Dragonlance Classics: Dragons of Despair

This thread for players only. Spectators are welcome to comment in the OOC thread: http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=40750

The air surges fierce and sweet, carrying the clear musk smell of the woodlands. The soft murmurs of stirring leaves, insects, and small animals fill the landscape. The clear highland sky blushes with the end of day and fades into starry sleep. This is home.

From the rock outcropping the valley below seems peaceful, untouched. Dense forests of pine carpet the mountainsides, broken only by thick aspen woods. The mountains, deep blue in the distance, circle the valley floor and form a soft highland bowl.

Five years ago, you and your friends parted to search for a true cleric. Tonight, you meet on the road to Solace and report on your discoveries.

The tall man with the dolorous mustache received many strange stares from the citizens of Solace. He had lived here for many years and been accepted among them, but still, they stared. The reason for their curiosity was the archaic breastplate he was wearing. Most of his neighbors had forgotten about his link to that sad old tradition, or at least pushed it to the back of their minds. Today he was travelling, however, and one can't be too careful.

The breastplate bore the mark of the Solamnic Knights. In some parts of Ansalon, wearing that symbol was tantamount to a death sentence. Thankfully the people of Solace are a more forgiving lot than most, for the man would sooner cut off his sword arm than hide his birthright.

The man's name is Sturm Brightblade, and tonight he is reuiniting with his closest (and only) friends. They seperated five years previously to search for any sign of the old Gods. Sturm travelled north to Solamnia with Kitiara, half sister to the twins. Some would be sad that Kit was not returning with him. In fact Sturm was not looking forward to telling his friend Tanis about what Kit had become. Sturm was never comfortable with their relationship, and he and Kitiara had quite a falling out during their travels. Niether of them found any signs of the True Gods, although both learned some things about themselves and each other, maybe too much.

Sturm was approaching the giant oak which cradled the Inn of the last Home, almost as if the Inn were part of the tree itself. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses mingled with the smell of Otik's famous spiced potatoes wafted down on the cool autumn breeze.

The Elf moved swiftly through the waning daylight of the forest. He had already knocked an arrow, his Almond eyes searching the woods around him for enemies. It had been quite a few years since he had last been home, as humans would measure such things, but for one as long-lived as he, it seemed as if he had just blinked his eyes.

It is almost time, he thought to himself, looking forward to the reunion that was planned for that very night. It had been 5 years since he and his companions had parted company vowing to find word of the true gods, and to learn the truth behind the rumors of war in the North. He hadn't found any proof, but he still trusted in their existance. There was too much to suggest they did, the beauty of the forests, the white stag that had led him along the hidden forest paths. There was something out there guiding.

Although he was looking forward to meeting all of his former companions again, it was the thought of one that quickened his pace towards the Inn, towards her. Kitiara Uth-Matar, the woman that had occupied much of his thoughts during these last 5 years. The older sister of Caramon and Raistlen was like tempest always changing, always so mercurial. Its what drew him to her, she embraced life, she was chaos incarnate, and that crooked smirk that she had… simply intoxicating.

With that thought foremost in his mind he finds himself having arrived in Solace, his former home. Guided more by memories then sight he padded along towards the house that he had built up in the mighty Vallen wood trees. It was rare for a human settlement to make such use of nature's bounty ad beauty, it was one of the few things that made his exile from Qualinesti bearable. From the house's condition, he knew he would need to repair it before the winter, sighing, he continued on along the tree-bridge to the Inn of the last home. He hoped he wasn't late as he slipped through the doorway.

Wandering down a lonely road, a grumbling dwarf slowly approached the bent tree that marked the northern boarder for the pastors for Solace. Five years, and am sure them manlings have messed everything up. More likely then not there wont be a smith for a hundred leagues, horse waken about without proper shoes, iron rushing in the streets instead of made into something useful… humph, no respect for the proper order of things at all… well can't worry about that.

