"Stop it!” was all Laera could wail before the deluge overtook her. Everything around her melted into a wave of distorted color accompanied by muffled sounds of cruel laughter ringing in her ears. Reality was fast becoming a distant memory as her assailant maliciously robbed her of her senses.

She opened her mouth to scream, but all that came forth were inaudible gurgling sounds she knew would be impossible for any likely hero to hear. Before long, all would most certainly be lost unless Rigel came through and saved the day.

Dear Rigel. His mission was a dangerous one, but pivotal. Would he return in time?

Laera tried desperately to counter the attack with her own meager powers, but to no avail. Wave after wave surged over her, tossing her about like a sodden rag doll. Her sense of direction waned as up and down became distorted concepts. Unable to withstand the skirmish, she ceased her impotent retaliation. Her tutors taught her repeatedly that once triumph was no longer viable, survival must become the one focus of her efforts. Failing that, defeat turns to death.

She began the struggle in a panicked frenzy to escape her fate. Tossing about and gasping for the sweet breath of life, Laera’s vision cleared just enough to see Rigel appear high upon a cliff and leap into action.

With a great battle cry, her savior hefted the enormous tub of ice water, mightily dumping it over her accoster’s pallid little pointy-eared head. The smug grin of victory on that detestable face disappeared as stunned realization clouded his features. His shocked expression shown for a glimpse before the frigid waterfall engulfed him.

“Woo!” Laera let loose her cheer of victory, raising both fists high above her head. “Way to go, Rigel!”

Laughing boisterously, Rigel tossed the empty tub aside, watching his prey flounder in the fishing pond below. Leaning out past the edge of the grassy cliff, he cupped his mouth as he yelled.

“High elves like you reek of troll pits, Jerrin!”

With that, Rigel leaped from the cliff and splashed into the crystal clear pond, the ensuing droplets sparkling brilliantly in the noonday sunlight. Swimming below the surface, he took advantage of the enemy’s confusion by viciously divesting the evil Jerrin of his swimming trunks.

Laera tossed her head back and laughed out loud, merrily reveling in her long-awaited victory. Every year when she and her fellow druid acolytes came to visit Felwithe, that annoying high elf would take every opportunity to harass her. She’d sworn she would see vengeance before she graduated into a full druid. Now that she had it, she savored it for all it was worth.

Raising her fingers to her lips, Laera let out a taunting whistle at her shivering nemesis in the water across the way.

“Show it off, Jerrin! Woo!”

Joining her whistles were the cries of all the other students—both high elf and wood elf, male and female—who happened to be taking advantage of the warm summer day down at the fishing pond.

The young, fair-skinned paladin-to-be blushed a bright shade of red, both attempting to cover himself and tread water at the same time. Not being particularly successful at either, he looked to Laera of bearing a striking resemblance to a deranged jellyfish who’d spent too much time in the sun.

From beneath the water, Rigel swam expertly up behind Laera. Surfacing, he secretly slipped the ill-gotten apparel into her hands.

“Hold on to these,” he whispered into her ear before disappearing into the water again.

Recognizing a cue when she heard one, Laera deftly hid her prize behind her back as she watched the floundering high elf.

“You-! Where is… give it back!” The frantic Jerrin splashed around, looking for the perpetrator. Catching sight of Rigel surfacing near the edge of the pond, he splashed angrily in that general direction. “Hey woodie! You’re orc bait if you don’t give it back!”

“Huh?” Rigel cupped a hand up next to his pointed ear, a mischievous smile gracing his boyish features. “Stop splashing so much, I can’t hear a thing you-”

“I mean it, woodie! Now!”

Climbing up onto shore, Rigel raised both hands in a shrug, showing they were completely empty.

“You… where is it!” Jerrin sputtered furiously in his struggle to stay afloat using only one arm.

Grinning smugly, Rigel pointed down into the depths of the pond.

Cursing an oath, Jerrin dove below in search of his clothing, but not without his stark white posterior bobbing to the surface briefly. Once again, the growing crowd of onlookers roared to life in a cacophony of jeers and whistles.

Laera covered her mouth, her shoulders quivering with laughter. This was even better than she’d imagined.

