STUFFER SHACK

As the black sheep in an otherwise respected family, Amearus Omaron never really had a sense of “belonging.”  Unusually fearful of entering the Last War, he waited as long as possible until he could no longer hide among the children.  However, in his very first battle involving the Cyrians, he found comfort with an apparent lack of emotion when felling his first combatant.  He immediately realized the source of his fears all those seasons prior, and went on to become a highly respected, yet feared Valenar Warrior.

Stories tell of “Desolation” Amearus Omaron, a young soldier who rose through the ranks ranging over 100 battles in the 100 Years War.  That he has seen over 100 battles  (reaching Paragon status) is not the reason alone for his acquired name, it’s that in all of the battles he has been in, all of the opponents that he has bested have died.  Of all of the enemies that he has faced and brought down, none have healed from their wounds.  This is not to say that he has won every fight, only that every fight that he has won ended in the death of his opponent.

And so it is fitting that in the last great battle in the 100 Years War, involving thousands of Valenar and Cyrian warriors, he finally fell.  As a fallen hero, he was given a proper cremation, where his ash embers scattered to the winds, and through the memories of his peers he has attained immortality (something the Valenar elves revere).  Unfortunately, over a year after his death, the winds brought back his ash and reformed his body to an almost identical, though darker likeness.

To say that his emergence stirred quite a few emotions and concerns would be an understatement –  Valenar elves revere their dead great warriors, not those who come back from the dead.  Not being exactly sure of what his emergence means, the Valenar leaders sent Desolation to their ancestral homeland, Aerenal, where the Undying Court resides.  There, the ruling undead elves told Desolation that he is neither dead or alive, but that his situation was a mystery of significance.

When Desolation asked if he was to become part of the Undying Court, he was given no straight answers.  He was told, however, that his path had been laid out before them, and in order to achieve the immortality he seeks, he must walk it.  Of course, Desolation had already achieved immortality by way of the Valenar beliefs, and was disturbed that it had been taken away from him.  Not only that, but he was unsure of his destiny lying with Undeath, as the Aerenal ancestors possess.  What he did know was that he did not like the memory of his existence in limbo after his death.  The darkness there tore at his soul like a thousand poisonous leeches.

At present, he is torn between his desire to regain his reputation, exalted deeds, and immortal status among his fellow Valenar brothers, and his desire to embrace Undeath with his Aerenal cousins.  He feels lost from his brothers, and that he might perhaps be just a puppet in the hands of the Undying Court.  As an elf revenant, he is not used to the feeling of urgency, or the sense of impatience.  He knows that he is on borrowed time, and fears his answers may never reach him.

For the time being, he has agreed to the direction of the Undying Court, because of their combined, accumulated millennium of wisdom.  He feels he has already achieved greatness, and that this unlife is an unnecessary path to his final destiny.

Suggestion: As a revenant, Desolation now gains power from the shadows.  It fuels his abilities.  Where he once ran through battles using Warlord and Ranger fighting skills, he now possesses darker abilities akin to shadow assassins.  He understands this change, though dislikes it immensely.  He absolutely does not consider himself an assassin, but never-the-less, it is now how he fights.

Dayereth Eveningstar is an Eladrin male in his early forties (42 years old). He has pale golden hair and pupiless green eyes with flecks of gold that catch the light in an enchanting manner. He is nearly 6 feet tall and weighs 170 lbs. For an Eladrin, he is broad-chested and bulging with muscle. He is well-toned and in shape, and spends a lot of his free time exercising and reading (a minimum of 3 hours a day).

Dayereth has lived in Cornerstone for much of his life. His mother, Mairya Eveningstar was sent by the Feydari Council of Elders to be a Watcher in the Seven Bridges Valley. As a Watcher, she was to be vigilant for threats to the Eladrin city of Cael Morynaris. Cael Morynaris rests entirely in the Feywild, but is otherwise located in the Seven Bridges Valley. Dayereth’s father, Haderai Quinlonest, is a respected wizard and adviser to the Feydari. He spends his time in the Eladrin city of Cael Morynaris and has little interest in the mortal realm, aside from a perceived threat to the Eladrin way of life. His marriage to Mairya is a typical arranged marriage, a practice not uncommon to the Eladrin.

