Hello dear readers! Initially, I had no intention of writing this ficlet, but eventually couldn't help myself for several reasons, one of them being that while there are a dime a dozen interpretations of the main campaign of NWN2, there aren't that many retellings of MotN quite yet, and so here I come, swooping in to the rescue! Also, Amousca's wonderful retelling of NWN1: HotU has been an inspiration in many ways, though I have no intention of copying her work or her plot bunnies. If you're reading this, Amousca, kudos to you. I (heart) the way you write, so don't you ever stop.

This will be (hopefully) regularly updated and I intend to keep the chapters as long as this one, detailed and nice. I will not necessarily stick to the well-known MotN storyline like fangirls do to a certain chaotic evil ranger and make certain additions and original interactions that I hope you will like.

I don't own MotN or its characters (though I wish I owned Gann) save for my PC, Neliel Imladris, a sun elf Wizard/Eldritch Knight in the OC and eventual Arcane scholar of Candlekeep (though let's not get into that) I have already introduced in my quasi-prequel for this fanfic, Requiem for a Dream, which has now been scheduled to be shorter, missing the parts from MotB that were supposed to be there but will be in this fanfic. It will soon be finished, so no worries – also, reading it isn't necessary before reading this story, but it is recommended.

I also disclaim ownership of the Tolkienverse name Imladris (Elvish for Rivendell, which I have always liked) and the name Neliel that I really liked in Bleach (though the two characters, mine and the ex-Espada, have nothing in common save for long hair and the name itself).

Comments and critique are greatly appreciated, whatever they may concern. Please keep flames to a minimum and try to enjoy the story. The song Tactics is from the anime Rurouni Kenshin, which I love but sadly don't own, but the translation has wonderful lyrics and I consider it a kind of theme song for this piece.

X X X

How the wind dances:

The wanderer and the sword of light

X X X X X

Chapter I: Solitude of a falling star

X X X X X

When I first saw
you looking at me
the gleam in your eyes
made my heart skip a beat
My body felt nervous and my heart began to pound
as this test of love
that brought me to my knees

Feeling the pulse
of the space from you to me
The love that I felt
made me shake made me weak
I'm under your spell
and there's nothing I can do
as the day turns into night
I am for you

Soon, I am hoping I will taste your luscious lips
Fine like the wine, just beyond my fingertips
A man and a woman will find true eternity
underneath the magic of the full moon

Passionate Lady! Ah! Give me your love
Mysterious Lady! I need your love!
The spell you got me under
your eyes they make me wonder
is this a fantasy, or is this love for real?!
Do you want me lady? Ah! Give me your love!
I feel you coming lady! I need your love
'Cause all the thing you do to me
they lock me up and set me free
fever up, this crazy love
dances with a passion in my heart

- Tactics, Yellow Monkey

X X X X X

Neliel Imladris was getting thoroughly tired of waking up because of searing pain in her chest.

The bizarre set of events that had led to a piece of an almost all-powerful sword of the warrior-queen of an extraplanetar people to be imbedded in her sternum had many perks; with the right amount of intellect, spellcraft and the willingness to withstand getting blood on her freshly-clean robes, one could rise very high up the food chain, especially when the aforementioned sword shard was the key to saving the world – or part of it, anyway. It had opened the path to riches, titles and knowledge, though at the price of being hounded by creatures of shadow.

She had had enough of shadows for a lifetime. Gods, once this was over, she would make it her personal mission to hit anyone who thought shadows were nice. Gods help anyone who would ever try to entertain her with shadow puppets. Such amateurs had no idea what an actual shadow was capable of. How a shadow could change the perspective of things. How lives could be altered and destinies changed.

The place she was lying in seemed pretty shadowy, though.

But the ripping pain near her heart was always the worst of it all. She had felt the ache at times before, most notably when the githyanki leader had tried to pull all the shards she possessed towards her and thus managed to lift Neliel up by the concealed shard. The dull pain had only been a pull forward back then, so it seemed that the shard in her wasn't sharp enough to rupture any organs, but still, it wasn't a comforting thought that it could shift thanks to the damned gith and puncture her heart.

The hero of Neverwinter dying because of a heart attack would be laughable.

Yet now, the pain seemed to have risen to new heights. It was no longer just a quick flash of agony, like when she was wounded or painful throbbing, like when she dreamed of darkness and blood and death. This was as if the still strangely fractured sword was trying to reform itself on it own, as if the shard was stuck in her lungs and someone thought it would be a swell idea to try and pull it out with white-hot calipers.

Come to think of it, her whole body felt weak and exhausted. Paralyzed, almost. And then, when the pain in her chest lessened, when she made the slightest motion, she realized why. White-hot knives seemed to cut through her very soul. There was no escaping the agony, the torture. It was as if the King of Shadows had decided to kill her by tap-dancing on her unconscious form.

That was right… the King of Shadows…

Her friends…!

As she stupidly made a sudden motion, a spasm of pain made her back arch momentarily, as a reflex, bringing only more suffering. But she didn't feel any kind of wetness on her clothes, though she knew that she had been wounded. Had Zhjaeve or Elanee healed her when she wasn't looking? And where was everyone? The people she had traveled with were many things, but certainly not the type that would desert their leader at her time of need.

Yet she didn't remember anything but running until her legs gave out and blessed darkness had claimed her…

Damned Illefarn architects. They could have given the inhabitants of the ruins or possible tourists some kind of warning that the place would collapse upon losing an external source of power.

Her senses, unfortunately as sharpened as ever – especially her capacity for pain – gave her no hint of anyone being near her. She realized only then that it was dark only because she had not yet opened her eyes.

It had been white light in front of her eyes a second ago, but there was no tunnel-like sensation. Besides, the pain she felt was somewhat of a dead giveaway of the fact that she was still among the living, in fact. Or perhaps she was indeed dead. And after all that had happened to her, it could be considered fortunate, because she didn't remember the killing blow… though the agony she was in kind of put a damper on her hopes of ending up in Elysium or Bytopia – or Arborea, that would have been nice! - or some such plane for an eternity of pleasant relax and doing nothing.