She cast her mind back to all the times he’d gotten the best of her in past visits to Felwithe. She remembered the time she’d awakened to discover a dead lizard dangling from her bedpost, inches from her face. She remembered the salt-saturated lunches of hers he’d sabotaged. Most of all, she remembered the time she’d been bathing alone to discover the smell of smoke pervading the washhouse. Hearing a voice yell “fire” from outside, her embarrassment was assured once she ran outside in the buff to find Jerrin and his fellow paladin students waiting for her inevitable display. What were once bitter memories now served to feed the succulent flames of her revenge.

Tearing herself away from the spectacle, Laera swam across the pond to the shore where Rigel stood toweling himself off. Seeing her approach, Rigel ceased his rigorous task and opened his arms wide, appealing to her judgment.

“Well, how did I do?”

“Outstanding!” Laera’s face was alight with glee.

Grinning a crooked smile, Rigel reached out his hand to help her climb out of the pond. With a rush of water, she was standing next to him on the grass-laden shore, merrily watching a distraught Jerrin play a futile game of “Bobbing for Swimwear” some distance out. They snickered quietly together and they overheard him make the occasional hapless plea for help from his surrounding tormentors.

Rigel tilted his head close to Laera to ask his question in confidence.

“So, where is it?”

“Oh…”

Laera busied herself with the back of her one-piece swimsuit, extracting Jerrin’s trunks from beneath the folds of forest green. Dangling it in midair, she winked and tossed the precious article behind a boulder, well away from the pond’s edge.

Rigel pursed his lips in a silent whistle of appreciation at her move. Sooner or later Jerrin would have to come out of the pond with little or no chance of escaping unscathed.

“If I’ve ever done anything in the past to upset you—anything at all,” Rigel began to chuckle in spite of himself. “I humbly beg your forgiveness!”

“Oh, you’d already know if you had,” Laera smiled her response wickedly. “Trust me.”

Shaking his head with a grin, Rigel tossed her a dry towel from a nearby stack. Laera nimbly caught the towel mid-flight, and turned back to the scene as she began to dry herself.

Her attention diverted, Rigel was afforded the chance to admire her physique. Her innocuous actions caught his eye, and he couldn’t help but watch as she went through the motions of toweling herself off. The glistening droplets of water as they ran in rivulets down her unblemished chestnut tan skin. The fall of her wet auburn hair as she ran her fingers through it, airing the strands to dry. Her sleek, athletic form as she sat to draw the towel down her legs vigorously.

Rigel looked away self-consciously. He was doing it again. Why couldn’t he seem to keep things in perspective?

Rebuking himself silently, he focused on reality. He’d been her friend for several months now. When he first arrived at the school, she’d helped him make the difficult adjustment in separating from his family for the first time. They’d studied together, played together, and even prayed together. During that entire time, she’d never made any pretense of affection for him—at least, not in that special way. Besides, she was four years his elder. In every sense of the word, she was simply his friend.

“But what a friend,” he muttered to himself.

“I’m sorry?” Laera had turned back to face him, distractedly trying to clear water out of her pointed ear.

Rigel started at the unexpected sound of her voice. Hurriedly, he covered for his slip.

“B-but… will it end?”

Laera squinted, not understanding. Pulling her legs up, she switched to a cross-legged seat, her expression questioning.

Rigel jutted his chin out at the distraught high elf still searching the pond for his essential wardrobe.

“Jerrin,” he explained conversationally. “Think this is the end?”

“It has to be,” she shrugged. “I’m leaving come summer.”

Rigel frowned inwardly. He hated being reminded of that impending day of her graduation. She was leaving to fulfill Tunare’s work in the world, and he still had three long years of lonesome drudgery to endure before he’d be free. Whenever he voiced that anguished fact, she’d always nudge him on the shoulder and say he’d make plenty of new friends in the years to come. Maybe so, he thought, but nobody could replace her.

Not ever.

Come to think of it, this would be the last day he had to be with her like this. In the next few weeks, she’d be so busy with trials and exams and prayer that he’d scarcely be seeing her at all.

