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Cormyr: The Smile of Chauntea
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<blockquote data-quote="MulhorandSage" data-source="post: 865367" data-attributes="member: 751"><p>####</p><p></p><p>28th day of Uktar, in the Year of the Standing Stone, 1372. </p><p>Silverymoon</p><p></p><p>Dear sister,</p><p></p><p>How <strong>dare</strong> he!</p><p></p><p>Curse me for a fool to ally with paladins and Cormytes! I'd wish a plague upon my head as punishment, except that a plague would be an improvement over my current situation. The abyss take all paladins! Take them all and shroud them in shadow and maggots! All of my designs are undone because this fop of a Cormaeril chose glory over duty!</p><p></p><p>We supposed that the baelnorn sent us as close as it could to the place where we requested - Silverymoon - unfortunately it must have used a moongate that connected to a mountaintop located some distance from the town. How like that fool Ulrick, who, pursuing a greedy goal while claiming to be above such base emotions, led us into a place where I nearly froze both my vitals and my spellfingers.</p><p></p><p>At that moment my sister, I wondered which plane of chill would be best suited to send him and repay the favor.</p><p></p><p>We were atop the battlements of an ancient fortress, surrounded on all sides by impassable cliffs. There's a shrine to Halani, one of Kord's conceited elven gods (the goddess of staring at one's self in the mirror for unending hours, methinks) and naturally the oblivious elf wanted to pray to her, probably for the removal of that mole on his back. I suppose I should have been curious whether that arrogant elven-bitch would answer Kord's prayer, instead, I was busy experiencing a more bitter chill than any my necromancer adversaries in Myth Drannor had shown me. I was certainly glad I did not cast my spells with my toes.</p><p></p><p>I digress, again. It is, I think, that natural human trait that inspires one to talk about the weather as frequently as possible, especially when it's conspiring to kill you.</p><p></p><p>Kord's prayer was interrupted, but not by anything divine - more infernal I think. A glowing ball of energy, dancing like a fey in mid-air, suddenly rose from a nook in the shrine and fired a tiny bolt of lightning hat struck the prayer-addled elf in its vespers, ending its supplication in a manner that would have been amusing had I been less hypothermiac.</p><p></p><p>Ulrick, failing to sense the ambush, but sensing (correctly, I suspect) that it would get much worse the longer I stayed there, pointed us toward a downward facing staircase. We fled downward, our numb feet nearly tripping on the stairs.</p><p></p><p>"Why are you so cold?" Aron asked. "I can barely feel it."</p><p></p><p>"That's because you're wearing a traveller's cloak, you dolt!" I shouted back at the irritating lummox. Unfortunately, the other members of the company had, during an expedition when I was indisposed, discovered a cache of traveller's cloaks. Of course would these allegedly hardy human slabs of meat actually deign to lend such a wondrous thing to a less physically adept soul in his hour of need? Of course not! I suppose the next thing I'll hear as that they're expecting me, as a wizard. to have prepared the appropriate spell to keep myself warm (even though it had been midsummer's heat at Myth Drannor). If so, I'll fireball the lot of them and warm myself on their carcasses!</p><p></p><p>In the meantime, the one source of warmth was one we were all desperate to avoid - the painful lightning jolts of the fey-lights, which flickered in and out of existance and proved so agile that they were nearly impossible to hit - Aron, who's usually a capable swordsman, floundered like an overconfident apprentice trying to hit the blasted things. </p><p></p><p>The fey things play a cat and mouse game with us, popping in and out before we can deal with them. Ulrick urges us on, agreeing that we're probably being herded, but seeing little alternative. Of course, neither could I. The jolts from the fey-orb were painful (after receiving a solid flash on the buttocks, I was careful to raise a magical <em>shield</em> and keep it interposed between me and the light) but not lethal.</p><p></p><p>We ended up in an open courtyard of a large temple complex, a huge altar of black stone - basalt, I'd guess, or I'm a Cormyte - grinning at us with dark power. Its acolytes were about a dozen muscle-bound men, as broad-shouldered and thick-chested as Aron, clad in the meagerest leather straps, they flaunted themselves in a manner that even a Chessentan self-pageanteer would find embarrassing.