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Explorer
95—The Blood Solstice
It has been fully three years since Taran, Thelbar and Gorquen first set foot in Faerun. Since their arrival, they have acted as instruments for their Goddess, taking on the role of her champions, and in Gorquen’s case, formalizing the title with her clergy. They have gained many things, greatest perhaps of these is a deeper knowledge of her teachings, embodied in the pasoun. They have lost things as well; innocence, some measure of confidence, and the easy-living that comes from carrying no burden. They have also lost the goodwill of many of the land’s faiths, or perhaps it could be said that they gained them as enemies.
Khuumar makes his home away from the adventurers, among his people, and finds a leadership among them in many ways deeper than any of his companions. As non-spellcasters, Taran and Gorquen have more time on their hands than their companions, and take to spending long evenings together in Taran’s suite, drinking and brooding over their failures and triumphs.
“It’s coming, Gorquen, an ugly thing. And what are we going to do?” Taran asks. He sits at the foot of his bed, a half-filled goblet in his hand. Gorquen reclines above him, her ebony wings stretched out to their full length.
“Ishlok is greater than her enemies,” Gorquen replies distantly.
“Ishlok doesn’t involve herself in brawls,” Taran reminds her. “She counts on us.”
Gorquen sighs.
“Well, exactly.” Taran stands and regards her evenly. “Look, I’m not sure I want to die and do this all over again.”
“I would do things better had I a second chance,” Gorquen muses sadly. She flutters her wings, and pulls herself upright. “I have made grave mistakes.”
“Yeah, that’s what you think you’d do,” Taran mutters, sitting down next to her. “But I’ve seen the pasoun. It always works out the same. You don’t know why—each time it looks different, but it isn’t.”
“That sounds like the talk of a defeated man,” Gorquen chides.
“Feh,” Taran says. “That’s the talk of a man who doesn’t know what a victory is anymore. We kill and kill and we win, but what good do we do? Whose life is better because of us? Who have we made safe?”
Gorquen mulls this over, and the two warriors grow silent, and spend several minutes pitching knives into Taran’s furniture. After a moment, Taran leans close. “Just between you and me?” he begins, “Ishlok needs more armies and less generals.”
-----
Summer in the High Forest is a pleasant and bountiful time. The Champions of the Risen Goddess find rest and peace there among their drow brothers and sisters, and come to know one another in peace nearly as well as they do in war. For several months it looks like the upheaval and turmoil of recent years is finally over. The Summer Solstice arrives, quietly and without fanfare.
-----
Much later, when the wounds of that day have had time to heal, the survivors would all admit to waking on the morning of the solstice with a terrible feeling. They would talk about a dark mood that persisted long after whatever dreams that might have created it fled the sunshine. Each of them felt privately that companionship would deepen rather than banish this sense of dread, and so it was that when the first news arrived, the Champions of the Risen Goddess were all far from one another, each grieving in their own way for something that had not yet taken place.
Toward the end of the day, Elgin calls the Champions together; Taran, Thelbar, Gorquen, Ilwe and Khuumar join him in the group’s accustomed meeting-hall. Elgin has obviously been crying, and his face is set in a determination made all the more disturbing by his kind and gentle eyes.
“Today is a day of reckoning,” he says. “I have felt terrible things in my soul. I confess that I did not have the wisdom at first to realize what it was that I was sensing, but now I am sure. Our brethren are dying, all over the world.” At this, the first glimmer of panic enters into his eyes. It will not be the last that his companions see before the day is over.
It has been fully three years since Taran, Thelbar and Gorquen first set foot in Faerun. Since their arrival, they have acted as instruments for their Goddess, taking on the role of her champions, and in Gorquen’s case, formalizing the title with her clergy. They have gained many things, greatest perhaps of these is a deeper knowledge of her teachings, embodied in the pasoun. They have lost things as well; innocence, some measure of confidence, and the easy-living that comes from carrying no burden. They have also lost the goodwill of many of the land’s faiths, or perhaps it could be said that they gained them as enemies.
Khuumar makes his home away from the adventurers, among his people, and finds a leadership among them in many ways deeper than any of his companions. As non-spellcasters, Taran and Gorquen have more time on their hands than their companions, and take to spending long evenings together in Taran’s suite, drinking and brooding over their failures and triumphs.
“It’s coming, Gorquen, an ugly thing. And what are we going to do?” Taran asks. He sits at the foot of his bed, a half-filled goblet in his hand. Gorquen reclines above him, her ebony wings stretched out to their full length.
“Ishlok is greater than her enemies,” Gorquen replies distantly.
“Ishlok doesn’t involve herself in brawls,” Taran reminds her. “She counts on us.”
Gorquen sighs.
“Well, exactly.” Taran stands and regards her evenly. “Look, I’m not sure I want to die and do this all over again.”
“I would do things better had I a second chance,” Gorquen muses sadly. She flutters her wings, and pulls herself upright. “I have made grave mistakes.”
“Yeah, that’s what you think you’d do,” Taran mutters, sitting down next to her. “But I’ve seen the pasoun. It always works out the same. You don’t know why—each time it looks different, but it isn’t.”
“That sounds like the talk of a defeated man,” Gorquen chides.
“Feh,” Taran says. “That’s the talk of a man who doesn’t know what a victory is anymore. We kill and kill and we win, but what good do we do? Whose life is better because of us? Who have we made safe?”
Gorquen mulls this over, and the two warriors grow silent, and spend several minutes pitching knives into Taran’s furniture. After a moment, Taran leans close. “Just between you and me?” he begins, “Ishlok needs more armies and less generals.”
-----
Summer in the High Forest is a pleasant and bountiful time. The Champions of the Risen Goddess find rest and peace there among their drow brothers and sisters, and come to know one another in peace nearly as well as they do in war. For several months it looks like the upheaval and turmoil of recent years is finally over. The Summer Solstice arrives, quietly and without fanfare.
-----
Much later, when the wounds of that day have had time to heal, the survivors would all admit to waking on the morning of the solstice with a terrible feeling. They would talk about a dark mood that persisted long after whatever dreams that might have created it fled the sunshine. Each of them felt privately that companionship would deepen rather than banish this sense of dread, and so it was that when the first news arrived, the Champions of the Risen Goddess were all far from one another, each grieving in their own way for something that had not yet taken place.
Toward the end of the day, Elgin calls the Champions together; Taran, Thelbar, Gorquen, Ilwe and Khuumar join him in the group’s accustomed meeting-hall. Elgin has obviously been crying, and his face is set in a determination made all the more disturbing by his kind and gentle eyes.
“Today is a day of reckoning,” he says. “I have felt terrible things in my soul. I confess that I did not have the wisdom at first to realize what it was that I was sensing, but now I am sure. Our brethren are dying, all over the world.” At this, the first glimmer of panic enters into his eyes. It will not be the last that his companions see before the day is over.