Even more significant, for months Rigel had been trying to summon up enough courage to let his feeling show and perhaps kiss Laera for the first time. His heart stuck in his throat as he realized that if he was ever going to do it, it was going to have to be tonight. Not tomorrow—tonight! He didn’t think he had the nerve to do it tonight. But if he let the day slip away without at least trying, he’d never get another chance. Surely the moment she stepped out of the school and into the real world, she’d discover some dashing ranger who would sweep her off her feet. All this considered, the next three seasons being locked away a the school were going to be an eternity, and Rigel would never know if…

On the other hand, if he made his move and she turned him away, their friendship would never be the same. It would be impossible. Oh, she’d deny it, of course, saying that they could still be friends, but it would still be different. Very different. Above all else, he wanted her as a friend forever, and was loath to place their relationship in jeopardy by acting on what she might consider to be some foolish, puerile crush.

Sighing heavily, Rigel sat on the lush grass next to his friend.

“Hey, what is it?” Laera asked, working the towel in a frenzy over her half-dry hair. “You’re not worried about tonight, are you?”

Rigel half-turned his head, his brow creased in confusion. What was she saying? Could it be she read his thoughts? Tonight? What?

“If you are, I think you can relax,” she continued casually. “After what just happened, Jerrin doesn’t have the stones to pull anything on me so soon. In fact, I doubt he can even find them after the attack of the ‘ice man!’” Her voice trailing off, she nudged him in that familiar way.

“Right,” he said, nodding.

“Besides,” Laera looped the towel around the back of her neck to rest on her shoulders. Leaning forward, she placed both elbows on her knees. “I’m sure there’s a hero out there who would defend me, should the need arise.”

Rigel mimed a wince, drawing a breath through clenched teeth in a pretend gasp.

“I don’t know,” he said. “After today, I think a hero might cramp your style.”

Laera shoved him with pretend gall.

“In fact,” Rigel continued, undaunted in his flippancy, “I’d say you might scare him away for fear he’d set you off and you’d get someone to pants him in front of the whole-”

He never finished his sentence due to the barrage of playful slaps he had to defend himself against on behalf of his friend. The two young wood elves fought their heated battle in a montage of swing and parry. The sunlight shown brightly in the cloudless sky above them, its warm rays like a blessing from Tunare Herself. It was as if somehow the Mother of All was smiling upon her children below, reveling in their joy and laughter one final time before they passed into adulthood.

A good number of the students enjoying the cool, rippling waters that day were in the twilight of their youth, soon to become full druids and rangers, paladins and spell casters. They were to be the newest ranks of Tunare’s Army of Life very shortly—all too shortly—laden with the responsibilities and duties accorded their titles.

It was a common saying—particularly among the elder races whose longevity could be measured well into centuries—that youth is wasted on the young. Such a thing implied that children naturally took their youth for granted. Put another way, one had to let go of one’s own youth in order to fully appreciate it. Those who espoused such ideals were often dubbed as cynics by their youthful and exuberant progeny. Even so, the saying lived on through the ages, comparing imminent adulthood to the looming of a shadow which masked out the light of innocence, never to be lifted again.

A shadow passed over Laera.

Her roughhousing with Rigel came to an abrupt end as she turned to see who stood over her, blocking the sunlight. Shading her eyes, she recognized the silhouette as one of the druid messengers.

“Acolyte Nellynwae, Headmistress Netheel extends Tunare’s blessing and requests your presence at Her temple without delay.”

Laera bit her lip as her bare feet met the cold steps leading down into the entrance to the Temple of Tunare. Shivers ran up her spine. Looking above, she scowled at the ornate marble architecture towering over her, blocking the blessed warmth of the sun. Felwithe flaunted such finery throughout the entire city, its delicate craftsmanship breathtaking to all who see it. People came from lands all over Norrath just to gaze with awe-filled eyes at the wondrous high elf city.

So many years ago on her first pilgrimage to Felwithe, Laera stood ranked among those who gawked at the tremendous spires and arches rising above her. As a first-year acolyte, she couldn’t imagine a more illustrious place existing in all the world. Truly it must have been a place chosen of Tunare, second only to the dwelling place of the gods themselves.

