In Dungeons with Dragons | Prologue: Faeslaightear

A Song of Smoke and Silver

Waking up before dawn, in a patch of fallen leaves that had been hastily gathered the night before as basic protection against the cool air; hidden amongst a small copse of trees on the Moon Hills close by to the miserable, Melora-forsaken, pathetic little settlement of Fallcrest; listening to the sounds of the Nentir River gurgle past in its never ending eddies and to the soft, tentative chirps of birds awakening to a new dawn completely unaware of the perils of the previous night; and sensing – no, feeling – the soft breathing of strangers who were lying close by to the embers of a camp fire from which thin wisps of smoke rose into the still dark sky; Faeslaightear; feigning sleep, that most unassuming, yet often the most effective, of deceptions; wracking his brains, still a bit groggy from the glancing blow he took to the back of the head (“I should have seen that tankard coming.”); trying to understand how he ended up in this peculiar situation; smiled to himself. “Ahhh,” he thought, almost comically, “I survived another night!”

If only it had all started at the Lucky Gnome…

…Sipping on cheap white wine – served in a cloudy, chipped glass at a temperature about twenty degrees higher than optimal, which did little to improve the already poor quality of its slightly vinegary taste – Faeslaightear; his piercing, almost violently violet-blue eyes, half shadowed by the cowl from his dusty traveling cloak which was pulled up to conceal his pointed, elven ears; continually scanning the crowd, looking for both an easy mark and a hint of danger; took stock of the cacophonous crowd while taking stock of his own situation.

The Lucky Gnome Taphouse was livelier than usual, which, due to its reputation as a facilitator of fisticuffs, wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Maybe some dock workers were celebrating an early bonus for unloading some heavy freight (“I might have to lighten their purses a bit, just to keep them from buying too much of the crap that Kelson called ale”), or maybe it was that group of River Rats – the local street gang – who were boisterously bragging and swagging about their latest hijinks (“Bastards! I wonder if those River Rats really know how to swim. I wonder why Kelson doesn’t put them out?”); but either way, Faeslaightear used one hand to slightly loosen his short sword from his scabbard while his other palm wrapped reassuringly around his dagger, making sure that both of the well cared for and freshly sharpened blades were immediately available. In his many years of adventuring, traveling, wandering, Faeslaightear knew that one could never be too careful. It was far too crowded, however, in this packed place of inebriation, to think about stringing his longbow, the inherited pride of all elves. Besides, at the range at which any combat would occur in this rapidly filling – in bodies, stench, and smoke – common room, a dagger, surreptitiously twisted in the back of a totally outclassed and unaware street thug, would be much more discreet and effective than an arrow in the eye; and probably more fun. Either way, the elf, wincing while the off-white wine scorched his discriminating tongue, questioned in his mind whether Fallcrest really was the wisest place to be.

It’s not like he didn’t have other options. Or did he? Distracted for a moment by the dragonborn sitting alone in a dark corner (“Give him a wide berth, especially since he’s drinking that crap that Kelson calls mead.”) and the eladrin talking with a dwarf (“Now that’s an odd couple.”), Faeslaightear toyed with the idea about paying off his tab (“Ha!”) and leaving. He could go back to his people; the Luathadharail elves that lived in the woods on the borders of the Feylands; but that would require more humility than the elf could generate. He could resume his quest on behalf of Melora, his patron god; quietly dispatching those aberrant monsters, gnolls especially, that had been periodically raiding the sacred forests; but had he ever really given up on that quest to begin with? It had been slow hunting for awhile, but wasn’t that newly discovered information, torn from the throat of the last gnoll he encountered, about the gnolls cooperating with an unknown local power in the region the reason why he made his way to Fallcrest to begin with? If nothing came of this information, he could even set out for larger towns; home of heavier money bags and kingly treasures that could be lightened on behalf of the poor and the oppressed; and while a tempting choice, Faeslaightear knew that he could really do little on his own to fight corruption, especially in light of his… ahhh… shadowy career choice. Absentmindedly, Faeslaightear stroked the soft suede satchel which contained his lock picks. Choices, choices! The problem with the gift of clear perception is that it often gives too many. Why wasn’t he as gifted with insight? Faeslaightear could always see many options, but he struggled with deciding which one was best. Maybe that’s why his family didn’t quite understand his choices. Faeslaightear almost laughed to himself, as he was still prone to do, but, this time, he was quick to stifle his smile. “My family,” he thought, “I could see things that they could never see, but they never understood.” At least that’s what he thought to himself. He drained his foul wine (“Never let even bad alcohol go to waste!”) and, using the common tongue and a quick flash of gold – which, in a tavern, is virtually the same thing, ordered something a bit stronger from the passing wench.

