The Ninth Portents (ON)

I am a modder, so this topic warms my heart; However, I have never done an original NPC (appart from Deheriana, maybe). But here is the beginning of a story that is writen for 3 voices - Bhaalspawn, 1 BioWare NPC and 1 OC.

The Ninth Portents

"When Nightal is almost at a close
There from the gate wall shall descend
A serpent to blow the Horn of Doom
At the graveyard Kingdom of Man.
If the Star of Storms is its brightest
When the dulcet ballad is played
Soundest ground shall be torn asunder
The tapestry forever frayed.
But if the Raging King has failed
To keep his five retainers true
Come 'morrow, the blessed sun will rise
And no chaos shall ill ensue."

Attributed to Alaundo of Candlekeep, Ninth Portents (copied from Frank Penka’s article, available for public viewing here: ‘http://www.candlekeep.com/library/articles/alaundo.htm’

1. The Visit

Year 2162 DR

The old man snored in his fitful sleep, wheezing and coughing by turns. Hazer sighed and came to cover him with a blanket and take away the glasses that fell off his nose, when his head rolled to one side. A thin line of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth to the embroidered collar of his shirt. “Apart from that he is quite a neat old man”, she thought with pride, “and all due to my care. If I won’t tend to him, he’d go hungry and dirty for the sake of writing his stupid books.” She knew all about these books – when he was too weak to type, he dictated her passages and drove her to near madness by spoiling perfectly good paper with the odd fantasies of his. It was all about old magic, battles, prophecies: things that only kids and idle elders care about. To add to her frustration, more paper ended up in the trash bin than in the one thick folder lying desolately on an otherwise empty rosewood shelf.

The metal frame touched to the gaunt, lined cheek and the man awoke with a scream and caught her arms in a surprisingly sure grip. She fought him off, yelling: “Sir, Sir! It’s me, Hazer!” She had to yell, for he was getting increasingly deaf on his left ear. Sense finally returned to the Master and the dark eyes under bushy white hair regained their usual piercing, unblinking stare. In a way, she much preferred the weeks when he was twisted by his illness into an almost formless drooling thing. At least then she knew her duties and did not have a base suspicion that her ancient Master had desires not fitting for his age. Whatever it was… He had bought her thirty years ago, and it seemed that not a single new wrinkle appeared on his lined face ever since. He was quite obviously old but not aging… She did not find it strange at first, being a magical creation that was made to keep stable shape and features until her death at an uncertain later date. It was defined in Hazer’s manual as ‘when exhausts its usability’. After Hazer had a chance to observe sufficient amount of humans in Luskan, she had come to a conclusion that her Master Evarist was, a rarity if not an exception all-together.

“Stop staring at me, Hazer. Can’t you hear the door bell?”

Hazer swam out of the room with all the grace that her wide, orc-based body allowed. She opened the door with a jerk and found herself staring down at a figure wrapped in a huge woolen blanket with a hood pulled low to completely shadow his face. “Cloak…” she thought puzzled, “this man is wearing a cloak! Must be another elven beggar….”

In a melodious if tired voice the figure asked from the depths of the fabric’s folds if he had found the house of the Master Evarist Lant.

“Yes,” Hazer said tersely, her worst suspicions about the visitor confirmed – it was an undeniably elven voice. She produced a coin form her pocket; “Here, buy yourself a drink, and – “ The stooped Elf shook his head. "One more coin in my purse will not provide me with enough means to escape this desolate world. I came to see your master, Hazer.” The maid backed away slowly, letting the visitor through. He knows my name! Well, what else can one expect form an Elf! She superstitiously squeezed a charm in her pocket, making a quick prayer to Tymora to protect her from an eye of the Wanderer.

Bewildered, she followed the Elf, as he walked through the mansion taking the shortest way to Master Evarist’s study. Either he knew the house well, or the rumors about Elves’ strange abilities were true.

“Evarist…” the Elf said softly once he entered the room and saw the old man in his plush armchair. ‘So you are still lingering in this vale of sorrow, my old friend?” Evarist did not look surprised at all. A mischievous smile that Hazer had never seen crept on his pale lips and he gestured to her to take the Elf’s coat. Cloak.

Unwrapped, the Elf appeared a frail and over-stretched thing to Hazer, like one of those pale shootings that grow hopefully from potatoes stored for the long Luskan winter in the dark of a household’s cellar. The similarity was only heightened by the bluish tint of his cheekbones. The Elf’s clothes were strange: a dark-blue tunic with a silver thread and seed pearls embroidery, soft tights and a belt, that made the tunic gather in lazy folds around the elf’s rather slender waist. The belt consisted of a multitude of ornamented and gem-incrusted buckles. But what made Hazer’s mouth to fall open was a sword in a peculiar scabbard quite casually attached to it. Well, it figured that this Elf, though no beggar by his garments, would wrap himself up in his cloak! Carrying a sword like this through the streets of Luskan could get a man arrested. “Or robbed,” she thought squinting at a large, unusual blue gem that glinted on the weapon’s hilt. “If that’s not some cheap glass imitation.”