As a fifth-year near-graduate walking among its shadows on her way into the temple, she’d trade it all for a glimpse of sunlight to warm away the goose bumps on her skin. A chill breeze heralded the final stirrings of winter’s end—quite unusual for late spring—causing the shivering wood elf to tighten her meager towel around her shoulders.

Trailing closely behind the messenger sent to retrieve her, Laera couldn’t help but wonder what this was all about. Headmistress Netheel, while unceasingly kind and abruptly polite in common day-to-day matters, rarely requested an audience with one of the acolytes unless there was a serious problem worthy of her direct attention. Her mind reeling, Laera could think of nothing happening of late that would warrant sending a messenger with an urgent call to make an appearance. When Laera asked the messenger to wait while she changed into something more appropriate, he explained that he was instructed to bring her to the temple immediately upon finding her, so pressing was the request. Seeing for the first time an overpowering sense of urgency from the messenger, Laera had realized something tremendous was afoot. Seeing, too, the messenger’s winded state, Laera’s concern turned quickly to alarm.

What could it possibly be?

Lost in thought, Laera bumped into the messenger’s broad back as he stopped unexpectedly. Stepping back, she whispered her sheepish apologies.

The messenger turned around to face her, his eyes modestly averted to the ground from her half-naked form. Although modesty was far from a common trait among wood elves, Laera was nevertheless his elder. For a first-year acolyte messenger to gape at a fellow student four years his senior would be unseemly.

He cleared his throat, obviously ill at ease.

“I am to leave you now. You are to enter alone and close the door behind you.” The messenger glanced up to her face briefly and looked hurriedly away. Laera couldn’t tell if his discomfort was merely a sign of his recent induction to the guild or if he knew something about this she didn’t.

“Thank you,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder comfortingly. “You performed your duty well. Go with Tunare.”

Glancing up to her once again, the messenger smiled shyly before turning to leave.

Laera took a moment to collect herself before entering. Taking a deep breath, she listened to the tittering sounds of birds chirping at each other amidst the grand treetops rising above her. Off in the distance could be heard the laughter and splashing of the fishing pond she just came from. All else was silent as the sun dipped below the lofty archway, filtering through the dense limbs of a tall sycamore beyond. Laera took in what small warmth she could garner from the dappled sunlight playing across her towel.

Somehow she knew she was standing at a crossroads in her life. Laera didn’t know how she knew, but something deep inside her was convinced that nothing would be the same once the sun set on this day. It wasn’t a comforting feeling—it never was. It was a feeling familiar to her, resurrecting memories of when her mother died of the chilled fever many winters ago. She’d felt it during other periods of her life, like when she’d experienced her first kiss, and during the recent invasion of Kelethin by the Crushbone orcs. She’d felt it when she decided to become a druid of Tunare. Each and every time she felt it, life inevitably changed, never to return to the way things were before.

Laera looked solemnly at the sun’s gradual descent behind the sheltering leaves. She’d expected to encounter this feeling at the coming graduation. Its early arrival unnerved her to no end, placing melancholia where, by all rights, there should be revelry in celebrating her achievements at the school. She had the uncanny feeling she was being robbed of something she had every right to possess, and there was nothing she could do to keep it.

But it was just a feeling—nothing more.

Closing her eyes, she whispered a small prayer for comfort as she slid open the heavy stone door and stepped inside the temple.

The cold, muted light within belied its comforting warmth. Laera found herself bathed in soft shadows as she crossed the entryway and closed the door quietly behind her. She’d always found it curious how such grandeur of the city surrounded this simple and humble temple dedicated to such a wondrous goddess. Not that it wasn’t elegant by anyone’s standards. Finely sculpted marble columns graced each corner of the pristine chapel. Still, rather than a grandiose structure with vaulted ceilings and frescoes gracing every nook, Tunare chose a simple, functional dwelling for her worshippers—reminding them of the value of humility.

As Laera’s eyes adjusted to the relative darkness after closing the door on the sunlight outside, the hooded image of the headmistress coalesced before her, dressed in her usual unadorned brown robes.