Neliel opened her eyes. Or tried to, anyway, as slowly as possible, because though she hadn't thought it possible, even the skin of her eyelids seemed to be pulsing with pain. A few strands of straw-colored hair were in her face, but she couldn't summon the power to actually life her arm and brush them away. If she had enough energy, she would have found that annoying, but at the moment, she resigned herself to being content that she could still see.

After all, there had been a brilliant flash of light and then, her feet were running, running, running across the crumbling stonework, through the falling passageways, and then there was darkness, blessed night, and she remembered nothing more…

She felt drained, so utterly drained that she thought she might as well die from sheer exhaustion on the spot. The ground, which would have seemed cold and dusty to her otherwise, was now soft and welcoming, though it was solid rock from what she could tell. It felt wonderfully soothing against her cheek and she wanted nothing more than to sleep in her comfortable grave forever. Because a grave it would be, for certain. If she was still in the Illefarn ruins where they had faced the King of Shadows, it meant that the paths had collapsed and it was likely only a matter of time before her oxygen would run out.

And she couldn't open the tome they had used to get there, because her limbs were petitioning for some well-deserved rest and she was feeling lenient in the matter…

I'm here… lie still…

Perhaps the wind was whispering to her, but there was an echo in her mind, passing by the silence of her screams, the sound that couldn't leave her mouth, for it could only intensify and break her if it did. There were footsteps of soft leather boots on the cool ground, barely audible, and something akin to the flapping of wings, but not those of a bird; rather, like those of her bat familiar, Zelas, but larger, firmer. Somehow, the pain was lessening and the scream within her mind fading into the distance.

Foreign hands touched her forearms, taking care not to force more pain upon her, and even through the fabric of her chain shirt, Neliel could feel their smallness, their softness. The hands of a woman, without the blisters of one trained in swordsmanship. Not the rough hands of a druid or the nibble fingers of a thief. The voice on the wind could almost make her believe, for a fleeting moment, that she was wrong; that she was dead and after so long, it was her friend who had the chance to repay what she saw as a debt and rescue her this time and she could finally apologize for the pain she had wrought…

But the scent of magic in the air thickened. Whoever was healing her wasn't Shandra, who possessed no truly supernatural powers. And for the briefest instant, Neliel dared hope that the arms that had turned her to lie on her back and mend the wounds on her face and chest belonged to the kind lady of her dreams, the mother she had never known, the person who had given up everything for the sake of a child who would never even remember her.

She was wrong again. It was becoming a habit, one that she didn't like.

An eerie glow illuminated the chamber she was in, a dark place where no one alive walked. But these were no Illefarn ruins. No King of Shadows was waiting for her here. This place felt different and she almost thought she would die, becoming aware for the first time that she felt hunger. How many hours had it been since she had eaten? Her strength sapped, she was almost malnourished, but again, a spasm of agony passed through her, and she felt a presence, quite unlike that of her sword, that of the shard, that of the mysterious woman.

She hungered… for what, she didn't know.

Or... something in her did…

Her eyes attempted to focus on the person who had moved her body. It was a woman of obvious arcane power, illuminated by what could only be a magical light source; perhaps the staff she had lain next to the elf's body, but there was an otherworldly radiance to her golden skin. But it didn't come only from her.

This place… it wasn't a cave. There was something… something familiar about it, something dreadfully close to her, but she couldn't understand what. But she feared this place, for some reason. This was a prison but how she knew it, she had no idea. She needed to leave. She would leave…

The woman's features were soft and kind, beautiful, and with calm concern etched into them. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were studying her objective with keen alertness, analyzing the situation with a cool intensity. She was dressed in garments of red, but not the color of blood, but that of the setting sun and newly-made bricks. But, most of all, it reminded Neliel of a bright gerbera, such as those Retta Starling had grown in her garden and tended to lovingly in what seemed to be a lifetime ago.

Beautiful red flowers and forgotten innocence and the laughter of her friends…

Dead and lost. As was she.

But the more Neliel focused on the woman, the more her vision cleared, the more it seemed to stir a memory. Red… red that wasn't to be like that of blood, but like precious rubies… red liquid and magic. That meant something, something she was supposed to remember, something she knew and feared and respected…

Then, as the woman leaned in to check her temperature by the most natural of means, by placing a hand on the elf's forehead, her entire countenance came into view, the dark inscriptions on the most permanent of parchment, her skin, a string of symbols that each had a meaning and a power of their own. It was an entire tale, weaved with magic and ink, sprawled across her complexion, not ending on her forehead, but creating a map of markings across her entire head, which Neliel now saw was devoid of hair, though it made her no less beautiful.

Blood and magic and markings.

She had mastered the impulse of screaming at the arrival of an enemy some time ago, but Nell would have yelped, if she could. Instead, a ragged breath escaped her bloodstained lips and her body made a valiant attempt to flee despite its own needs and pains. White flashed before her eyes again before the face of the wizard came into view again, a bit more worried than before. If anything, all that she had seen of the woman signified a gentle soul.

But to expect kindness from a Red Wizard of Thay…

"Please hold still." the Thayan asked unexpectedly. A weary look passed through her large eyes upon seeing the elf react to her markings, but her voice held no bitterness. She was no flower, this one, for all her soft-spoken grace. Though she appeared no older than Neliel herself, wisdom was reflected in her. And strength, well beyond what her physical form would give away. She was a blade, but not like a sword, but like the shard in Neliel's chest.

Broken but whole, sharp and quite capable of saving or hurting anyone. A blood diamond…

"Wh-who… are you?" Her own voice sounded hoarse and raspy to Neliel. It was a frightening sound.

"My name is Safiya." the wizard answered without any kind of hesitation. "The binding spell is wearing off. Your arms and legs will be stiff, but you'll be able to walk."