Under the increasing influence of a second glass of the more potent, smoky spirit, Faeslaightear began to reminisce about his childhood. Though he was young by elven standards, he was already past middle age for humans. He thought about his carefree times amongst the trees in the deep woods in the Feywild. He always excelled at both climbing and acrobatics, racing his older brothers and younger sister through the branches in the never ending quest to escape parentally imposed responsibility. He loved games of skill and chance, bluffing his friends out of their gold and the young lady elves out of their baubles and trinkets, and sometimes, their innocence. “Maybe I should go and visit the Moonsong Temple,” Faeslaightear thought to himself, “I’ve always thought Sehanine would approve of my choices.” And reminiscing of stolen silver and stolen kisses, Faeslaightear softly whistled the tune of a love song. He thought longingly of his hand carved wooden flute, the flute that he carried everywhere, the flute that was reverently adorned with a lock of silver hair, the flute on which he would accompany the wild and raucous bacchanals of the elves that would mark the summer and winter solstices. Those were idyllic days, and passionate nights, even for an elf.

But one night, gnolls, those hellish, hyena-faced monsters with a taste for flesh, came into the forest. Without warning, they struck. Without mercy, they killed. Faeslaightear, an uncharacteristic grimace of pain shooting across his normally jovial face, slammed his double old fashioned down, sloshing some of the distillate onto the now newly dented table, nearly cracking the glass – which drew a quick reproving glance from the barkeep – as Faeslaightear recalled that wretched, smoke filled, and blood soaked night when he stumbled across the flayed body of his sister, Airgeadgaoisneane. Her skin, in a bizarre and macabre demonic ritual, had been mercilessly pealed from her body. Yet, when he found her, to Faeslaightear’s increasing horror, she was still alive. Knowing that her life was quickly fleeing into the arms of the Raven Queen, Faeslaightear, hesitant to touch the bare muscles and exposed internal organs of his sister, knelt down close to her formally flowing silver hair; hair that had once reflected rays of moonlight, hair that was now matted with her own crimson blood; and wept. Such senseless violence. Violence that was not at all in proportion to the normal ebb and flow of life so revered and precious to the elves. And in choked, agonizing gasps, Airgeadgaoisneane whispered her final words. “Glanaithneannas,” blood bubbled from her ruby lips, “Glanaithneannas, Avenge me!”

His flute, though still known to command lively dances from time to time, has, more often than not, played a much more plaintive tune ever since…

His family, crushed by the loss of Airgeadgaoisneane, but having some insight that Faeslaightear could never fully understand, forbade Faeslaightear to go in search of the gnolls, trusting that retribution lay in the hands of the gods. But when he came of age, confident in the skills that he had developed over his childhood, praying his prayers to Melora, and silently bidding his still sleeping family farewell; Faeslaightear slung his father’s longbow over his shoulder and stole away from his ancestral home in the forests on the edge of the Feywild.

That was twenty years ago…

An outburst of laughter from the River Rats roused Faeslaightear from his thoughts. Chastising himself for his failure to keep constant vigilance, Faeslaightear glanced quickly around the room, noticing that the eladrin had actually sat down next to the dragonborn and was talking to him (“That’s even stranger than her talking to the dwarf!”). Shaking his head slightly, his insight clouded not just by the smoke in the room but by the smoke from his glass, Faeslaightear again questioned his decision to come to Fallcrest. But tonight, unlike so many times in the past, Faeslaightear’s insight didn’t fail him. Maybe it was Melora speaking to him. Maybe it was the memories that he allowed to wash over him. Maybe it was just the sense of new adventures on the horizon. He smiled to himself, this time not hiding it. Though he didn’t see it coming, he knew, he just knew that his life was going to change. Even in this wretched tavern. And then, the tankards started flying…

[Written by Joel Moore. Edited by Will Lightfoot]