Redemption...

[Cynroth]

Part 1: A few days agone...

Cynroth stalked the hills alone, not really caring whether or not he lived, or fell prey to the goblins which infested the hills in large numbers. After what he had witnessed at that area of the Sundered Vale known as "The Crossroads", his mind was in utter turmoil.

There, an individual laying claim to the title of "Bard" was, by means of music played on some harp from the bowels of the Abyss, raising enslaved undead horrors, in a total perversion of Milil's gift of song, which Cynroth understood, was for the uplifting and inspiration of the living, and not for the enslavement of those long gone to their graves... Worse yet, this affront to the Lord of Song was, to all appearances, going unchallenged... This was not to be borne, not by any true Bard!!

"Ho, stranger," came a mellifluous baritone voice from out of the shadows of the night, "These hills are perilous for any to travel alone..."

Cynroth peered into the gloomy night, to see who it was who had addressed him. "In truth, sir, I care little about that, in this land that Milil has abandoned", came Cynroth's retort. "I've seen far worse than goblins, and few to stand against those horrors! Few to stand against this 'Dirgesinger', and no Song Priest, nor Battlesinger to right the wrong done the Lord of Song. Aye Milil has in truth abandoned this valley!"

The stranger, whom Cynroth could see a bit clearer now, was tall, and richly dressed, and more interestingly, carried slung over his shoulder an impressive harp, of fine wood, richly inlaid, and cunningly carved, with strings of bronze wire, which were wrapped in what looked like, to Cynroth's eye, finer wire of purest gold.

"Ye say Milil has abandoned this valley," answered the stranger, "If so, wherefore are you here?" "For it is known, that a god is wherever his followers are, no matter how poorly they serve him..."

"How poorly ..." Here, Cynroth's voice trailed off, looking directly at the knowing smile on this strange Bard's face... Aye, there was something in his look that told the young Bard that this stranger knew exactly how Cynroth came to be here, in the Sundren Valley, the various seductions, by means of his musical talent, and that final overreach, the fight, the killing, and then the headlong flight which brought him here... Aye, this one knew the whole tale it seemed, but how?

"H-how d-do you know..." Cynroth stammered weakly...

"Does it matter?", answered the stranger. "What matters, is do you understand why you were led here? Do you understand Milil's plan for his errant child? For you know, young Gethrane, your own sin, is akin to that of 'The Dirgesinger' you abhor, in kind, if not in degree..."

At that moment, a vision both fascinating, and repellent flashed through the mind of the young Bard. In this vision there were two, and not one shadowy Bards, wielding instruments that summoned the dead from their graves, and the second bore his own face!

"Aye, Gethrane, think a moment," the man continued, "how did this 'Dirgesinger' begin his career? Not by raising the dead, nay not at the beginning. No he misused Milil's gift on the living, for his own ends, at the first, even as you have..."

The accusation stung, not the least because there was a great element of truth in it. "Ye have the right of it, Elder Brother, I have, for mine own selfish purposes, abused Milil's gift..."

"And now, the question begs, what to do about that," continued the older Bard. "What are ye willing to do to redeem yourself, both as Bard, and true child of Milil?" "What price would ye pay, to atone for your own wrongs?" "Would ye be willing to pay a life, for a life? After all, a man was slain..."

Cynroth sighed, "While I never wanted any to die, nor can I say with certainty that mine was the hand that ended that life, it is true that I do bear responsibility for that outcome, for all that followed from my transgression, and had I not misused the gift, that man would never have died... If Milil demands a life, for a life, so be it... Take my own spear, and strike me down, brother, for if I die, let it be at the hand of a brother..."

The man laughed heartily "Things are rarely ever that simple, young Gethrane! Milil demands a price, and it will be paid, and right soon. You will know when the time is upon you, for you will need to make a choice. Choose wisely, and ye may yet redeem yourself..."

With that, the man turned on his heel, and disappeared into the hills, the mist, and the night...

[Cynroth]

Redemption... Part 2

Part 2: Two days later...

The four travellers kept a wary eye upon the hills, for goblin warbands could appear at any moment, and they were already weary, almost spent, after the savage struggle against the foul creatures in that forsaken cave. The safety the camp of the Exigo mining expedition wasn't far in distance, but could be, literally, a lifetime away in reality. Even as close as it was, something awful could still occur...