Mairya quickly grew to respect the younger mortal races and their constant struggle against the tide of darkness that they were only dimly aware of. Thanks to her work in the city of Cornerstone and her love of the community, she is a member of the Cornerstone Council. She uses her position both to benefit her original duty and to work tirelessly on various public works projects. She has passed on her sense of civic duty and responsibility to her son. She is a busy woman who spends very little time and effort pursuing her own happiness.

Haderai spends a lot of time traveling the planes at the behest of the Feydari.  Mairya would not allow her son to grow up in this dangerous pursuit and brought Dayereth with her. Growing up with her example, when Dayereth came of age, he chose to stay in Cornerstone and serve the community rather than return to Cael Morynaris and study with his father. This created a rift between son and father that has never healed.

Dayereth grew up reading in the library and working around the community, apprenticing to a blacksmith one month, a fletcher the next, helping gather food and firewood and working for the money exchanger, Garm Erikson. Garm was a retired Valley Warden who sometimes helped the Sentinels train. Watching the guards train reminded Dayereth of his brother. He vowed to become one of the Cornerstone Sentinels and became more interested in his mother’s pet projects. Specifically, how they would help brighten and defend this growing point of light.

Dayereth joined the guard as soon as he was able and quickly rose to join the Sentinels.  He became fast friends with a fellow sentinel Valen Mair. The two constantly challenged each other to improve and excel. Valen became a sergeant first, Dayereth following at the age of 23 (19 years ago).

Around this time, one of Garm’s many business ventures came to fruition. He had been planning and organizing a group interested in re-settling the near-forgotten community of Shadowdale. The village had been settled in the past and some believed it to be cursed.  The last settlement happened in the year XXXX. No one knows what happened except that all of the villagers supposedly disappeared mysteriously one winter, never heard from or seen again. Even with this frightening old wives’ tale, Garm was able to interest several dozen families in joining the new effort. Although his “financial” services were vital to the community, he was able to leave that business in the hands of his longtime partner, Vennessio Von.

Garm approached Dayereth and asked him to come and help as the community would need someone to help keep order and to help defend the community while it grew. Dayereth saw this as a chance to distinguish himself and to help civilize the valley. Mairya tried to convince him not to go, there were some mysteries better left alone. She enlisted Valen’s aid in trying to change Dayereth’s mind. Valen tried to tell Dayereth that attending to the needs of Cornerstone was more important than a suicide quest for fame and glory. After a heated argument, they parted ways. Valen still has not forgiven Dayereth for abandoning the Sentinels and Cornerstone.

When they arrived in Shadowdale that spring, the new settlers found decrepit buildings, long since crumbled from disuse. An old teleportation circle was found in the town center, a large crack running through the stone it was etched in. The sigils that were carved in to the stone contained an inlaid purple metal that Dayereth had never seen before. As they explored the settlement, they found no signs of battle or struggle. It was as though the former inhabitants decided to drop whatever they were in the process of doing and walk out of town.

The new townsfolk busied themselves with collecting materials and repairing what structures they could. That summer, they began constructing a new town hall/jail and a market center.  Later that fall, kobolds attacked. Dayereth was able to rally some locals and repel the “invasion” (it was a raiding party of 5 starving kobolds). Garm sent word back to the Assembly of Advisors and petitioned for them to accept Dayereth as an Initiate. They accepted, and he was invited to the next initiation ceremony to be held on the solstice…

When the Solstice arrived, Garm took Dayereth back to Cornerstone. As Dayereth’s sponsor, it was expected that Garm would be there to speak on his behalf. The ceremony went much as ceremonies do, and much celebration there was. Garm and Dayereth returned to Shadowdale.

They approached town as dusk fell. No hails from any guards, no lights/fires seen through windows; the town was eerily silent. They reached Garm’s house and went inside. There was no sound from his wife or two kids, and a smoky, charcoal smell filled the air. They entered the kitchen to an odd sight; the table was set for five as on any night when Dayereth dined with Garm’s family.  The spices and condiments were out on the table and over the cooking hearth was a pot that clearly had been cooking a roast.  The water was all gone and wisps of smoke were still rising from the charred meat. The two men gathered their weapons and searched through the town. Not a soul, or body, was found. There was no sign of attack or struggle. Like the ghost stories, it was as though the whole town just decided to leave.