</p><p></p><p>(Fine sister. On the last point, I exagerate. But it was an odd sight indeed to come face to face with these wolf-bloods. And despite the potential danger I faced, I couldn't help but be preoccupied with one thought - how could anyone survive wearing such scant clothing when the ice-wind was freeze-burning my flesh and flaying it from my bones?)</p><p></p><p>The leather pageanteer looked up at the sudden instrusion, clearly annoyed that we disrupted some ritual, and one of them, drawing a whip from his belt, pointed at me menacingly. Great, I told myself. I recognized who they were, or at least what they served - Loviatar. The baelnorn just <em>had</em> tp send us into a stronghold of the bitch of pain. Ignoring the growling sounds of my comrades. I put up my hands in a gesture of non-violence and began to walk around them. They were clearly evil, or harbored such intent, but I rarely debate a man's religious dogma unless they're presenting a warped view of the arcane, and I don't believe in killing people because their ethos differs from mine (else I would have gutted that paladin like a spawning salmon a long time ago). But the Loviatarites had other ideas. The lash leapt out of the Loviatarite's hand, lazily flying above the rim of my protection spells, and stung the side of my cheek, drawing the blood of Sembia. I believe the others thought me a fool for not attacking on sight. They charged into the fray, even Kord (though he did so to avoid the fey-light that was driving him from behind. There's nothing Kord hates more than being flanked, except perhaps for common sense and the practicality of reigning in one's bloodthirst).</p><p></p><p>The battle that followed was welcome, if only because the blood rushing through my veins was sufficiently warming that I no longer felt like I was freezing to death. Truth to tell, when it comes to warming one's body, and one is forced to choose between a whore in one's bed, warm brandy in one's hand, and the fear of a sudden death in one's heart, the latter is by the poorest of the available options. One of the pageanteers cornered me, whip in hand; almost giddy at the prospect that he would flay me like cattle. I didn't wish to cast one of my more powerful magicks, not yet, so I took the bone scepter, and drawing it with one swift motion, slammed it into the ample acreage of his chest. The impact did much more than I expected. Immediately, the enemy's health faltered, and his broad frame became emaciated as a sickly wizard; he fell to one knee, then lay prone at my feet, and then (to my astonishment) I heard his death rattle. Looking at my hands and wrists, I found that they had thickened noticeably, and briefly sliding my left hand over my upper right arm, there was a hardness and a bulge that is not the norm for one of my slender (fine, call it frail if you must!) physique.</p><p></p><p>Necromancy. I could get used to this.</p><p></p><p>The Loviatarites had bitten off more than they could chew, but they were not fighting alone, as several of these fey-orbs had now materialized and continued to pelt us with lightning. Briefly Aron swayed, clutched his belt for a healing potion bottle that wasn't there, and we suddenly realized we were dying the death of a thousand cuts. Kord pushed ahead into a guardtower door, and we found ourselves facing animated suits of flying armor - helmed horrors. We managed to disable them, and continued fighting our way into the keep, hoping that we'd eventually make our way to a safe egress. But resistance only grew stronger as we penetrated deeper within the keep, and with Aron and Ulrick both badly wounded and little healing left to us, I decided on a desperation gambit. We unloaded much of what we had taken from the Sammasterite's tower, all of the masterwork quality armor and weapons that burdened us, and lightened our load so I could support our descent with a <em>levitation</em> spell. We worked our way to a window, and stared down the sheer, ice-sharded face of the cliff. It looked like a straight drop of several thousand feet. Taking a deep breath, knowing that all it would take is one well-cast <em>dispel magic</em> to send us all plummeting to certain death, I cast the spell, and we began a controlled descent to the valley floor.</p><p></p><p>Several minutes later, as the fell winds battered us like the buffet of white dragon wings, we finally descended below the altitude where ice held the mountain as its thrall, and finally arrived in climes where a heavy cloak could shield you from the wind with shivers.