"Halt adventurers", came a voice as dry as a desert wind on long-dead bones, "Stand where you are, and lay down your weapons." It was then that Cynroth could see the owner of that voice, striding over the crest of the hill to his left, at a speed that was inhumanly swift, obviously far too swift to outrun... The thing, for it was not a creature living, and all that remained in its state of unlife were bones, was far to tall to have been a human in life, so its origins would be uncertain, at best. Its eyes glowed with a scarlet witchfire, further declaring its state as a thing not of any natural order...

"I have a task for you to complete," the thing intoned in its long-dead voice, "then you may go your way in peace.."

"What, then, is the nature of this task ye speak of?" asked Cynroth as he showed his unarmed hands to the apparition, motioning to his comrades to do the same. Even as he asked, a dread certainty crept into his heart, that this was the moment the strange Bard he had met in the hills two night past had spoken of. The time of Milil's chastisement for his transgressions in abusing Milil's own power of song...

"Why, Death, of course," and with that answer from the long-dead liche-thing, Cynroth's certainty was confirmed, "One of you must die, and the remaining three shall go free... Name which of you shall pay the price, then strike that one down, or I shall slay you all..."

Cynroth looked at his companions. The warrior woman, known as Ember looked shaken, even though her courage and skill at arms Cynroth could not question, as he'd seen her cleave a fierce gnoll in half with her five-foot sword on more than one occaision. Cadar, his fellow Bard, outwardly looked as calm as he ever did, but even so, Cynroth could detect a shadow of ... uncertainty, nay call it hesitation, in his eyes. The halfling, a recent addition to their band, and who called himself Perarry, was obviously quite nervous at their current predicament, his eyes darting right and left, as if expecting more these monsters to come howling down from the hills at any moment...

"Choose, and choose now, or I will kill you all, starting with... HER!!" The creature was pointing directly at Ember, and was obviously impatient, and all too ready and willing to make good on his threat.

Though his heart was racing in fear, Cynroth collected his wits, and said in a voice as calm, and as untainted with fear and uncertainty as he could muster, declared, "If a life is what ye seek, in exchange for three, then so be it. I choose to be the one to die, spirit. Leave these others in peace. Strike, and have done with it!"

"So be it," intoned the liche-thing, "but as I said, the others must strike the the chosen one down, so you three remaining, kill him!"

Cynroth looked with imploring eyes to his comrades in arms, silently pleading with them to do as the hideous thing demanded, and thus win their safety, for it was his sins which placed them where they were at this moment. Strike friends, and strike true, for this is a thing that is meant to be! This was the command that his eyes sent to the remaining three...

Cadar cast aside his bow, outwardly declaring that he would have no part in this, would not strike at his fellow, even if the cost be his own life. Cynroth smiled a sad smile at him, for though Cynroth could understand, and even appreciate Cadar's stand, there were things that Cadar did not, could not know about what was now transpiring. On the other hand, Ember, with a heavy sigh, unlimbered her greatsword, as the halfling silently slipped around behind Cynroth, in order to get a clear shot at Cynroth's unprotected back. Cynroth nodded in approval, for if it had to be, then it would be over, and done with swiftly, with little pain.

And so it was... Ember struck, hard, fast, and true, or at least as true as she could, with her eyes clouded by tears. At that same moment, as Ember's blade entered from the front, Cynroth could feel Perarry's blade enter him from the rear. As his vision was clouded, first by a red mist, then utter darkness, Cynroth's last thought was that his comrades did him the honor of an easy a death as they could muster, and he was grateful for that honor...



Darkness... All he could see was darkness... This then, thought Cynroth, is what lies beyond the veil men call Death... Nothing but darknes... Still, it was obvious that he was dead, for there was no pain, no wounds from the blows his comrades had struck him...

"Well, young Gethrane," came a voice that Cynroth recognized as the strange Bard he had met in the hills a few nights agone, "you did choose wisely after all... I must confess, I had my doubts that you would, but you did, in the end and that is what matters..."

With that, the darkness gave way to a dim, albeit steady glow. It was then that Cynroth could see him, and sure enough it was that strange Bard who had foreordained this happening. He grinned crookedly at Cynroth, and stroked his beard in thought.

"To be sure, I was never certain that you had it in you to do it, lad, but you did. Do you know why it had to be thus, and more importantly why it had to be by the hand of a woman?"