Garm broke down and starting running through the village, screaming for his family, hollering each name: “Belissa!! Marek!! Holly!!!”  Dayereth was concerned that if there was some evil present, it would hear Garm and hunt him down.  He tried to quiet the man who had been a mentor, almost a father to him.  Garm just became more hysterical, to the point where Dayereth had to knock him out for his own safety.  Dayereth dragged him to the watch tower and hid there, vigilant through the night for any sign of the townsfolk or intruders. He saw nothing.

When morning broke, Garm woke up and realized where he was.  He raced down the tower and to his house.  Dayereth followed him, tired from his lack of trance and for some reason unable to access the Feywild, which would have allowed him to catch up to his crazed friend. As he reached the house, Garm stumbled out sobbing, “This is your fault, Dayereth!!  If I’d been here instead of babysitting you, I could have done something!!”

“You can’t mean that!  If you had stayed, you would be gone, too. Can’t you see that?”

“You kept me from my family when they needed me!  You were supposed to protect this town, Sergeant!  And you kept me from finding them last night!  You’re a curse I wish I was never saddled with!” Garm ran into the forest calling his family’s names.  Dayereth has never seen him, but has recently heard tales of a crazy old hermit, about Garm’s age, that periodically visits the towns of the Valley…

Dayereth returned to Cornerstone, determined to solve the mystery of Shadowdale and try to bring resolution to his ailing friend. He has spent the 18 years since in search of answers, which has brought him to the attention of Quinn Thorlin, the Assembly’s Librarian.  Quinn has watched Dayereth continue to grow and has taken him under his wing.  He has helped the young Eladrin explore the Assembly’s library and introduced him to the worship of Ioun, goddess of knowledge, skill, and prophecy. In addition to his personal quest for understanding, he has served as a tactical advisor to the Assembly and the Cornerstone Guard.

With what Dayereth has learned, he knows that he needs to gain in skill, knowledge and wisdom if he hopes to solve the mystery of Shadowdale. Not only that, he will also need to assemble a capable team that will help him discover the answers he seeks.  It is to this end that he has agreed to take on the mantle of Shepherd and guide some of this year’s Initiates on their adventures.

“Kartak, please close the windows, I’m freezing…” the elven woman wheezed to the half-orc sitting by her side as she bunched the blankets tighter about her face. A slight watering of her delicate green eyes betrayed her discomfort to the half-orc who knew her better than any other, including her long-lived clan members.  He looked at the windows, already knowing them to be shut tight against the summer heat.  The tusks that jutted from his lips turned upward as he gently smiled down at the woman he cared for so much.

“I’ll see to it.” The man she called Kartak rose from the bed and grabbed a wand from the dresser top. He waved it gently over her while he sang (in elven) an old song he knew the Valenar woman was fond of:

• In days long gone, our fathers came
• And made this land their own.
• With the Dhakanni chiefs, they lived in peace,
• Until trade turned to war.

 

• Through the years, our warriors blood
• Was spilled upon the land.
• The Dhakanni horde poured to the shore
• And drove our warriors home.

 

• And then some time until mankind
• Won it from our foes;
• The Dhakanni blood dried and died;
• Mankind laid their claim.

 

• Through the years, man did spread,
• And settled all the land
• But like us, their blood did boil
• And their tribes went to war.

 

• Back and forth, forth and back
• Allies changed and changed
• Cyrans feared other men and
• Looked to us for aid.

 

• Our warriors came and sold their skills
• Pure Cyran gold was earned.
• Our warriors fought across the land,
• And their souls remembered…

 

• This land was ours ‘fore any man
• Stood upon the sand.
• But Cyran men, stood in the way
• Of our ancestral claim

 

• Until the day our king did say,
• ‘This is our land and it has been
• Bought and paid with blood,
• Bought and paid… with blood’

While he sang, the tip of his wand glowed warmly with a soft red light. Her grip on the blanket relaxed and her breathing slowed as he eased the symptoms of her slow gradual poisoning. “There you go, Tarkita. Is that better, my love?”