Truthfully enough, Neliel felt the pain dim, then subside. It was like awaking from a nightmare, striding into a dream. She managed to sit up, facing the kneeling Thayan. There was a light flapping sound coming from her right and the elf noticed a medium-sized creature floating in mid-air next to Safiya. It looked alive, but didn't feel that way… not entirely…

The elf stood up, staggering away once more, her back hitting one of the dark stones of the barrow in a small impact. Wild energy surged through her body for a moment and the barrow was suddenly bright, figures swirling around her, and Safiya was Safiya and yet wasn't, and stood smiling there, a boy with a bell-like laugh that was drowned by a torrent of screams, coming not from a single spot, but rather, from a wall, a barrier…

And then Safiya was close and the runes were gone. She was steadying the elf, though upon sensing that her quarry had regained consciousness, she seemed to instinctively back away, as if not to give her discomfort.

Why would a Red Wizard of Thay help me?

The question seemed to be etched into her face, and Safiya responded as if she had voiced it. "Disregard whatever rumors you have heard of Red Wizards. I am no threat; to you, at least. I am here to help you and will do just that."

Neliel looked at her, hard, but no longer with surprise or fear or distrust. Something within her had recognized the world of light and sound and even Safiya herself, or at least her likeness. It felt almost as if there was something within her soul…

"Safiya." The elf pronounced the name like a foreign word. That was an uncommon name for a woman. "I am Neliel."

Something in Safiya seemed to relax, though perhaps she knew this already. "I know you have questions, but we must leave. Now. Before the spirits wake."

But Neliel now realized that she was far away from where she had lost consciousness. There was nothing else alive around them, she could feel it somehow. And the very stone underneath her feat was foreign, entirely alien…

There was only one source of information she could turn to, that being her new strange companion fate had imposed upon her. The countless questions swirling in her mind could wait. Now, for her own peace of mind, she only needed to know where she was and how she might escape.

"Where are we?"

The simplicity of the natural question was striking, but the Red Wizard reacted promptly. "We're in a barrow deep beneath the soils of Rashemen. The locals say that powerful spirits dwell here – hostile to those trying to enter… and those trying o leave."

Rashemen. Rashemen…! "But where… how did I get here from the Sword Coast?"

There were ways of summoning creatures and beings from all over the multiverse, one as improbable as the other, but unless she had been summoned by a very powerful baatezu or tanar'ri – which she hoped wasn't the case, having a few experiences with the little menagerie in Ammon Jerro's haven – the only solution was that the presence of this Red Wizard, this Safiya, Neliel reminded herself, was more than a fortunate coincidence.

Safiya herself frowned. Her task had sounded strange to her from the very moment her mother had voiced it.

In this barrow, you will find an elven woman. Recover her. Ensure her safety. Treat her with care as if she was dear to your heart. As if you loved her. It is paramount that she is not harmed in any way, Safiya. Her life matters more than the life of any creature in the planes.

But when the Headmistress ordered this with her steely authority, the words sounded in almost no way affectionate. It was a command, one that the young wizard knew better than to refuse. And she felt a slight pride at knowing that her mother trusted only her with a task that seemed to be of such importance.

Yet at the same time, it puzzled her. Her mother had never expressed concern for a living being besides her maternal necessity and even that seemed a bit different than how the usual family would live. Yet for a stranger, she seemed to be willing to do everything. And who this stranger was, Safiya herself had little idea.

She was at least half a head shorter than Safiya herself, who didn't consider herself exceptionally tall, which was almost an impressive height for an elf, as far as the Red Wizard was able to tell. Were it not for the dust and dried blood clinging to her hair, Safiya would have guessed it was a shade of gold impossible for human being to have. Her bright green eyes, too, shone with a feral gleam, though exhausted.

Around her forehead, like a golden crown, glistened a circlet the Red Wizard was familiar with, for it bore the mark of Thay, and was intended for someone of her profession.

Moreover, Safiya could smell magic that wasn't hers or that of the barrow, but it was almost depleted, slowly recovering. And underneath a great spot of dried blood, she could just about make out the faint outline of an eye-like symbol on the elf's tunic, which might have been blue once, before turning a sickening purplish brown because of her injuries.

And she was unarmed. Her magic had to be great indeed if she had survived such an injury without a weapon at hand. Neliel herself noticed it a moment thereafter and almost frantically searched for some misplaced weapon on the ground… there was none. For a moment, a shudder passed through her.

For such fear, honesty was the only remedy.

"I don't know how you got here. But I'll take you to someone who might. I'll take you to her and make certain she gives us both answers." And Neliel saw that the Red Wizard herself was confused and perhaps angry at her lack of information.

Her only link to the world above, a wizard of the highest and most feared order in the land, apparently knew little more of the situation that she did herself.

"But that's after we get out of here." Safiya accented, relieved to see that Neliel didn't seem to be as edgy as she had been a moment ago. But it could be considered a natural reaction to her situation.

The elf dusted her clothes in an effort to do something with her hands, an endearing if slightly vain gesture. However, she didn't seem to mind the blood much, or perhaps couldn't think of anything she could do about it.

"Yes. Yes, we should. Is it far to the surface?" Neliel asked, already striding forward with surprising resilience, as if walking up in a strange barrow in a pool of her own blood wasn't such an unnatural occurrence for her.

"The barrow has three levels, so we will have to pass through them to get to the exit. There are also some Imaskari ruins around, so don't be too surprised if you notice a golem or two lying around."

"Maybe we could use that to our advantage…" Briefly, she inquired about the runes around her, and Safiya explained the significance of a single one as a binding spell.

It had been an intentional means of trapping her here.

Safiya sympathized with the elf. She herself was confused regarding what she had been tasked with, but she couldn't imagine what her elven companion was going through. After she had mentioned the sword coast and a loss of knowing how she had ended up where she was…

This would not be an easy journey for either of them.

