thesk city of Telflamm, and possessed the body of their strongest warrior, a half-drow no less. We then sought out the swords. They informed me that three of these weapons had been lost, through accident, design, and magical death. The two remaining were abroad, seeking wizards to slay. The nearest, ironically enough, was in Raven’s Bluff, an assassin killing Ministry wizards one at a time to inspire their fear.

We went there and took back my weapon, ignoring the mages and leaving the pathetic woman to her doom. We then had a small measure of our power back, enough to properly seek our final blade. It was the most powerful of the five, having killed many wizards, and was roughly equal to half my power at the moment we killed our last mage.

In Baldur’s Gate we sought it. But it was in there that we found our enemy. The Great Druid, on a rare foray into the town, saw me and recognized my power. She chased us away and it was that action that enabled us to find the sword.

The wielder had been chased away from the city, and was looking for information on wizards within the ruins of the school of Ulcaster. He gladly accepted union with us and we felt the glory of my former life come back to me. We knew what we had to do. We had to kill the Great Druid of Silvanus and end this threat to our cult and us once and for all.

We faced her on the plane of battle that would be least to her advantage. We had lured her to the Battle of Bones, a place where nature was perverted, and ironically was filled with the undead that were the favored of my former god of vengeance. She had little power and still fought us, calling on the might of Silvanus to guide her. She slew me.

At that moment, our cult collapsed, what remained of my swords disintegrated, and we were separated and brought back down to the lowest mortal form. Leaving me for dead among that place where the dead walk, she went to attempt to do her piece in bringing back the order of nature.

I was a true half-drow again, and my sword Ryldaonar lay dead beside me. We lay there, unmolested by the undead. I wanted no food, but water found its way to my mouth through the rain. All I wanted to do was lay there and remember.

When Ao called the gods to him at the end of the Time of Troubles, he told us all our strength would depend on the devotion of our worshippers. I had none. I was a mortal. I could not return.

For the next fourteen years of my life, I lived in Raven’s Bluff, that place where I rose to be a god. I took a new identity on, acting as a pure drow named Valandrin Telenna, or ‘Dusk’ as many called me. I dedicated my life to helping the children at the children’s hospital there, a good cover. But I was eternally wary for women, any of whom might be the Great Druid of Silvanus in disguise.

Some might think this helping children a weakness, a flaw in my character that might lead me to good. But I am merely ensuring a future for these young ones, a future that might consist of killing wizards or slaying those of Silvanus. So I lived there, until this very day of 17 Flamerule, 1372, the Year of Wild Magic. That day on which my life would change.