Stepping forward, one hand holding the towel together at her throat, Laera curtsied before the headmistress.

“Summoned by your call and the call of the Mother, I stand before you,” Laera spoke reverently, her practiced words echoing across the chapel.

“Welcome into Tunare’s arms, child,” came Headmistress Netheel’s usual succinct response. She extended her hand as she would a blessing. “Rise and present yourself, child, to Yeolarn Bronzeleaf, High Priest of Tunare.”

Laera’s heart caught in her throat as the high priest’s name was spoken. Straightening her curtsey, she turned to see for the first time the figure standing at the head of the chapel. Resplendent in his ceremonial armor, he stood, his eyes grimly boring a hole straight through her.

Flustered at her unbecoming appearance as she stood in the presence of this important high elf, Laera padded timidly across the marble floor before him, and repeated her curtsey.

“I-,” she cleared her throat nervously. “I am deeply honored, your grace.”

The high priest’s eyes lowered piercingly as they observed Laera bow before him, his grim expression fixed in a mask of gravity. Without ceremony or even acknowledgement of Laera’s greeting, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf turned his attention to the headmistress.

“This is she?” His eyebrow rose questioningly.

“She is, your grace,” Headmistress Netheel replied with a small bow of her own, her statement voiced with a familiar tone of finality.

The high priest’s attention returned to the prostrate wood elf before him.

“Rise, child, and show yourself to me,” his voice rang out starkly throughout the marble hall.

Laera stood once more, turning a questioning glance to the headmistress, who nodded encouragingly.

Unsure of herself, Laera removed the towel from around her shoulders, letting it fall to rest at her feet. Restless and momentarily unsure what to do with her hands, she fidgeted briefly before letting them fall to her sides. Before the spiritual leader of all Tunare’s children stood Laera Nellynwae, acolyte druid, dressed in nothing more than her one-piece, form-fitting swimsuit. Her face burning, she fervently wished the floor would miraculously open and swallow her up, saving her from this humiliating plight.

As a drill sergeant would inspect his troops, so did Yeolarn Bronzeleaf inspect Laera. Clasping his hands firmly behind his back, he slowly paced a leisurely circuit around her, studying her every inch, as a jeweler would appraise a newly cut gem. Noting every curve and every attribute, he completed his short stroll and come to stand before her once again. Tossing his head back loftily, he looked her squarely in the face.

“This is not the physique of a warrior,” he stated definitively. “She must be able to hold her own in battle, should things go awry.”

“Rest assured, your grace, she has a full grasp of all self-defense techniques taught every druid,” came the headmistress’s response.

“A druid’s training in combat is miniscule compared to that of a paladin.” The high priest took on a lecturing stance as he ticked off each item with his fingers. “Strength, devotion, and the ability to wield Tunare’s holy power. Those are the prerequisites for selection.”

“And the purity of a youthful heart, your grace. Will you find among Tynkale’s students a paladin which can fulfill the… task at hand?”

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf looked pointedly at the headmistress, noting her verbal hesitation, but saying nothing.

“I say no,” she continued, unabated. “For paladin training, by its very nature, utterly precludes it. Tunare’s power is granted only to the seasoned among their ranks. Seasoned, I believe, past what can be termed ‘youthful’ for our purposes.”

The headmistress stepped forward, tossing her hood back and allowing the light of the chapel to illuminate her careworn features. Her silvery hair shined brilliantly in the torchlight, its softness framing her serious face.

“Yes, a paladin or even a cleric may best suit the letter of what is needed.” Placing a hand gently upon the high priest’s arm, she spoke earnestly. “But search your heart, I pray. You will see, even as I do, this is a task best suited for a druid, whose training does not lie in the front row before Tunare’s pulpit.”

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf’s contemplative scowl returned to Laera standing before him. It was true. A druid’s training was far removed from that of a paladin or cleric. Tunare and Her teachings came well into play in a druid’s life who has sworn such fealty, most certainly. But where it is the indisputable focus of a cleric or paladin’s existence, a druid merely used it as a guideline as they care for the Mother’s creations in day-to-day matters.