"Come, we've been here too long as it is." Safiya urged, unintentionally allowing Neliel to take the lead, so that she wouldn't linger behind. Though slower than she usually would be, the elf woman seemed to be able to maintain a normal pace as they left the circle of runes.

"Mistress, I hear something moving, in one of the caves up ahead. Perhaps it is Ipsit and Sefi." Kaji quipped as soon as they left the main circle.

Even as she explained to Kaji that the creatures couldn't have returned quite yet, she saw that Neliel seemed fascinated or at least highly interested in Kaji, sparing a few compliments regarding his excellent hearing and, to Safiya's great surprise, treated him as an actual sentient being, not as a construct – she said he and him, never it.

"Amazing. I've never seen a talking familiar before. And he doesn't even appear a live creature… I see, he's an enchanted construct, correct?" Neliel noted as they were passing through the main corridor.

Safiya found that wonders would likely never cease. "Yes, indeed."

"Hi there, elf lady!" Kaji chirped, happy to be acknowledged, even though Safiya had introduced them as one would with a pair of friends that didn't know each other yet.

"Kaji's a homunculi, I crafted him myself. He's very useful, besides the obvious benefit of his company."

"You specialize in Transmutation, then?"

It was the proof Safiya needed to know that the magic she had sensed didn't necessarily stem from the binding runes. Certainly scholars and loremasters knew of the schools of arcane magic, but it was the analytical and yet friendly matter-of-fact tone that had made the matter clear.

"Is it that obvious?"

For the first time, Neliel seemed to quirk a modest smile. Were it not for the blood, it could have been an invitation to friendship. "From the level of your skill, yes."

Safiya, unused to receiving honest compliments from strangers, felt a bit awkward even in expressing gratitude. "Thank you. I meant to ask, you are a wizard yourself, are you not? I can sense the magic surrounding you. But it's somehow… drained."

"I'd like to meet this person who might know how I got here first." Neliel said, frowning at the space ahead of her. "I'm sorry, but… I had others with me and I'm afraid to assume the worst for them. And something about this barrow makes me even more uneasy."

"Of course, I can understand." Safiya said with a nod. There was a great pain in this woman, a burden that had only recently been lifted and the aftereffects still remained. It was peculiar to see how old her eyes appeared in comparison to her face.

Neliel didn't thank for the silence, as she had respected the same request when Safiya had asked to keep the topic of her mother for later, but her gratitude resurfaced in the returned of a friendly, calm tone into her voice.

"But yes, I am a wizard. But now, I might be better suited to leave the magic to you and carve a path with a blade… but it is gone." she said grimly, stopping for a moment when a thought popped into her head.

From her right boot, which seemed almost winged, with its intricate design and obvious magical properties, she withdrew a knife that was quite in contrast with her clearly almost-new equipment; in a sheath of crude leather, with a hilt of black, made of cool steel that was sharp despite the obvious age of the blade.

There was something very unlike her in the dagger, something wild, and a strange magic was present in the weapon. Actually, to Safiya, it didn't seem like a weapon intended for combat, but rather, a skinning knife a hunter might use.

"Again I force you to save a life against your will." Neliel seemed to almost sigh, but whether the words were intended for the dagger or someone who had once held it, Safiya couldn't tell. Fortunately, this momentarily reminiscence didn't last long; the elf's eyes cleared and she sheathed the knife, strapping it to her belt. "I hope this will do against spirits, too."

And then, it made perfect sense that her mother had given her a small bundle of weapons Safiya scarcely had an idea how to use; thus she now withdrew them from a Bag of Holding she carried with her, presenting them to the surprised elf.

"I know they aren't exactly unique, but perhaps you could find a use for them." the Red Wizard said, watching as Neliel examined the set of arrows, short sword and bow. In particular, the blade had been enchanted with an essence to make certain that it would be able to tear through all but the strongest of spirits.

Quirking a brow, she seemed almost amused. "Do all Red Wizards carry around such weapons when they have a more potent force at their command than physical strength?" she asked, glancing at Safiya.

"When entering a spirit-infested barrow, it never hurts to be careful." Safiya noted blithely, but her mind was filled with a bitter reminiscence of her mother. How much hadn't she told her? The elf gave the sword a practice twirl and it seemed that though she was unused to its weigh, she knew exactly how to adjust it to handle it effectively.

A fighter and mage…

Who was this woman? What was she doing in this barrow? And how did her mother know she had been here… what was the connection between them if this elf clearly didn't consort with Red Wizards and Safiya had never heard her name mentioned, nor had she ever seen her countenance before…?

Neliel winced only a bit as she strapped the quiver to her back and swung the bow over her shoulder. Withdrawing the band from her now-destroyed braid, she tied her tangled hair into a messy ponytail, to help her focus. Her new weapon was enchanted, true, but such things were cantrips in comparison to the magic the Sword of Gith had held. She wondered where the blade had ended up. In a sense, she felt loss, because she had gotten used to the blade.

It had been a part of her.

Now, however, she felt a strange emptiness where the shard was supposed to be, as if it had been torn out of her body. The powers it had given her were gone and she felt incredibly fragile without it, without the sword.

You are its Heart…

The sword was gone and it was a relief as well. Perhaps it had shattered again in that final blow, to be forever lost in the place where all things were to end. Yet it didn't mean that she was free…

The ground shook violently underneath their feet, echoing with the magic of nature, of the earth, which they could scarcely dispel.

"So much for going unnoticed…" Neliel commented, drawing her sword and stepping in front of Safiya.

It was the move of a trained soldier. Protecting the lord… "The earth spirits wake, ready yourself!"

Contrary to popular belief, Neliel wasn't fond of what she privately considered a "dungeon crawl".

She had spent the better part of her life as the daughter of a ranger, thus frequently trekked through the wilderness on her own. Aside from that, it was impossible to exist in her home village without going outside once in a while. But in the last year or so, she had entered more undead-infested ruins that she could count.