</p><p></p><p>"I know where we are," Kord said - he was born in these lands. "I'm not sure I want to take you there. You might embarass me."</p><p></p><p>Our collective jaws dropped.</p><p></p><p>"Let's see," I laughed. "Silverymoon is dedicated to the peaceful unity of Men, Elves, and Dwarves - among other races - and we've just helped safeguard some of elvendom's most valuable artifacts, as well as risked our lives fighting against an evil that had desecrated your most hollowed sanctuary west of Evermeet, and we're <em>still</em> not worthy of entering Silverymoon?"</p><p></p><p>"Yeah," Kord replied. </p><p></p><p>"But I'll never be able to join a specialty order of Selune!" Aron protested.</p><p></p><p>"And we need to get the book and sword of Lathander back to the temple." Ulrick said.</p><p></p><p>"Oh." I could hear the moneychanging going off in Kord's head. "Two major artifacts, that's worth at least 125,000 Gold each." Kord gleefully chortled. "For 250,000 Gold, I can easily take you to my city!"</p><p></p><p>I would have told him that it's highly unlikely that even a cathedral as rich as Lathander's would keep that much currency around - for one thing, it'd attract far too many thieves - but I said nothing. It's best to let this treasure-besotted fool live with his delusions, then smile when reality inevitably shatters them. Life's more fun that way.</p><p></p><p>The sun was waxing when we arrived at the Cathedral of Lathander, as grand and as gaudy a temple as I've ever seen, even more than the Grand Register of Waukeen in Saerloon, which I marvelled at as a boy. The walls had a slight yellow tint, magically pigments I'd wager, which made the building appear pearl-colored at dawn and dusk, and a deep gold at noon. Such were the aspects of Lathander Morninglord (or those aspects he'd claim as his own, which for the gods is much the same thing.)</p><p></p><p>We entered the cathedral to find it busier than the market district of Saerloon at Highharvestide. There were dozens of adventurers seated at table, piled next to assorted relics and weapons, awaiting nervously as the priests made a circuit of the room, divining the properties of those goods they'd been brought. Since, two years again, the Queen Alustriel had founded the Kingdom of Luruar (now called the Silver Marches, a more religiously neutral name), many adventurers have scavenged the ancient dwarf ruins of the North, unearthing treasures enchanted by the ancient elven masters of the northern forests, which vied with Netheril when the world was young, and the dwarrow-delvers of the great dwarf kingdom of Delzoun. At least some of them must have lain in a dragon's hoard, for they had a draconic stench, half-offal, half overwhelming spice.</p><p></p><p>We watched patiently as the priests fawned and marveled over the discoveries - I got the distinct impression that their pretty speech was intended to bespell them without actually throwing an enchantment - and smiled as we anticipated their words to us. Kord's face was lit up as if it were a living gateway to the treasures that would be awarded to him. I had the brief and quite horrifying mental picture of a naked Kord swimming through a hoard of gold like a great wyrm, throwing coins in his wake.</p><p></p><p>Then the priest came to our table, laid their eyes upon our find, and the fawning mask dropped and was instantly replaced with wonder. The high priest of Lathander, a gaudy creature clad in gold like a eunuch, was immediately summoned to inspect the book and the sword. He cast a spell. Suddenly the temple went pitch dark, and then the book shone, and a crack of light came out of the ceiling and illuminated Ulrick. This was followed by a light that surrounded the sword, and the blade levitated in place, then drifted into the hands of a Lathanderite paladin.</p><p></p><p>"Hey! Our treasure!" Kord exclaimed, though his voice was lost in the moment. And I seemed to recall that Aron was the one who suffered taking the sword from Lathander's light.</p><p></p><p>"Truly the prophecy has been fulfilled," the chief priest said, pointing at Ulrick. "One has come, bearing relics from the dark, and the darkness came but could not restrain him."</p><p></p><p>There was a very unsettling feeling in my stomach when I heard that damned word "prophecy".</p><p></p><p>"You must become our new high priest," the priest added.