Unbidden, the Elf lowered himself on a loveseat by the hearth and dry-washed his hands thoughtfully. “Some tea if you please, Evarist. I am frozen to the bone and it is quite possible that I am coming down with influenza…”

“Hazer, do brew up some fresh tea for us, my dear. Cherry for merry year, I suppose,” and, turning back to the visitor, he added with a smile that dismissed the concern in the Elf’s gaze: “Xan, in the eight hundred years that I have known you, you have been always coming down with influenza, but never actually had an influenza. For a sorcerer you are a surprisingly sturdy sort.” The last thing Hazer saw leaving the room was a wounded glance that Xan threw at Master Evarist.

Magical servants are not created to be curious, but Evarist never was up to date with maintenance, so Hazer’s soft ears stood up trying not to miss a single word of the conversation, while she was rampaging through the bags of herbs, looking for cherry tea.

“Eight hundred years,” she thought, “O, Tymora, eight hundred years…”
“You know what year it is, Evarist,” Xan said softly and blew the steam away from his face delicately before taking a cautious sip. Evarist tapped the polished surface of the table with his fingers. “Yes. You know that I moved to Luskan in anticipation of that…” Evarist waited till Hazar retreated from the room before answering, but the maid listened hungrily, her hearing not impeded by the oaken door, that she closed behind her.

“You moved to Luskan fifty years ago, Evarist, and after that you have done nothing. O, I appreciate the help you had given my people over the last dark decades, but other than that you sat idly.” Evarist sighed. “Xan, you were the one who had told time and again that Evermeet will not hold and that the Elves were doomed. In fact, if I remember correctly, you told me that the whole of Toril was doomed. And now you are berating me for not bestirring these old bones to fight the prophesized serpent?”

Xan got up and walked over to the window. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and replied softly: “So I did tell you that the Quest is vain… But now… Do you know that I am well past thousand now? And still my fear of death did not diminish, because I see… I can see even Arvanaith ripped apart. You will never understand, Evarist. You were not raised in the ignorant bliss that the expectation of life eternal grants… ”

“Xan, I am the last person to console you in your plight. I’ve never asked for immortality. I was never prepared for it. I do not even like it – I stick out among mine kin like a tree stump solidified by ages to stone among the green grass of a new spring.”

“I tried to live normally, Xan, like a human man I was. I loved women and cried on their graves promising to never love another… and I broke my promises because I forgot… I advised to great Lords that are now dust. I amassed and lost fortunes. I thought that immortality is eternal youth. “ He snorted loudly. “Immortality is an eternal twilight of old age. Look at me, Xan! I have been a seventy-year-old for seven hundred years… I do not even recall how to handle a sword properly. I am no warrior anymore, I am a sage by necessity, by the call of my age. And being a sage, I tell you Xan: let go of this obsession with eternal life.”

The swishing sound, and that of the falling objects and broken glass assaulted Hazar’s strained ears and she burst through the doors into the room. A sword, an impossibly bright sword stretched in the air between Xan and Evarist, stopped by an ornamental hearth spit that Evarist held steadily in both hands. He roared and pushed at the blade. The Elf gave way. “Not a warrior?” Xan asked calmly sliding the sword back into its sheath. Evarist fell back into his chair watching the slender Elf angrily. Both men ignored Hazer now, too preoccupied by their debate.

“Evarist, it says:
“Soundest ground shall be torn asunder
The tapestry forever frayed.”
“Tapestry, Evarist, as we had agreed with you before, means the Weave itself. Weave that nurture my people even now, when we are reduced to Wanderers without lands and cities of old, without Evermeet…” Xan’s voice broke. “Without Evereska…”

“Evereska fell before,” Evarist replied, but to Hazer’s surprise there was no edge left in his voice. Instead it softened and Evarist raised from his chair and wrapped his arm about the lanky elf’s shoulders leading him back to the loveseat and forcing him to sit down. “It will be rebuild…” he said soothingly. Xan shook his head negatively: “You have been saying it for the past eighty years, Evarist, and not a single stone was quarried in the Greycloak Hills ever since the last bombardment. The land is too inhospitable and some say… it turned vile and bitter. No, our last stronghold had failed. We can only hope to linger scattered. ‘Tis not at all like the life we were used to, but it is life, Evarist. If Alaundo’s Prophecy comes to pass, we will lose even that illusion of existence. I believe that faeries shall simply vanish into oblivion should the Weave break. It will suffocate drow in their caverns as well, when magic fails, but 'tis a small consolation…”

“You are a Moonblade wielder, Quessir. You can call upon your whole race to help you,” Evarist said gently, but firmly, “You do not need me.”

“O, you know very well, why I need you. You were the dam that stopped the flood of Alaundo’s Prophecy once, you can do so again, if anyone can do it at all. You are my last hope…”

“Hope is a strange word coming from you, Xan,” Evarist mused.

Xan looked up at him. “I am sorry to do this to you, but you leave me no choice… not that there ever had been one. I, Xan of Evereska, a Moonblade Weilder, call upon you, Evarist Lant, Savior of Suldanessellar and named Elf-Friend by Ellesime the Wise. Honor our allegiance or be damned!”

Evarist sighed heavily and clutched his chest: “Must you be so dramatic? Stay for dinner friend, and then we shall talk some more about your … plans.” Xan nodded curtly.

Evarist remembered of Hazer’s existence and pursed his lips worriedly, seeing her in the room. But aloud he only said: “A light dinner tonight, Hazer. Quail if we have any… or trout. And no cream. My friend is quite worried about his heart.” Hazer looked doubtfully at the skinny Elf. If she were him, she’d rather be worried about anemia, she thought.

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The Ninth Portents (ON)

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