He stops for a few minutes and pulls out a clay pipe, and packs it with some good tobac, still lost in thought. Humph, be good to see the lad again. I am sure he growen up good. To bad he an't got a beard but, no bodies perfect. Humph, might have to deal with that Takhisis dammed Kender again also… hmm unless he got his stupid throat stretch taken what don't belong to him. Serves him right, if you ask me…"

Flint continues on his journey toward Solace, looking forward to seeing old friends (yes even that blasted Kender!) and finding a bit of rest at the Inn of Last Homes. These last five years have been frustrating and fruitlessss Bha… gods, as if they were any left, would they care about the doings of such a sad lot of races? Nay, we be better off with good steel and not a lot of worthless knee bending to some unseen, unfeelin specters. Five years a wasted is what I think, searching for a holy man and a way to avenge the wrongs done to my people. I failed them all… and the doors of Thorbardin are lost, to much as changed. Curses on the mountain dwarves and their vile gully dwarf cousins!

A big man lugs his and his brothers gear up the steps in the valewoods of the Inn of the Last Home. "It will be good to see everyone again, won't it Raist? I can't wait to see Tanis, Flint, Sturm, and even Tas again. I never thought I would say I would want to see a kender again but here I am doing it. Do we tell them what happened....?"

More than a few steps behind, Raistlin stopped on the stairs and looked up to Caramon. Leaning heavily on his staff (yet holding it protectively), Raistlin gave him a hard stare with his strange new eyes. Barely holding off a coughing fit, Raistlin replied, “We will tell them nothing of the trip to and from the Tower of High Sorcery, nor anything that happened while we were there . . .”

The coughing could be held no longer, and Raistlin doubled up in the coughing, pain racking his abdomen and throat. He reached into his pouch to remove small bit of dried lemon peel from a pouch on his belt and placed it in his mouth, chewing. Raistlin tasted the metallic taste of his blood and the citrus and soothing of the dried peel. He refused to look in Caramon’s direction, knowing the concern and pity would be clearly evident on his face.

“You may speak of the time after, when we were mercenaries or of the troops that we have faced,” Raistlin rasped. “I will tell them of the tower – I’m sure even your friends will notice the changes.”

Raistlin continued his ascent on the stairs, hopeful for some hot water for his tea. Once he reached the top of the stairs and the entrance to the Inn, Raistlin paused. He moved his most critical pouches to within the concealed pockets of his red robe. Damnable kender. I’m sure he’s too much of an aggravation to have died in these times, Raistlin thought.

"RAIST!!! CARAMON!!! GUYS!!!" Came a high pitched voice. Running up came a child-like man, but his appearance, the friends knew, was not a fitting display for the massive amounts of trouble he was prone to causing. "Someone say my name?" Tas looked around, and suddenly felt an urge to hug someone. The nearest person ended up on the receiving end of the big kender-hug. "I missed you guys!"

Sturm smiles at the sight of his tall, jovial friend. Approaching he hold out his hand.

"Caramon. It does my sould good to clap eyes upon you again. I trust you are well."

Sturm glances at the twin of his friend.

"Raistlin. It appears the past 5 years have not been kind to you."

Clasping Caramon's hand

"Your sword arm is as strong as I remember. Tell me of your travels since last we met."

Warm laughter tumbles from the inn. The worn steps wind around the heavy trunk up to the familiar, carved door.

The Inn of the Last Home never changes. The polished wooden bar curves around several living branches. An old man weaves stories in the corner and delights the crowd gathered about him. The delicate windows of stained glass behind the bar are being polished by Otik Sandath, the barkeeper. He turns and waves, smiling at you, and motions the barmaid in your direction.

The low murmur of voices fills the inn. The bartender turns thoughtfully to polish the glasses. At a far table, near the storyteller, a man and woman sit together and speak quietly. Another man stands beside the now-silent storyteller while a small boy stares thoughtfully into the fire.

The barmaid steps toward you, smiles, and shows you to a table. Something about her seems familiar. The hair? The intelligent glint of her eyes. Could this be Tika, the little girl who swept the tavern floors a short five years ago? The inn never changes, but its people do.

"Ah...Sturm, it is good to see you again. No, the years haven't been kind to Raist..." Caramon looks at Raistlin who's eyes begin to darken and Caramon stops.
"The past few years we were mercenaries but always chose our jobs with care. How went your search up north?"

Once inside the Inn

"Raist!" Caramon nudges his brother "Raist! Is that Tika?"