</p><p></p><p>I knew, of course, that Ulrick would have to decline now and put an end to this nonsense. Clearly Cormyr needed his help far more than Silverymoon, and no paladin of Torm could abandon his subjects for very long, even one as neglectful as Ulrick. Furthermore, the portals we had so carefully studied lay near Cormyr, but not (to our knowledge) Silverymoon. I had pinned all my hopes on mastering the portal network, wresting them from the control of the great Orc King, taming them and using them to facilitate commerce between the Dales, Sembia, and Cormyr - control of those portals would make us all richer than kings.</p><p></p><p>Ulrick looked at us - and I knew even <em>he</em> wouldn't make any hasty decision without consulting us. After all, taking the position of high priest of Lathander (for which he was utterly unqualified) would have serious consequences for our partnership, and no paladin who prized loyalty would take that decision without talking it over with us. And I am a Wizard, not a Dullard: it is my chief purpose in life to provide advice to Men at such critical moments.</p><p></p><p>"I accept," Ulrick said, and suddenly I realized I'd been betrayed. No, not betrayal in the grand conspiracy, dagger-in-the-back sense, the labyrinthine court plotting that one finds in potboilers and history. No, this was betrayal in a very personal sense, betrayal through neglect and disregard. For it is easy to be a comrade in a time of great need, but when that need is gone, and one can be casually disregarded in the everyday scheme of events, then one is not a comrade, one is a lapdog.</p><p></p><p>I had once seen greatness in this man's mien, a potential to achieve triumphs beyond the scope of lesser men, and such a man is worth keeping close, for he will lead you to interesting places. But now he has become besotted by his new religion, which forced him to make a choice between two places: the easy and the hard; on one hand the prosperous avenues of Silverymoon, on the other, the starvation-ridden streets of Wheloon. A great man never choses the easier of two such paths, but that is precisely what Ulrick has done, and he who makes such a coward's choice may be useless to me now.</p><p></p><p>I will go nowhere, sister, if I remain this Lathanderite's lapdog for much longer.</p><p></p><p>His decision was made without malice - I suspect he will be surprised when I tell him he's betrayed me, and treat the accusation lightly. He will be mistaken. In a friend or comrade, neglect is ofttimes far worse than hate. I do not know what my next move will be. But I shall have to make it shortly.</p><p></p><p>In love, and regard, still thy brother,</p><p></p><p>Ascarin Nevermoon</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="MulhorandSage, post: 865367, member: 751"] #### 28th day of Uktar, in the Year of the Standing Stone, 1372. Silverymoon Dear sister, How [b]dare[/b] he! Curse me for a fool to ally with paladins and Cormytes! I'd wish a plague upon my head as punishment, except that a plague would be an improvement over my current situation. The abyss take all paladins! Take them all and shroud them in shadow and maggots! All of my designs are undone because this fop of a Cormaeril chose glory over duty! We supposed that the baelnorn sent us as close as it could to the place where we requested - Silverymoon - unfortunately it must have used a moongate that connected to a mountaintop located some distance from the town. How like that fool Ulrick, who, pursuing a greedy goal while claiming to be above such base emotions, led us into a place where I nearly froze both my vitals and my spellfingers. At that moment my sister, I wondered which plane of chill would be best suited to send him and repay the favor. We were atop the battlements of an ancient fortress, surrounded on all sides by impassable cliffs. There's a shrine to Halani, one of Kord's conceited elven gods (the goddess of staring at one's self in the mirror for unending hours, methinks) and naturally the oblivious elf wanted to pray to her, probably for the removal of that mole on his back. I suppose I should have been curious whether that arrogant elven-bitch would answer Kord's prayer, instead, I was busy experiencing a more bitter chill than any my necromancer adversaries in Myth Drannor had shown me. I was certainly glad I did not cast my spells with my toes. I digress, again. It is, I think, that natural human trait that inspires one to talk about the weather as frequently as possible, especially when it's conspiring to kill you. Kord's prayer was interrupted, but not by anything divine - more infernal I think. A glowing