Sighing softly to himself, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf turned about, frustrated. His hands resting on his hips, he shook his head in exasperation.

“I begin to fear we will find no suitable candidate. I question that such a person exists in all the world, much less within our reach in Faydwer.”

Her hand returning to her side, the headmistress stared off in the distance.

“Tunare’s requests are often… challenging… to fulfill. I agree.”

Laera’s mind spun in a whirlwind of thought as silence engulfed the chapel. This had gone far beyond anything she expected. On her way to the temple, she’d imagined that there was a dire problem to discuss regarding her graduation, or perhaps a special congregation was called of all senior students for their last day in Felwithe before entering the world as full druids. Any number of possibilities had crossed her mind at the time, but never did she imagine an issue so pressing it confounded even the high priest himself.

The situation was near unimaginable. Here she was, having been whisked away from the fishing pond on a moment’s notice, not allowed to so much as change into more suitable attire in which to visit Tunare’s temple, standing half-naked before Yeolarn Bronzeleaf—spiritual leader and representative of Tunare for the elven race—as he scrutinized her appearance and blatantly discussed her inadequacies with her headmistress as if Laera weren’t even there! What once she met with confusion and humility now galled her.

Shifting her weight nervously from one foot to the other, she flexed her hands as they hung at her sides.

“Your grace,” she heard her own voice speak.

Half-turning, the high priest glanced at Laera over his shoulder, his eyes showing a marked displeasure at having his thoughts interrupted by a mere acolyte.

Summoning her courage, Laera continued to speak, as much to her own surprise as to the surprise of those present.

“I-I… don’t know why I have been called here now, nor do I understand what issues are at stake.” She swallowed. “But I… did hear Tunare’s name spoken amid the fragments of what was said. I just… wanted to say that whatever it is… if it is Tunare’s will…I will do whatever it takes to complete it. Whatever qualifications I must meet, I will meet, be it prowess in combat or a demonstration of faith.”

Laera stood taller the more she spoke, her aspect turning from docile to assertive.

“I am a servant of Tunare,” she said with dignity. “Where She says to go, I will go. What She says to do, I will do. If I don’t know how to do what She asks of me, I will learn. What strength I need to fulfill Her calling, I will gain, because I believe-” Becoming choked up, Laera took a moment’s pause to collect herself before continuing calmly, placing a hand to her chest as she spoke. “I believe She is truly the Mother of All, and asks of us only what we are able to offer, and no more.”

Headmistress Netheel quietly turned to the high priest, her face unreadable. Yeolarn Bronzeleaf’s expression had not changed one iota during Laera’s impassioned speech. Calmly taking in her words, he stood gazing at her cryptically over his shoulder. Sensing an end to her monologue, he finally turned around. Stepping up to Laera, he leaned in to confront her, his face scant inches from hers.

“You speak like a priestess, acolyte Nellynwae,” he spoke softly. “Your voice exudes conviction as you claim to espouse Tunare’s will as Her devoted servant. Most unusual and, frankly, refreshing to find in a druid of your years.” Any hint of kindness left his voice suddenly. “But I wonder if such conviction would lose its thunder when put to the test. I question whether such devotion would fail you, should you find yourself bleeding to death on the battlefield with Innoruuk’s blade through your belly and no sign of Tunare or Her hosts to be seen. What happens when you leave the protection of the druids’ sanctuary and enter the real world, facing blood and hatred and darkness that threaten to tear open your body, steal your soul and feed it to Innoruuk’s insatiable appetites? Where is your faith then, child? Tell me.”

A tear slipped out from behind Laera’s eyelid, wetting the corner of her eye.

“Your grace-” The headmistress spoke, trying to placate the high priest, but his ire was not to be deterred.

“Once in the clutches of the Prince of Hate’s followers, all light dwellers are torn asunder body, mind and soul. Once under their control, civility has no meaning as they brutally use everything you have and everything you are for their own perverted ends. The elven forces could not save you. Tunare Herself could not save you. You would be theirs. Period. And you would pray hourly for death to take you.

