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The moon rose high over the acropolis, casting a blue hue upon the towers and cobbled streets of Halarahh. The city hummed, and it sent Mithridan’s senses reeling. The colored stones and rising spires twisted to the sky, and magical lights floated- dancing on the humid air of a sweltering summer night. All around him was the majesty of the magic he had been raised to revere, and though the capital city of Halarahh was certainly a testament to the power that resided within Haluraa, even more awe inspiring to Mithridan was the prospect of boarding a skyship. It was the ship named Vanward, one of those great vessels of the clouds he had often seen float far above his temple in the Nath.
“Face forward Mithri,” his mother said, “you behave like a plains herder in for market.” Her words were calm and overly pronounced. Mithridan, tired of his mothers voice, glanced upward once more before finally facing straight. His bitterness at her constant grooming had grown into a calloused ball of emotion. He had spent over twenty years in that temple, his entire life, and though the priests and priestesses of Mystra had instilled in him a great pride for his magical powers, sending his head to the clouds; his mother seemed intent on bringing him back down to Toril. And so it goes.
“Why was it that we traveled so far south, only to fly north again?” This was Pelim’s way, he never made a statement, forming every sentence as a question.
“Because Captain Zasstryn would not stop this ship once it had departed,” Mithri's mother replied, “he has never docked thrice in a journey, and he never will.” They walked on.
“What is it about Halarahh that always enchants me so?” Pelim dropped back to Mithri's side and peered upward, goading Mithridan to do the same.
“Don’t encourage him.” Said his mother with a sigh, knowing this would only prod Pelim on.
The old priest nudged Mithridan once more and pointed skyward at the peaks of The Netyarch’s Palace. “Why can’t you be at ease Estiana.” The priest questioned the mother. “He leaves his homeland having never seen Halarahh, why not let him soak it in.”
Mithridan cared greatly for his tutor and mentor, Pelim Veltridus, but even his company saddened the man of twenty three years. He was a Paladin of Mystra, embarking with his teacher on one final test; he was a grown man already battle hardened against the raids of the Crinti, and he would now act as the sword arm of an expedition to the north in search of an artifact long lost by his temple. Why was it then that they watched after him so? He asked himself this now more than ever. Why must everything be a lesson learned?
They approached the western outskirts of the sprawling city as The Great Vanward grew larger before them. The site of the skyship sent his breath out in small bits. Its billowing sales, the glowing runes of its name etched into the sideboards, the ship was behemoth. Against the moonlit sky it glowed ethereal, placing a delicate shadow on the ground beneath its belly.
“Face forward Mithri,” his mother said, “you behave like a plains herder in for market.” Her words were calm and overly pronounced. Mithridan, tired of his mothers voice, glanced upward once more before finally facing straight. His bitterness at her constant grooming had grown into a calloused ball of emotion. He had spent over twenty years in that temple, his entire life, and though the priests and priestesses of Mystra had instilled in him a great pride for his magical powers, sending his head to the clouds; his mother seemed intent on bringing him back down to Toril. And so it goes.
“Why was it that we traveled so far south, only to fly north again?” This was Pelim’s way, he never made a statement, forming every sentence as a question.
“Because Captain Zasstryn would not stop this ship once it had departed,” Mithri's mother replied, “he has never docked thrice in a journey, and he never will.” They walked on.
“What is it about Halarahh that always enchants me so?” Pelim dropped back to Mithri's side and peered upward, goading Mithridan to do the same.
“Don’t encourage him.” Said his mother with a sigh, knowing this would only prod Pelim on.
The old priest nudged Mithridan once more and pointed skyward at the peaks of The Netyarch’s Palace. “Why can’t you be at ease Estiana.” The priest questioned the mother. “He leaves his homeland having never seen Halarahh, why not let him soak it in.”
Mithridan cared greatly for his tutor and mentor, Pelim Veltridus, but even his company saddened the man of twenty three years. He was a Paladin of Mystra, embarking with his teacher on one final test; he was a grown man already battle hardened against the raids of the Crinti, and he would now act as the sword arm of an expedition to the north in search of an artifact long lost by his temple. Why was it then that they watched after him so? He asked himself this now more than ever. Why must everything be a lesson learned?
They approached the western outskirts of the sprawling city as The Great Vanward grew larger before them. The site of the skyship sent his breath out in small bits. Its billowing sales, the glowing runes of its name etched into the sideboards, the ship was behemoth. Against the moonlit sky it glowed ethereal, placing a delicate shadow on the ground beneath its belly.
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