ball of energy, dancing like a fey in mid-air, suddenly rose from a nook in the shrine and fired a tiny bolt of lightning hat struck the prayer-addled elf in its vespers, ending its supplication in a manner that would have been amusing had I been less hypothermiac. Ulrick, failing to sense the ambush, but sensing (correctly, I suspect) that it would get much worse the longer I stayed there, pointed us toward a downward facing staircase. We fled downward, our numb feet nearly tripping on the stairs. "Why are you so cold?" Aron asked. "I can barely feel it." "That's because you're wearing a traveller's cloak, you dolt!" I shouted back at the irritating lummox. Unfortunately, the other members of the company had, during an expedition when I was indisposed, discovered a cache of traveller's cloaks. Of course would these allegedly hardy human slabs of meat actually deign to lend such a wondrous thing to a less physically adept soul in his hour of need? Of course not! I suppose the next thing I'll hear as that they're expecting me, as a wizard. to have prepared the appropriate spell to keep myself warm (even though it had been midsummer's heat at Myth Drannor). If so, I'll fireball the lot of them and warm myself on their carcasses! In the meantime, the one source of warmth was one we were all desperate to avoid - the painful lightning jolts of the fey-lights, which flickered in and out of existance and proved so agile that they were nearly impossible to hit - Aron, who's usually a capable swordsman, floundered like an overconfident apprentice trying to hit the blasted things. The fey things play a cat and mouse game with us, popping in and out before we can deal with them. Ulrick urges us on, agreeing that we're probably being herded, but seeing little alternative. Of course, neither could I. The jolts from the fey-orb were painful (after receiving a solid flash on the buttocks, I was careful to raise a magical [i]shield[/i] and keep it interposed between me and the light) but not lethal. We ended up in an open courtyard of a large temple complex, a huge altar of black stone - basalt, I'd guess, or I'm a Cormyte - grinning at us with dark power. Its acolytes were about a dozen muscle-bound men, as broad-shouldered and thick-chested as Aron, clad in the meagerest leather straps, they flaunted themselves in a manner that even a Chessentan self-pageanteer would find embarrassing. (Fine sister. On the last point, I exagerate. But it was an odd sight indeed to come face to face with these wolf-bloods. And despite the potential danger I faced, I couldn't help but be preoccupied with one thought - how could anyone survive wearing such scant clothing when the ice-wind was freeze-burning my flesh and flaying it from my bones?) The leather pageanteer looked up at the sudden instrusion, clearly annoyed that we disrupted some ritual, and one of them, drawing a whip from his belt, pointed at me menacingly. Great, I told myself. I recognized who they were, or at least what they served - Loviatar. The baelnorn just [i]had[/i] tp send us into a stronghold of the bitch of pain. Ignoring the growling sounds of my comrades. I put up my hands in a gesture of non-violence and began to walk around them. They were clearly evil, or harbored such intent, but I rarely debate a man's religious dogma unless they're presenting a warped view of the arcane, and I don't believe in killing people because their ethos differs from mine (else I would have gutted that paladin like a spawning salmon a long time ago). But the Loviatarites had other ideas. The lash leapt out of the Loviatarite's hand, lazily flying above the rim of my protection spells, and stung the side of my cheek, drawing the blood of Sembia. I believe the others thought me a fool for not attacking on sight. They charged into the fray, even Kord (though he did so to avoid the fey-light that was driving him from behind. There's nothing Kord hates more than being flanked, except perhaps for common sense and the practicality of reigning in one's bloodthirst). The battle that followed was welcome, if only because the blood rushing through my veins was sufficiently warming that I no longer felt like I was freezing to death. Truth to tell, when it comes to warming one's body, and one is forced to choose between a whore in one's bed, warm brandy in one's hand, and the fear of a sudden death in one's heart, the latter is by the poorest of the available options. One of the pageanteers cornered me, whip in hand; almost giddy at the prospect that he would flay me like cattle. I didn't wish to