“Yet here you stand barely out of diapers, touting your undying faith in Tunare?” Yeolarn Bronzeleaf spoke succinctly. “I… don’t… believe you. You have no inkling of what true faith is. Your words are rooted in the arrogance of a sheltered student who has the naiveté to believe that her faith is insurmountable. You have the impertinence to speak them before me when true soldiers of Tunare’s Army are at this very moment struggling and dying for their faith? It is an effrontery to their valor and dedication to the greater good!”

Laera opened her mouth silently, tears coursing down her cheeks. Her hands balled into tiny fists at her sides, she could only utter strangled gasps as she tried to find the proper words to say.

Yeolarn Bronzeleaf stole a glance out the corner of his eye at the headmistress. Her look implacable, she met his gaze with calm resolve, edged with a hint of unspoken displeasure.

“You submit this child to bear the weight of Zeranon’s Pact?” The high priest didn’t wait for an answer. “So be it!”

With the ringing of steel against steel, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf drew a small dagger from his belt, reached out to grasp at Laera’s swimsuit, and deftly sliced open the shoulder strap in one clean swipe of the blade. Panicked at the sudden advance from the high priest, Laera yelped and collapsed on the floor, clutching the torn remains of her suit to her chest.

“What was started is now complete,” Yeolarn Bronzeleaf spoke tersely and with hurried efficiency, as if to stand any longer on ceremony for her sake was to his distaste. “Let it be known to all that a new defender of nature and life has joined the ranks of good in the name of Tunare. Stand now amongst your colleagues, Druid Nellynwae, and go forth into Norrath to your work.”

Tossing aside the blade with a jerk of his gauntleted hand, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf stepped over Laera’s cowering form and strode to the entryway. Pausing before the stone door, he turned back to the two stunned women.

“May Tunare have mercy upon us all if you are wrong… Headmistress Netheel.”

Turning sharply, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf hefted the heavy door to storm his way out.

A sob escaped Laera’s throat as she lay on the hard marble floor in the Temple of Tunare. One hand covered her grieved face while the other held up her torn garment in a semi-successful attempt at modesty. She’d heard and recognized the words of her graduation ceremony as the high priest recited them, only instead of being spoken with honor and praise, he twisted them into a terrible mockery of her rite of passage. The vicious tear in her shoulder strap would normally have been performed on the caducel symbol in the same place on her acolyte robes, symbolizing a sundering of what she was as an acolyte into what she had become as a full druid. Now it stood to symbolize the depths of the high priest’s contempt for her.

Letting loose another sob, Laera’s shoulders heaved as bitter tears ran unchecked down her face. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Her day of joy had been denied her, replaced by something she couldn’t even define. All she knew was that nothing was what it was supposed to be, and the thought of what it was pierced into her soul no less aptly than the dagger that divested her.

Warm hands touched her shoulders in a futile attempt to calm her weeping.

“Hush, child,” cooed Headmistress Netheel. “It’s all right. Hush. It’s okay.”

In time, the headmistress’s ministrations calmed the distressed young druid. Without any trace of her usually cold and removed demeanor, she assisted Laera off the floor and led her to the base of one of the chapel pillars where she could sit. Drawing her knees to her chest, Laera rested her head wearily against them and pulled herself together.

“What a terrible man,” came her muffled voice from within.

“Child,” Headmistress Netheel said, laying a comforting hand on Laera’s back. “Yeolarn Bronzeleaf has led the followers of Tunare for decades in a valiant and honorable way. He has entered the heart of darkness for the cause of light many times, knowing he would likely never return. But return he has, only to take up Tunare’s banner and fulfill Her will yet again without pause or respite. He is a truly great man who cares and sacrifices much for his flock. For all of us. For you.”

Laera’s head jerked up suddenly, her tear-streaked face to confront the headmistress next to her.

“Does that give him the right to… to treat his ‘flock’ like this?” Holding out her torn swimsuit, Laera’s normally pristine face shown in a twisted display of anguish.

Blinking back an inaudible sigh, the headmistress took Laera’s hand—the hand holding her suit—in hers, cupping over it as a mother would her aggrieved child.