Two crypts crawling with undead (plus a wonderfully decaying cemetery outside as a parting gift), an undead-infested castle ruin, sets of mountain tunnels crawling with vicious orcs that went on and on for miles, crypts filled with worshippers of shadow that eventually turned into shadows themselves (plus the few undead they had kept as pets), the odd werewolf-filled cave or so, the escape tunnel to a Luskan-controlled keep filled with various pests, ancient ruins with ghosts and elementals containing powerful spells and, eventually, the crumbling palace of the embodiment of shadow itself, with samples of all kinds of undead.

And dragons. That was a category on its own, into which she really didn't want to go.

Whatever pretty words Safiya might use for the spirits inhabiting the barrow they were going through, it still felt like a dungeon. With undead things, free of charge.

Someone on a higher (or lower) plane of existence really had it in for her, which, when Neliel thought about it as she swung her sword at yet another elemental, wasn't that implausible.

Now, she could add earth elemental-infested barrows to her list. Joy of joys.

Fortunately, her body remembered the call of battle, the moment when blood was replaced by liquid heat and adrenaline took over her mind. Her training with the Neverwinter Nine, brief as it had been, had taught her quite a lot when it came to shielding another and though battled such as these were hardly like the intricate sparring matches with Kana, she was now able to see the swipe before it could close in on her.

"I don't think I can use magic to attack quite well just yet and will be better served focusing on close combat. Can you manage to cover me throughout this barrow?" Neliel asked when she was finally able to lower her blade, which seemed strangely devoid of blood.

Surprisingly, Safiya offered a small grin. "I'm a Red Wizard, remember?"

How could she ever forget? It didn't reassure her much as far as trust was concerned, but Neliel knew better than to doubt such a simple yet poignant statement.

"Point taken. Up we go."

X X X X X

There was a certain charm to being unsubtly watched, especially by the timid and anxious eyes of a young woman, who didn't know herself what the strange warmth within her, a new sentiment, was. And Gannayev, or Gann-of-Dreams as he preferred to be called by those to whom he had no close ties (which is to say, everyone) had ample experience to be able to make such a statement without shame.

It was not usually his custom to enter cities or towns; when he had need of anything from a settlement, he preferred to make his pick out of the many Rashemi villages, scattered in the wilderness, or the few lone settlements and farms. He had always had a knack for charming his way into the hearts of the owners and into their homes, mostly through the hearts of their daughters. Thus he had little need for coin or the hustle and bustle of a city as large as Mulsantir, where the wind had blown him this time.

Not to say that Mulsantir wasn't an impressive architectural accomplishment, but Gann had never been overly fond of large crowds. As a child of the wilderness in every sense of the world, he had a better way with animals and their guardian spirits than humans and their like. And humans, like it or not, created the majority of Rashemi citizens and the population of Mulsantir. Other races were rare, save for perhaps a dwarf or two, little creatures hardy enough to handle the legendary welcoming personality of the locals.

Gann himself cared little about the locals or their thoughts, though it would be safe to say that he would have made heads turn even if his skin was of the milky color of humans and not the pleasant but thoroughly unnatural shade of purple, tinged with dark blue, the most obvious mark of his heritage. And so, the Rashemi didn't wonder whence he came when they saw his clothing, clean despite the many years it had been in his possession, composed almost entirely of leather and the pelt of a snow fox he had once tried to help and who offered him its fur in exchange for kindness upon its death.

Instead, they were wary of him, as one would of one with the blood of the infernal planes, yet also privately marveled how come a child of some unfortunate (and most likely dead in some horrible manner) human and a thrice-cursed night hag could possess such beauty.

The hagspawn was entirely conscious of his appealing features and while he felt a certain contempt for those who judged people based on their appearances, he had managed to hone his speech until it could be said without pride that he possessed both sharp wit and a silver tongue (which, as he could jest, went very well with the color of his hair) that allowed him to either talk his way out of a situation by tossing around a few well-chosen words with just a touch of bitter irony or stir up a situation that suited his needs.

The ease with which he could manipulate through simple speech had made him arrogant and the way women of all races and ages flocked to him as to the ultimate forbidden fruit only strengthened his contempt for what the foolish blindly praised as love.

What was love to him, who had been an outcast before he could understand the meaning of the very word? A physical joy perhaps, a pastime or a means to an end… and an element that enhanced the dreams of others.

As he walked through the world of the sleeping minds, especially those of young peasant girls, he saw that what they considered love brightened up the sun, yet weakened the mind and made free will redundant. It was infatuation only, lacking maturity to be considered love in the true meaning of the word, but for someone who had never received love, the difference remained invisible.

And someone who had never been given affection was incapable of giving affection other than a few honeyed lies and a brief caress that was as shallow as his reasons for such actions, yet nevertheless remained the most exciting venture in the lives of those ordinary girls, doomed to be the wives of mediocre husbands wasting their lives away on some god-forsaken farm, continually dreaming of the exotic stranger with a voice of silk and velvet, though perhaps one day forgetting his name but never his words and countenance, hoping that he hadn't been but a dream for which they really didn't have the imagination and clinging to that hope.

But if he ever returned, it was by chance only, something which happened rarely, if ever.

Some kept on dreaming. Some were… difficult.

The woman watching him was subtler than most, but perhaps it was simply the crowd masking her. Still, to one used to spotting things in the wild, her gaze couldn't have been more obvious and her generally appealing appearance. Nevertheless, she carried herself carefully, conscious of the crowd, like one willing to lose herself in it.

Like a fugitive, someone who wouldn't want to be seen, but the temptation presented to her was too great. The look in her eyes as she glanced at the hagspawn was not as gentle and naïve as that of a farm girl, but anxious and yearning.

It was quite enough to work with, Gann decided. Besides, he truly wished to know why a girl who had no obvious cause to hide would cast wary glances over her shoulder while hounding his every step.

"A beauty such as yourself should not deprive the world of your shine." The girl was startled out of her reverie and turned almost a delicate shade of green and then red when her idol approached her with practiced confidence, silvery words and a light smile that only served to enhance his features.