cast one of my more powerful magicks, not yet, so I took the bone scepter, and drawing it with one swift motion, slammed it into the ample acreage of his chest. The impact did much more than I expected. Immediately, the enemy's health faltered, and his broad frame became emaciated as a sickly wizard; he fell to one knee, then lay prone at my feet, and then (to my astonishment) I heard his death rattle. Looking at my hands and wrists, I found that they had thickened noticeably, and briefly sliding my left hand over my upper right arm, there was a hardness and a bulge that is not the norm for one of my slender (fine, call it frail if you must!) physique. Necromancy. I could get used to this. The Loviatarites had bitten off more than they could chew, but they were not fighting alone, as several of these fey-orbs had now materialized and continued to pelt us with lightning. Briefly Aron swayed, clutched his belt for a healing potion bottle that wasn't there, and we suddenly realized we were dying the death of a thousand cuts. Kord pushed ahead into a guardtower door, and we found ourselves facing animated suits of flying armor - helmed horrors. We managed to disable them, and continued fighting our way into the keep, hoping that we'd eventually make our way to a safe egress. But resistance only grew stronger as we penetrated deeper within the keep, and with Aron and Ulrick both badly wounded and little healing left to us, I decided on a desperation gambit. We unloaded much of what we had taken from the Sammasterite's tower, all of the masterwork quality armor and weapons that burdened us, and lightened our load so I could support our descent with a [i]levitation[/i] spell. We worked our way to a window, and stared down the sheer, ice-sharded face of the cliff. It looked like a straight drop of several thousand feet. Taking a deep breath, knowing that all it would take is one well-cast [i]dispel magic[/i] to send us all plummeting to certain death, I cast the spell, and we began a controlled descent to the valley floor. Several minutes later, as the fell winds battered us like the buffet of white dragon wings, we finally descended below the altitude where ice held the mountain as its thrall, and finally arrived in climes where a heavy cloak could shield you from the wind with shivers. "I know where we are," Kord said - he was born in these lands. "I'm not sure I want to take you there. You might embarass me." Our collective jaws dropped. "Let's see," I laughed. "Silverymoon is dedicated to the peaceful unity of Men, Elves, and Dwarves - among other races - and we've just helped safeguard some of elvendom's most valuable artifacts, as well as risked our lives fighting against an evil that had desecrated your most hollowed sanctuary west of Evermeet, and we're [i]still[/i] not worthy of entering Silverymoon?" "Yeah," Kord replied. "But I'll never be able to join a specialty order of Selune!" Aron protested. "And we need to get the book and sword of Lathander back to the temple." Ulrick said. "Oh." I could hear the moneychanging going off in Kord's head. "Two major artifacts, that's worth at least 125,000 Gold each." Kord gleefully chortled. "For 250,000 Gold, I can easily take you to my city!" I would have told him that it's highly unlikely that even a cathedral as rich as Lathander's would keep that much currency around - for one thing, it'd attract far too many thieves - but I said nothing. It's best to let this treasure-besotted fool live with his delusions, then smile when reality inevitably shatters them. Life's more fun that way. The sun was waxing when we arrived at the Cathedral of Lathander, as grand and as gaudy a temple as I've ever seen, even more than the Grand Register of Waukeen in Saerloon, which I marvelled at as a boy. The walls had a slight yellow tint, magically pigments I'd wager, which made the building appear pearl-colored at dawn and dusk, and a deep gold at noon. Such were the aspects of Lathander Morninglord (or those aspects he'd claim as his own, which for the gods is much the same thing.) We entered the cathedral to find it busier than the market district of Saerloon at Highharvestide. There were dozens of adventurers seated at table, piled next to assorted relics and weapons, awaiting nervously as the priests made a circuit of the room, divining the properties of those goods they'd been brought. Since, two years again, the Queen Alustriel had founded the Kingdom of Luruar (now called the Silver Marches, a more religiously neutral name), many adventurers have scavenged the ancient dwarf