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The Axeman 07-06-04, 08:49 PM

Just some fun background fiction since I'm bored. Post your good character backgrounds or other character-driven fiction in this thread This is the background for my current character Mourn (can you guess which classes he is at level 11?) who is battling a Zhent-Drow alliance in and under the Dalelands of FR I was born on Evermeet in the year which the sages call The Year of the Missing Moon. My father was a well liked and honored Captain of the Queen as well as one of the few of our People left to wield a legendary moonblade. The thought of leaving the island first occurred to me the day my father quietly pulled me aside. “The blade has chosen you as its heir.” He stated matter-of-factly. My stomach clenched in fear even as my heart beat pounded in my chest. I knew well that a moonblade would never accept a courtesan or a fop as its wielder. It seemed my desire to see the rest of the world beyond that of my People was now justified by common sense. I would have to find my strengths and my heart if I did not wish to be struck dead by the powerful magic I would invoke when at last the time came for me to draw the moonblade. I charted passage on the first merchant ship of the season. Landing near Luskan I journeyed to the city of Silverymoon. A land known even among the People as a haven for all things elven and for elves. Upon arrival I volunteered my service to the Knights Errant of Silverymoon as a regular. The training was intense but I graduated second in my class. The sons of Evermeet are well respected even among humans. I was soon leading my own patrol in the forests around the city. One night while leading my patrol, my navigator became disoriented. He led us to a part of the forested mountains that I was unfamiliar with and none of us had ever visited. The drow took us from both sides. I heard the rapid clicks of their crossbows and most of my patrol slumped to the ground where they stood. I soon saw my whole patrol, my comrades, fall beneath the darkly shimmering blades of the drow. I knew that to stand was to die so I ran on past the ambush as fast as I could. They pursued me for several days. I was totally lost now, nothing looked familiar. I rested only briefly during the daylight when I knew they could not give chase. Each night was horror. I was only a few hours ahead of them and at times we rested only a hundred paces from each other. I could hear them talking in their filthy perversion of the Elven tongue. My feet were blistered, ripped and bleeding. I could not even sit down during my now frequent rests. I knew I would never get up again so great was the pain. They were gaining, getting very close one night as I reached the breaks of what I now realized was the River Delimbyr. I hobbled down a ridge hoping to find my way across quickly. I found only a sheer cliff to the waves below. My pursuers surged ahead seeming to sense I was trapped. I knew that I would be tortured for days unending once they caught me and I would pray each night for death to come. The pain, despair, desperation and self-loathing closed in upon me and I began to sob. I thought of my father and the deaths I had caused. I leaned upon my bow since my feet would no longer support me. For some reason the bow I had carried for these many days only now caught my eye. It seemed to capture and bend the starlight as I heard my pursuers crashing through the trees. It was at that moment that I had a vision, an instant of utmost clarity. It was at that moment that I found the Center. I strung my bow and my hands caressed the wood as a lover. I saw the drow stream silently from the trees and up the small hill I now stood upon. My fingers plucked the bow string as if it were a morbid harp. Strumming a Song of Death to which my unshackled soul now sang in harmonious counterpoint. I now understood that all things pass through the Center. It seemed that I need only envision my arrow in the chest of my pursuer and it would be so. As I fired my last arrow I heard sharp arcane syllables flow out from the darkness beyond the trees. The sky above me squealed in terrible outrage and the very air around me seemed to burst violently apart. I was hurled up and back. I remember seeing my boots still sitting in the grass on the hill as I was falling. Falling into the stars. I was told later that my body was found many miles down river, my charred bow still clutched in my pale hands. I was healed and paid a visit by the High Lady Austriel herself. A few days later I was awarded the Shooting Star “for valorous conduct against overwhelming opposition”. I laughed when they gave it to me. Those of valor do not run while the men under their command are slaughtered. I resigned my commission the next day in shame though no one knew why. I often heard the bards sing of the drow raids in the Dalelands growing ever bolder. I felt the best place for me to serve my people and my dead comrades was to the East. As I sat upon a ridgeline in the morning sun I looked down on Shadowdale. Snug cottages were tucked securely among the woodlots and fields where faint blue smoke drifted up from breakfast fires in the hearths. As I sat taking in the peaceful scene I suddenly sensed that peace would soon be shattered by the harbringers of war. I thought back to the many humans who had fought beside me, often bragging before battle of brave deeds to be done on the morrow. I cracked a grim smile at their remembered boasting. What did they truly know of killing? Of death? A background for my Epic level barbarian in 2nd edition named Lander will come later