"Oh! I… that is to say, I simply noticed you among the crowds and…" She clearly didn't know how to finish the sentence without saying the complete truth, obvious as it was. Some part of her was smitten with him, but she likely would have never dared approach him under any circumstances.

Perhaps it was simply his longtime observation of the animals of the wild, but as someone who could have been a druid if not for his general dislike of structures too organized, Gann thought that the girl was truly desperately hoping that whatever pheromones she had at her disposal would wake up and start working, now.

"…and you were observant enough to see that I was unfamiliar with these streets and decided to help me." Gann granted her the mercy of finishing the sentence for her and awarded her a smile that shook her more than her own anxiety. But she truly looked as if something was forbidding her from doing what she was trying to do. "Your kindness is unparalleled, fair one. Might I have the privilege of knowing your name?"

It was a proven fact that flowery speech could dull the sting of mild sarcasm and in this case, the young woman saw none of it. For a moment, her expression changed into a hesitant one, the few seconds when she obviously deliberated with herself whether or not to give the handsome stranger her true name.

"Kazima." she said after an instant or two. It was a half-truth.

While most people knew a hagspawn when they saw one, they were ignorant of the subtle difference between the children of usual hags and those known as night hags. The latter were outsiders from the plane of Hades, a neutral evil plane of existence, making their descendants planetouched, not completely alike to their more common brethren. And individuals with planar blood could sense a lie when being told one; most notably those with celestial or fiendish ancestors, of course.

In the case of Gann, which was very unique, if he could say so himself, his ability to judge character quite soundly thanks to his skill at entering the dreams of others was simply a perk enhancing such inborn prowess.

The runes for name she had given meant "one who withstands anger" in an old dialect of the spirits he had once been taught, but "zima" alone could translate into "winter" if written in a different manner. Both meanings suited the woman remarkably well, as he was yet to find out.

"Then might I take advantage of your gracious offer, Kazima the kind?"

Another drop of honey and the sugary sweetness of his words could have melted in the rain. But Gann was practiced in such things and Kazima reacted accordingly, blushing a bit before looking around fervently, then glancing towards the highest spot in Rashemen, which Gann was to learn was the hill where the Temple of Three stood, where the wychlaran reigned and watched over Rashemen.

"I would be most glad to show you everything worthy of seeing in Mulsantir…" Kazima herself was perhaps unaware how suggestive her words could have sounded, had she not spoken them in a relieved yet excited voice, making no plausible attempt at seduction. "If I knew who my honored guest is."

"I am Gannayev, Gann-of-Dreams… and I seem to have accidentally walked into one." No further flattery was needed; Gann knew that he had pushed things as far as was acceptable. Whatever fears his quarry held had melted away in an almost painful-looking blush that made her plain face seem struck with a dangerous fever.

Kazima indeed showed him all of Mulsantir; the Veil Theater, the marketplace, the Ice Troll Berserker lounge and the temple of Kelemvor, the recent god of the dead. But she was wary of approaching the hill of the Three and instead took Gann to the southern portion of the city once again, the larger, livelier part of it, as she herself said. The further they got from the Temple of Three, the more relaxed she seemed to grow, though she still kept looking around whenever they stopped somewhere for too long.

Though Gann cared little for gold, he knew that proper weaponry was the barrier between life and death in the wild. He had come into the city mainly to stock up on arrows and a few other necessities before going to investigate the general unrest of spirits in the area. Gold was easy to come by with talents such as he possessed and, more often than not, the women he had given something to dream about gave him something for his journeys, be it food or the more universal currency.

And that was useful, for he understood that he would likely be spending a day in the city, thus gaining the need to lodge somewhere for the night. The Sloop in the docks wasn't the most reputable locale, but Kazima seemed to trust it sufficiently. Moreover, she seemed to think that whoever she was watching out for wouldn't look for her there and so she loosened up… greatly.

In several hours, he was walking through the shadowy paths of his little guide's dreams; dreams of those very same docks, where she had lived, where she had prayed to the spirits of the land to make her beautiful, but to no avail. She had never had any success there; there were many more attractive women of the night in the area and she herself had been too mousy, plain-faced and tomboyish. She would never have made a good harbor whore, not even if she had truly tried, but she had lived as meagerly as a strumpet might.

Then, finding traces of power within her, the witches took her in and trained her as one of their own. She was a part of the resident wychlaran, Kazimika Vadoi being her true name, but though she strove to be a virtuous hathran, she yearned to attract the desire of men when she took off her mask, if ever, and was having trouble suppressing that girlish sentiment, for all her sharpness and the ease with which she condemned anyone that crossed the laws of the witches but herself.

Like many, she had heard tales of him, the spirit of Rashemen taking the form of the son of a hag, yet possessing the grace of the wind, the passion of fire, the face of an angel and the mind of a devil. He was as much of a succubus for young women as he was a terror for their fathers and though initially, she had rationalized that she was following him purely to see what danger he posed to the city and report her findings to Sheva Whitefeather, she had become infatuated with him until she stalked his every step only to be close to him, dreading the moment he would inevitably slip past her reach.

In her mind, she had fallen in love with him. This was what she imagined love to be like – a raging obsession, a tornado in her mind, with him in its eye. She had dreamt him up as different from other men and indeed he was; he had spoken kindly to her. He thought her fair and kind and all that she strove to be as a witch! He had lain with her, as a man might with an ordinary woman.

She didn't yet know how she would make him stay with her or how she would deal with this complication, this feeling, but she would do it.

Poor deluded soul. It was not love that drove her; and if it was, Gann thought wryly, his contempt of it was entirely justified. He would have nothing to do with anyone so possessed by foolishness.

Unfortunately, he couldn't simply leave in the morning; it wasn't his custom to abandon his "lady loves" without as much as a goodbye, but he had hoped to solve this with a note left on the pillow this time. It was time to move on.