Cynroth did not answer right away, for yet another vision was running across his mind, a vision of the woman, Ember crying bitter tears at what she had been required to do, with Cadar over her shoulder, berating her, quite unfairly, for her doing it.

"Oh, I understand well enough, but will they? Those whom I preyed upon, in my abuse of Milil's gift were women, so there is justice in it, to be sure. But will they, who were caught up in things they knew nothing about, ever come to understand the why of it? I cannot explain it to them, for the dead cannot speak..."

The stranger laughed heartily. "There is 'death' young Gethrane, and then, there is DEATH. From one, one may return, and from the other, not. Yours was the first kind, for you have a long road to travel, on your road to redemption..."

Cynroth raised an eyebrow at this. "Then you mean to say..."

"What I mean to say, is that as I said before, things are rarely ever as simple as you like to make out. What I mean to say, is that your road on Abeir-Toril, and indeed, the Sundren valley is not yet finished. Nay, your journey has just begun, and this was but the first step..."

With that, the stranger made a complex pass of his hands, and a brighter glow appeared, in the shape of an archway, or perhaps a door. "There is the means to return from whence ye came, young Gethrane, take it quickly, for I cannot hold it open for long."

As Cynroth strode toward the glow, he looked back over his shoulder at the stranger, then asked "Who, then, are you Bard of power. Tell me your name!"

The stranger gave a cryptic smile then said, "Think about it, young Gethrane, I believe you know quite well who I am..."

With that the stranger faded, once again, into the shadows...

[Cynroth]

Part 3; Some months later...

Cynroth attempted the flourish again, and once again executed it poorly... While he had some passing familiarity with this weapon, the rapier, he was by no means expert at it.

"Blast," exclaimed the young bard, "will I *ever* get this maneuver right?!" "What *was* I thinking, when I decided to do this? Should have stayed true to the spear I've long been accustomed to!"

A low chuckle sounded from behind the bard. "As ever, young Gethrane, ye seek the *easy* way. Nothing worth having comes easily, lad." The mellifluous baritone voice continued, "You *can* master this, just as you mastered your lute. Let the blade become one with your hand. You're nimble enough to become a swordsman, and a swordsman you'll become, if you put your mind, and heart into it."

Cynroth glanced back, and yes, there *he* was, that strange Bard who had appeared to him twice before. Richly clad was this one, and emanating a power that Cynroth could not, would not, deny. He was one to emulate, if not the Lord of Song himself, and a quick look at the rapier dangling from the stranger's left hip told Cynroth that mastering this weapon would no doubt, be part of that...

"Now," the stranger commanded, "try again lad, and rather than try to think about the move, let it flow as naturally as a chord from your lute.."

Again, the young bard attempted the parrying flourish, but this time he tried to keep his mind blank, and let the move flow naturally, even as his 'mentor' had said. With this, his move was somewhat less ragged, more spontaneous, and in a word, improved.

"There! You see," continued the stranger, "even as I said. Swordplay, like making music instrumentally, is as much about natural, reflexive flow, than aught else. Use your reflexes, let your hand, wrist and arm move naturally, and you will have mastered the blade, without it mastering you..." "Now, for a test! Guard yourself, young Gethrane, guard yourself for true!"

With this the rapier of the stranger sprang from his hip, to his hand, as if by magic, and the strange harpist bored in on Cynroth, his point making small threatening circles. He started with a quick thrust, and Cynroth, to his own amazement, parried it reflexively, without even thinking about it, with a riposte following the successful deflection.

There then followed a dance, accompanied by the chiming sound of ringing blades, in a symphony and dance of steel. For a few long minutes, the two went back and forth thrusting, and parrying in a furious reel. The, with a move to quick to be followed by the eye, Cynroth's rapier went flying from his fist, and *that* could even register to his mind, the stranger's point was placed, oh so gently, but oh so decisively, at the young bard's throat.

"Not bad," said the stranger, "not too shabby at all." "You'll be a swordsman yet, young Gethrane... And bear in mind, *that* skill will be as much needed as any other you posess, for you to fulfil the destiny which is yours..."

"W-what d-destiny do ye speak of...." stammered Cynroth, but, it was too late, for even as the stranger brought his rapier up in a salute, he faded into nothingness...