“Of course, Kartak. My family never understood our bond.  If only they had been more patient… they might have seen the same brave, beautiful soul I always knew lie hidden in you.” Her eyes began to darken as her breathing began to shallow.  “It is time my warrior-poet.  I go to join my ancestors.  I hope I have brought them honor…”

“If not, you have shown it to me.  I will always remember your courage in the face of battles.  Think on your battle with the harpies so that that be fresh in the memory of Limel, your grandmother.  It is your ferocity that makes Berre Stonefist, Captain of Bones sleep uneasy during the night. I will sing your song so your deeds are known and all will know of the enchanting dewdrops you call your eyes.  Rest easy so that I may enjoy your beauty and allow it to become a part of me so I may remember you forever…”

Tarkita’s breathing slowed even more, until it came to a rattling halt.  The closed lids of her eyes kept her from seeing the features on her lover’s half-orc face melt and shift.  The brown eyes gradually lightened to a dark hazel and then subtly more until they were the same chartreuse hue as those of the dying elven woman.  They had become the same almond shape.  The large stony cheekbones of the half-orc had melted away and now matched the delicate curved arches on her lithe face.

He looked down at her fingertips that had always been strong, yet knew how to trace pleasure across his neck.  He held his hand close to hers and watched as it began to shrink, The skin color changing to match her perfect olive complexion. Something was not right.  Oh, of course.  The delicate mole inside the web of her right hand sprang forth upon his, the latter perfectly matching the former.

Crossing the small bedroom, he gazed upon himself in the mirror.  Tarkita’s strong, yet utterly feminine gaze looked back.  He watched, focusing on the eyes and cheekbones as he placed his right hand upon the mirror.  Staring into her eyes, he allowed all her features (save her perfect cheekbones, and of course the mole) to melt away to the formless stark white features that were his true face.

He uttered the litany spoken many times before.  Although it had become rote, it was no less important, no less meaningful for his latest kill. “Forgive me Tarkita, it had to be done.  If not by me, then by some other, who would never honor your memory as I will. All that is unique and special of you will live on in me. May the lessons you taught me allow me to reach my goal and serve us all.”

He made one last pass of the room ensuring no artifact remained.  Looking under the bed, he found no lost sock, no stray vial of the poison that in doses through the weeks brought her life to a close.  As he circled the room, he crumbled the token that allowed his words to be carried on the wind. “My Queen, it is done.  I return to you for payment. I will wear Prospero.”

Nym allowed the magic to activate and deliver his message.  As he felt the threads of arcane unravel (signifying the end of this little ritual) he pulled out a scroll. Knowing that Kendall was ever seeking his spoor had made this investment necessary. It was a small boon given him by a previous employer that would hide his involvement from arcane eyes.  Of course the slow-acting poison (made from the finely ground talileth root found only in Xen’drik) was undetectable to most methods the Watch had at their disposal. Even the agents of the Citadel were likely to overlook this poison known only to very few who had access to the lost knowledge held by the Umbragen.

It had cost Nym much to filch this secret from the clutches of the dark elves of Xendrik and more still to procure the root.  A small price to pay for the edge it had given him in his chosen profession.  Secrets want to be found; the living work hard to hide them. Often, the warm embrace of death allows fists to unclench and lips to part, revealing a bit of lore that the dying want to share with a loved one or trusted compatriot.

Nym took a last look at the delicate elven features he still wore, allowing them to flare in his memory one last time.  He turned to the door.

As Tarkita’s door opened onto the bustling Highwater thoroughfare, The Stupendous Salazar – the master illusionist, stepped into the sunlight. His brown eyes squinted against the bright rays of the afternoon sun as they shone on his human face.  He whistled a jaunty tune as he flagged down a passing skycab, eager to meet his employer and obtain his reward.  As he lifted his right hand to shield his eyes from the sun, the persistent mole in the web between his thumb and index finger caught his gaze.

“Tarkita, may you always remind me of your undying spirit,” he muttered as he gently shook his hand at his side.  He looked again at the now empty web and opened the door to the cab.

Artwork by Robert Stenberg.