The hathran, however, was a lighter sleeper than he had anticipated and woke up just as he was putting the final adjustments to his usual attire. Seeing Gann there, standing fully clothed and ready to dissolve back into the dream he had been, shattered whatever delusions she might have harbored.

"You would leave me? Just like that?!" Kazimika's reaction was not entirely favorable. Whatever trace of anxiety she possessed was now replaced by an almost irrational anger which Gann could almost sympathize with. A hathran was unused to being forced to deal with the decision of another, least of all a male.

There was a first time for everything, of course.

Her one night's graces aside, Kazimika wasn't a woman he would have chosen to associate for long even if she didn't belong to the ruling caste of witches in Rashemen. She was proud, arrogant, even and looked down on people. No opinion other than her own was correct and eventually, her possessiveness would peak and her anger consume her. But the one night of being faced with the thrice-tested charms of a practiced seducer had set her over the edge of the line of being besotted with another. In her case, it was an almost animalistic need to protect what she viewed as hers.

"Alas my dear, the wild calls and this city is but a fortress of dark dreams to me." Gann said to her, without the trace of sadness that might have made this parting less bitter. "Fear not; perhaps I shall yet return. But I have walked in your dreams and doubtlessly given you new. I have nothing more I can give you." He spoke honestly, as was his custom. Lies and deceit, though useful on the short run, had brought him into trouble in the past. Years later, in his adolescence, he had learned the value of economy with the truth.

But Kazimika would have none of it, shaking her dark head fervently. The color of her hair now faintly reminded Gann of a puddle of mud after a particularly vicious storm. "No! No, you cannot do this to me! Do you have any idea who I am?" she demanded, forgetting her disguise in the heat of the moment.

Gann gave her a wry smile that should have pacified her arrogance well, but didn't.

"Such passion in your words. You can express it now, yet you still dream of it, as you do of the harbor you have left behind. I have a very good idea who you are. You are one who hides her dreams behind a mask." He noted, without mentioning her name or title. "But such colorful dreams cannot be hidden even beneath such a decorative headpiece, I fear."

And Kazimika, speechless, understood how dangerous a power she had consorted with. She had thought it odd that she dreamt of the harbor still, when she was expecting pleasant dreams of what had been and could yet be. And she, a witch, hadn't even felt the presence of another in her mind. She understood why Gann's walk in the city had been uneasy, as if the streets hurt his feet and the ethereal, dreamlike quality to his voice that one might expect to hear in a fantasy.

But the insult to her pride wouldn't matter if he chose to stay; now that he knew who she was, he would change his mind, for certain!

"I hold power in this city next only to Sheva!" Kazimika cried desperately as the spirit shaman continued to fasten his quiver around his torso. "And you would leave, knowing all that I can offer you…!"

"But you have already offered me all that I might wish from you and I have gladly accepted your generosity." Even the smile in his eyes seemed to be mocking her as the hagspawn glanced at her with a trace of amusement. He had used her, knowing or guessing what she was. "I am but a mere handsome wanderer, with nothing more to offer a wise and virtuous hathran such as yourself."

The hathran, her disguise completely revealed, reddened with embarrassment and understanding. Whether Gann himself realized it or not – and it was highly likely that he did – he had carefully worded a threat. The hathrans, the witches of Rashemen, the ruling caste of the city, were to be fair and just and wise always. And if they ever decided to take on consorts, it had to be a permanent union, and also a politically acceptable one.

She was not ready to be expelled from her order. Yet that would happen, should she try and slander him in front of her sisters and make a move to detain him. She had little foresight; perhaps, had she thought about things, she would have understood that it was best to let something that she would come to fear and despise as her dirty little secret while she still could. Nothing good would come of this, but when passion consumed the mind, as it did her, even her arrogance and pride at being a hathran subsided to it.

No sooner than Gann had voiced his blithe farewells and left the room, clearly intending never to return, Kazimika let out a cry of rage. She teleported away from the Sloop, angry beyond imagination. And, the memory of his smile still fresh in her mind, she returned the feather-decorated mask of a witch to her face back in her now not-so-humble home.

Revenge, revenge for such utter humiliation was all she craved. Who would believe a filthy hagspawn anyway, should he claim to have seduced her? Who would dare consider the word of a damned soul against that of a hathran?

Sheva listened to her accusations, that Gann was a hazard to the city, greater than those children of hags they had already arrested because of his charm. Katya, ever the farm girl, had heard the tale of the dream-like seducer and supported Kazimika in this matter. And though Sheva seemed to be skeptical in the matter initially, her dark eyes boring through Kazimika like a probe, searching for ulterior motives, she gave her consent to arresting Gann after hearing that he was also a powerful spirit shaman, capable of disrupting the magic of the witches, which was closely dependant on the land.

As for Gann, he was preparing to leave the city when the wychlaran, in their masked glory, appeared before him out of thin air. With the feathers, he rather thought they resembled three angry hens more than respectful witches, especially the dark one he recognized. But the elderly leader, with the most power and calm, truly commanded respect as she calmed her two companions and exerted her soothing influence over the crowd that had been quieted down by their sudden arrival.

"By the will of the wychlaran, you are to be detained, Gannayev Hagspawn, shaman of spirits." she declared, firmly but with the hint of gentleness found only in leaders both just and confident. "Until your purpose in our city can be determined fully. If it will be proved that you are responsible for the unrest of the spirits near our city, you will be held in the Mulsantir prison for a sentence that we shall determined once we solve the problem."

"I have neither interest in nor reason for causing your city trouble, honored hathran."

But Sheva was not so easily fooled by pretty words and heard the mocking in the title. "Choose your words carefully, shaman. You may believe yourself separate from the rest, but while in this city, you must obey our laws."

"To my knowledge, I have broken no law. If I have, please enlighten me."

"Your very presence threatens our law." Kazimika couldn't hold back words any longer. That Gann looked at her with a weary, barely-concealed amusement only served to stir up more of her anger.

"If what is said about you is true, you endanger more than just us, but the stability of our city as well." Katya added, struggling to meet Gann's gaze without wincing.