ruins of the North, unearthing treasures enchanted by the ancient elven masters of the northern forests, which vied with Netheril when the world was young, and the dwarrow-delvers of the great dwarf kingdom of Delzoun. At least some of them must have lain in a dragon's hoard, for they had a draconic stench, half-offal, half overwhelming spice. We watched patiently as the priests fawned and marveled over the discoveries - I got the distinct impression that their pretty speech was intended to bespell them without actually throwing an enchantment - and smiled as we anticipated their words to us. Kord's face was lit up as if it were a living gateway to the treasures that would be awarded to him. I had the brief and quite horrifying mental picture of a naked Kord swimming through a hoard of gold like a great wyrm, throwing coins in his wake. Then the priest came to our table, laid their eyes upon our find, and the fawning mask dropped and was instantly replaced with wonder. The high priest of Lathander, a gaudy creature clad in gold like a eunuch, was immediately summoned to inspect the book and the sword. He cast a spell. Suddenly the temple went pitch dark, and then the book shone, and a crack of light came out of the ceiling and illuminated Ulrick. This was followed by a light that surrounded the sword, and the blade levitated in place, then drifted into the hands of a Lathanderite paladin. "Hey! Our treasure!" Kord exclaimed, though his voice was lost in the moment. And I seemed to recall that Aron was the one who suffered taking the sword from Lathander's light. "Truly the prophecy has been fulfilled," the chief priest said, pointing at Ulrick. "One has come, bearing relics from the dark, and the darkness came but could not restrain him." There was a very unsettling feeling in my stomach when I heard that damned word "prophecy". "You must become our new high priest," the priest added. I knew, of course, that Ulrick would have to decline now and put an end to this nonsense. Clearly Cormyr needed his help far more than Silverymoon, and no paladin of Torm could abandon his subjects for very long, even one as neglectful as Ulrick. Furthermore, the portals we had so carefully studied lay near Cormyr, but not (to our knowledge) Silverymoon. I had pinned all my hopes on mastering the portal network, wresting them from the control of the great Orc King, taming them and using them to facilitate commerce between the Dales, Sembia, and Cormyr - control of those portals would make us all richer than kings. Ulrick looked at us - and I knew even [i]he[/i] wouldn't make any hasty decision without consulting us. After all, taking the position of high priest of Lathander (for which he was utterly unqualified) would have serious consequences for our partnership, and no paladin who prized loyalty would take that decision without talking it over with us. And I am a Wizard, not a Dullard: it is my chief purpose in life to provide advice to Men at such critical moments. "I accept," Ulrick said, and suddenly I realized I'd been betrayed. No, not betrayal in the grand conspiracy, dagger-in-the-back sense, the labyrinthine court plotting that one finds in potboilers and history. No, this was betrayal in a very personal sense, betrayal through neglect and disregard. For it is easy to be a comrade in a time of great need, but when that need is gone, and one can be casually disregarded in the everyday scheme of events, then one is not a comrade, one is a lapdog. I had once seen greatness in this man's mien, a potential to achieve triumphs beyond the scope of lesser men, and such a man is worth keeping close, for he will lead you to interesting places. But now he has become besotted by his new religion, which forced him to make a choice between two places: the easy and the hard; on one hand the prosperous avenues of Silverymoon, on the other, the starvation-ridden streets of Wheloon. A great man never choses the easier of two such paths, but that is precisely what Ulrick has done, and he who makes such a coward's choice may be useless to me now. I will go nowhere, sister, if I remain this Lathanderite's lapdog for much longer. His decision was made without malice - I suspect he will be surprised when I tell him he's betrayed me, and treat the accusation lightly. He will be mistaken. In a friend or comrade, neglect is ofttimes far worse than hate. I do not know what my next move will be. But I shall have to make it shortly. In love, and regard, still thy brother, Ascarin Nevermoon [/QUOTE]
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