“Yeolarn Bronzeleaf is many things,” she said patiently. “He is brave and stalwart in his calling while at the same time he can be nurturing and giving. I have seen him face adversity without hesitation, knowing the cause of Tunare is a just one. But right now, child, Yeolarn Bronzeleaf is something I have never once seen him before.”

Laera sniffed and distractedly wiped a cheek with a swipe of her palm.

“What’s that,” she asked sullenly.

“He is afraid, child,” came the headmistress’s response. Slowly shaking her head to lend sincerity to her words, she pressed on. “He is so terribly afraid. Events to come and what they will mean for his people should things go wrong terrify him deeply, because this time all control is out of his hands. My child, you have no idea of the profound workings the gods have embarked upon.

“So please forgive the high priest his shortcomings in coping with matters. He is worried and frustrated with a thousand different things pulling at him regarding this issue, and his sense of impotence in resolving it has taken its toll. I think his head has not so much as touched a pillow in no less than eight days as he has searched ceaselessly for the proper candidate.”

Realizing the gravity of the situation she had just entered, Laera’s expression turned serious as she sullenly swiped at the tears marking her other cheek.

“Candidate for what? Am I the candidate?”

“No,” the headmistress shook her head sadly. “You were a candidate. Now Yeolarn Bronzeleaf has selected you to be the champion of this dispensation. You are now Tunare’s advocate in the Pact of Zeranon.”

“Well, what-… what are you saying?” Laera shook her head confusedly. “He obviously felt I was totally unqualified for… whatever it is he’s looking to do. He made it clear I wasn’t his first choice to handle a stray cat much less this… this…” Laera waved her flustered hands about, searching for words.

“Child, you must trust me.” The headmistress’s soothing hands placated Laera’s frantic gestures. “I am telling you right now that he would never have selected you and entrusted you with this responsibility if he thought for one moment that you were not the very best chance of answering Tunare’s call.”

Laera glanced warily at Headmistress Netheel’s solemn gaze, unsure.

“He may have put on a display of discontent at what he was doing—placing so much responsibility on the shoulders of a young wood elf druid ‘just barely out of her diapers.’” The headmistress’s mimicking of the high priest’s gruff voice was so flawless, Laera couldn’t help but grin just a bit. “But he sees, just as I do, that you are the one to take on this task.

“And yes, this is truly a task of Tunare, child.” The headmistress’s eyes grew unfocused. “Perhaps the most important task She has sent us in centuries.”

A chill ran up Laera’s spine at hearing those words. A part of her still couldn’t grasp the idea that this was happening to her. She half-expected to wake in her bed, once again the victim of one of Jerrin’s childish pranks. Still unaware of what the true matter was, she nevertheless grappled with the fact that it was now upon her. And whatever it was, she had to face it—a lesson she learned soundly as an acolyte.

The headmistress stood and returned to her usual manner, her tone officious once again.

“The high priest has declared you a full druid of Tunare,” she said. “But your studies have not ended. If anything, they have just begun. We have only a brief time in which to prepare before you leave on your journey. We leave for Kelethin in the morning. I shall give you one day to resettle once we arrive. Upon daybreak the morning after, I will see you in my sanctuary fully dressed and ready to attend my personal instruction. We have much work to do together in the days to come, child. Are you ready to serve Tunare’s will?”

Dropping her feet to the floor one at a time, Laera pushed against the pillar base to stand before her new instructor.

“I am, mistress,” she said in a clear tone.

“Excellent. I look forward to working with you, Druid Nellynwae.” Headmistress Netheel let loose a private grin for Laera’s benefit.

Laera nodded, not certain what to do now.

“You may go, child,” the headmistress spoke in a wry undertone. “You are no longer an acolyte with any need for dismissal from me.”

Smiling to herself, Laera nodded sheepishly and padded barefoot to the entrance.

“And Laera,” the headmistress’s voice rang from across the chapel.

Jarred at hearing—for the first time ever—this woman speak her first name, Laera turned around.

“Well done, and congratulations,” Headmistress Netheel said with a broad smile.

Slowly returning the smile, Laera nodded her thanks and stepped out the open doorway into the rapidly darkening city outside.

Chapter 3 - Farewells