"You would set the spirits of the land against us, if you could!"

"Enough, Kazimika." Sheva Whitefeather said imperiously, silencing the venom on the lips of the other witch for the moment. She likely suspected correctly that the younger hathran had some personal score to settle with the hagspawn, that this wasn't purely service to the town that led her voice. "You shall not be harmed, but your magic shall be sealed until you agree to cooperate or help us." she said to Gann, who was now flanked by two guards.

"I hope your patience matches your mercy, honored hathran." The hagspawn showed no other sign of protesting at the verdict. Instead, he gave Kazimika a brief look before allowing himself to be led away, into the prison.

There, a special cell was prepared from him. Sheva was wise enough to make Kazimika create the wards of his prison, under the observation of the matron of the prison. Not once did she say anything, but her mind was a torrent of wild thoughts.

Bitter was the life of a hathran, especially when she once saw what she might have had, or so she thought.

As for Gann, he became accustomed to his cell quite soundly, especially when he found that he could alter the binding wards from the inside without too much trouble, not least of all because of their uncanny resemblance to childish scribbles. Thus he was able to walk within dreams as he wished and could have broken out of the cell, if he wished. The dreams of his fellow prisoners were boring in general, but those of the matron hathran watching over the prison were quite colorful.

At times, the hagspawn would chuckle to himself at what he saw. How easy it was to fall from grace, even for the great and mighty witches of Rashemen.

But dark times fell upon the world of spirits surrounding the city.

A raging storm was created and Gann could clearly hear the unrest in the minds of the spirits surrounding the outskirts of Rashemen. Their numbers grew each day; it was as if an army was gathering. And the minds of these creatures were troubled, frightened even… a storm was brewing, a tempest.

Not even a week afterwards, the situation was getting almost critical. It was as if every spirit in Rashemen had decided to surround Mulsantir. Their dreams were dark, full of fear. Something was on the loose, something terrifying, even if they couldn't put a name to it, even if only those of old knew the true name of the threat they were faced with. But it was real because they knew it to be real, and thus had to be stopped.

The witches were helpless. And he, forgotten for the moment, wouldn't have been able to help them even if they had asked for his aid. He tried to walk the dreams of the spirit army gathering before the gates of the city, but couldn't get anything out of them, other than a fear of death.

What cause might spirits have to fear death?

Faceless. Hunger. Those two words dominated their thoughts. Yet there was a meaning to it, a primal fear that even he, who considered himself a knower of spirits, couldn't seem to fathom. It troubled him greatly, because he cared for spirits in a way he wasn't able to care for humans and their like.

But as he walked the dreams of the people and creatures of Mulsantir, using his far-reaching power to scour their minds for information about the activities outside his prison, he felt the dreamworld that the entire city was generating shift and the impact of it was so tremendous, it was as if a meteorite had crashed into a world of mist and fog and dust and ashes, creating a streak of fire in the dull grey sky.

Surprise was a rare sentiment in the case of Gannayev-of-Dreams, yet he felt it clearly. Could this be the source of the chaos? He tried to reach the person or creature whose dreams shone so brightly among the fading troubles of the masses, but they were far from him and could scarcely dare dream. And he soon realized the reason as he tried to walk with them through their nightmares.

He saw an ancient citadel of stone, devoid of windows to see the sky above the battle. Like the dreamer, he knew it to be the heart of an ancient civilization, where all things would be decided. dread and determination mixed with just a drop of bitter despair in the dreamer's heart, a human-shaped figure composed of white light, a beacon against the shroud of blackness, towering above it, intending with all its will to crush it to end the threat to its eternal mission.

But a blade-like shape was in the hands of the light, a weapon that was more force than object, more part of the creature than not, and the beam of searing energy was cutting through the shadow like a diamond. Others were there, pale shadows basking in the light of the heart… but of what, Gann couldn't tell. The blade cut at last through the shadow, which evaporated with a deafening roar; but the sheer force of it sent the ruins crumbling, intending to crush the light, burry it…

And for a moment, Gann saw that the creature of light had eyes that burned with a flame of passion for survival that only a being unprepared to accept defeat and death as the end of their journey could have.

Then there was darkness. Then, there was silence.

But this couldn't be a mere coincidence, a random dream spawned from the mind of an ordinary person. Whether spirit or live creature, no being in Rashemen had the imagination to dream of this tremendous will to live. And weren't dreams but a reflection of what the dreamer had already seen, already experienced?

The vision haunted him. He allowed none of that to show on the outside, remaining idle and casual in his cell, only to aim a few arrow-like teases towards the matron, who even then dreamed of his countenance and loathed herself for it. His general unease grew; he felt safe in the cell, though he was uncomfortable with the four walls he was trapped in. the sky called, the wilderness, but perhaps the wilderness itself had changed now that this new element, this strange dreamer, had arrived.

He forgot the hathrans and pushed the spirit army that was clearly gathering to settle some score with the city into the depths of his mind. Instead, he wasted his hours away by waiting for the moment when he could once more search for the dreamer of whom he knew nothing, except that they were something he had never faced before.

Gann didn't believe in gods or destiny; he believed in cause and effect, action and reaction. The reaction here was clearly the arrival of the army… but the cause escaped him. The spirits had gathered out of fear, even if they didn't know what they feared. And the blade of light had cut through the dream as it had through shadow.

That the gods had orchestrated a tragedy such as this had never occurred to him; gods in which he couldn't believe, for if gods existed, they were to be above mortals in wisdom and kindness, which he knew those worshipped by humans were not. That destiny had intervened during an ancient war with shadow and created a being that would be the greatest pawn of fate in the game to come, solving several of the mistakes of the past with a few well-played moves.

That he, too, had yet a part to play in the great drama that would ultimately change not life, but death itself, was alien to him.

He never sought to justify his existence with a purpose.

And then, in the unlikeliest of places for him to be, the destiny he had never sought walked right through the door of his prison cell.