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The sun hung lazily in the evening sky, like a vulture leering down at the prey beneath it. Two forms walked side-by-side, silent as they passed a caravan filled with supplies heading towards Port Aventhyr. An odd pair, to be sure, but no stranger than half of what appears across the countrysides of Faerun. The caravan may have taken pause, though, had they known the story of the two. But now was not the time to tell the story - it would be told soon enough, with a larger audience to observe.
One of the travellers, a bronze-skinned woman of elven birth, paused for a moment as the caravan passed out of sight. Her hands reached up to her face, a gentle sob lifting from her mouth before she could force it back. At her side, a gnome dressed in purple lifted his hand to her side. The woman held her hand up, stifling the sound as best she could, before pressing forward. Her companion sighed softly, and fell into step beside her once more.
"Sarenia... Are you sure you want to do this?"
The elven woman paused at the words of the smaller folk, lowering her head to stare at her feet. With a firm nod, the woman turned her sharp green eyes to her side. The gnome nodded, but said no more to press the subject. The day had already been draining, physically and emotionally, and he would support the decision as best he could.
"If I do not, I will be failing their memory. The dead must be remembered, and the living honored. Your life was saved, Amoren; for that, I am thankful. I shall sing for my sister, and for our fallen friends."
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It's true, of course: who would know of what occured in the Sharahan Hills, were it not for the songs that the bards and minstels now sing in the taverns? A sad tale, to be sure, but one also of perserverance and strength in remembrance. Two forms had entered the Sundren Comfort that night, leaving behind a tale - in both elven and common - of the terrible fate of a caravan bound towards Waterdeep that was ambushed through the Sharahan Hills.
The tale tells of the eleven members of the caravan who were ambushed by a goblin raid, orchestrated by humans who had the survivors rounded up like cattle. Six were taken, while one escaped through the foothills to find help. There, in a small camp of held by the Exigo Syndicate, help came in the form of brave adventurers.
The tale describes the adventurers as four: an enchanting, but haughty woman - who reprised those who took the route, but sympathized with the plight; a gruff, but well-intentioned human man who lifted the sole survivor from his nightmares and dragged him to safety; a brash, feral man who called the wrath of nature and acted with haste; and a hauntingly beautiful, kind-hearted moon elf who made the time to pray for and prepare the dead - making certain their bodies would not be desecrated.
Tonight, in the taverns around Sundren City, the patrons honor the memory of the living and the dead to the haunting song left to the gnome and lass by the elven heroine.
One of the travellers, a bronze-skinned woman of elven birth, paused for a moment as the caravan passed out of sight. Her hands reached up to her face, a gentle sob lifting from her mouth before she could force it back. At her side, a gnome dressed in purple lifted his hand to her side. The woman held her hand up, stifling the sound as best she could, before pressing forward. Her companion sighed softly, and fell into step beside her once more.
"Sarenia... Are you sure you want to do this?"
The elven woman paused at the words of the smaller folk, lowering her head to stare at her feet. With a firm nod, the woman turned her sharp green eyes to her side. The gnome nodded, but said no more to press the subject. The day had already been draining, physically and emotionally, and he would support the decision as best he could.
"If I do not, I will be failing their memory. The dead must be remembered, and the living honored. Your life was saved, Amoren; for that, I am thankful. I shall sing for my sister, and for our fallen friends."
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It's true, of course: who would know of what occured in the Sharahan Hills, were it not for the songs that the bards and minstels now sing in the taverns? A sad tale, to be sure, but one also of perserverance and strength in remembrance. Two forms had entered the Sundren Comfort that night, leaving behind a tale - in both elven and common - of the terrible fate of a caravan bound towards Waterdeep that was ambushed through the Sharahan Hills.
The tale tells of the eleven members of the caravan who were ambushed by a goblin raid, orchestrated by humans who had the survivors rounded up like cattle. Six were taken, while one escaped through the foothills to find help. There, in a small camp of held by the Exigo Syndicate, help came in the form of brave adventurers.
The tale describes the adventurers as four: an enchanting, but haughty woman - who reprised those who took the route, but sympathized with the plight; a gruff, but well-intentioned human man who lifted the sole survivor from his nightmares and dragged him to safety; a brash, feral man who called the wrath of nature and acted with haste; and a hauntingly beautiful, kind-hearted moon elf who made the time to pray for and prepare the dead - making certain their bodies would not be desecrated.
Tonight, in the taverns around Sundren City, the patrons honor the memory of the living and the dead to the haunting song left to the gnome and lass by the elven heroine.