Journey to Ak’Anon – Ocean of Tears – Day 3

Weeks ago, I said I knew in my heart that I would see Faydark Forest again some day. That time is nearly here, and now it seems like I wrote that journal entry ages ago. Qeynos is only a bitter memory to me, and now I sit on a ship in the Ocean of Tears on my way home.

That’s right—home. Or, as near to home as I can hope to come. Dreketh would never be allowed inside Kelethin.

Still, I can’t wait to see Greater Faydark again! We should be docking at the seaport in Butcherblock come daybreak, and if we travel swiftly through the mountains, we may reach my home in time to camp the night there! For the first time in weeks, I’m intensely excited—even if it’s as trite as catching a glimpse of my home again. The soft candlelight shining through the windows high up in the trees is something I’d give my right arm to see right now. If only for a moment I can forget all about covetous gods, dark elves, necromancers and dark prophecies. It would mean so much if I could forget my part in all this and go back to dreaming the naïve dreams of an acolyte.

Dreketh’s health improves daily. I don’t think the boat ride is doing much for her endurance, but she says it’s a necessary evil.

Necessary evil… Sweet Tunare, what those words entail now. Dreketh still refuses to talk about her nightmares and what her people did to her in Neriak. That used to really bother me, but now from what little I can make out from her ramblings at night, I don’t think I want to know. On top of the excruciating pain, I gather that she was also made an object of loathing and ridicule by people who were her peers at one time. I can’t speak for Dreketh, mind you, but I get the feeling that hurt her as much, if not more, than the physical pain she endured.

I suppose such experiences have a way of changing people, for Dreketh is truly a changed person. Where once I constantly ran up against nothing but derision and condescension, I’ve found need and forbearance. It has been an awkward transition, and I’m still not entirely sure how to deal with it. At least when she insulted me in the past, I knew how to react.

Sheesh, will you listen to me? Before, I could do nothing but write about Dreketh’s faults and how crazy it made me. I wished daily that Tunare had delivered a traveling companion who was different, and now that I have my wish, I suddenly feel out of my element.

Be that as it may, it does feel good to be needed—even if it is by a Teir’Dal. I wouldn’t wish Dreketh’s fate on my worst enemy, mind you, but I am thankful that she’s finally opening up.

Which brings me to the subject of her parents. To take her mind off the constant nausea, she told me all she knew about her parents and their deaths. At hearing the specifics of how her mother was discovered on the battlefield, I turned even sicker than Dreketh. What happened is an atrocity, plain and simple. I cannot believe another soul (several, by her account) could do something so horrid to a living being. Even now, I feel the urge to run to the ship’s railing as I write about it.

It does explain a lot about Dreketh, though. Her heritage aside, I can’t say that I wouldn’t have turned out to be a cynical, embittered person had that happened to my parents. Being Teir’Dal was already one strike against her when it comes to social graces (I do hope she doesn’t read this), but these events had to have sealed her fate.

Keeping that in mind, Dreketh showed me the scar on her arm where she vowed revenge on her parents’ murderers in some vague Teir’Dal blood oath. I didn’t feel like asking about the details. Of course, I had previously noted the scar when I was caring for her in the Commonlands. I was mildly curious about it before, but now I see that scar in a whole new light. You could say it’s taken on a light of its own, for I see that scar now every time I look at Dreketh. It is always clearly visible to me, even through bronze armor.

What it all amounts to is this…

When I made my last entry into this journal, I was certain of who I was and who Dreketh was, and how we did not belong together. I knew with a certainty that Tunare was challenging my faith, and I resented it with a bitterness that even rivaled my uncouth partner.

Now, after so much has happened, things have changed. A lot depends on what we discover about the Pact of Zeranon, but I’m starting to believe that it is time to turn the tables a little. If Tunare wishes to challenge my faith, She’s welcome to. In turn, I challenge Her involvement in the Pact. I dearly hope Her intentions are benign. At one point this would never be in question for me, but now, after all I have seen and heard…I do question. I hate myself for it, but I do.

Nevertheless, I remain Her devout servant. I will do what She asks of me—misgivings and all. I only wish She would be more upfront about what it is She wants. Time will tell. It had better, because so far nobody else has.

- Laera Nellynwae, Druid of Tunare

The brittle, dry leaves crunched beneath the druid’s booted feet. Looking down with a grin, Laera stomped her way along the path in the same way she used to as a child growing up in this region. Once again, small Laera Nellynwae walked among the trees of the Greater Faydark. Of course, during the course of her journeys, she had seen a number of forests with a myriad of similar trees, but this was different—these were her trees. The mists were her mists.

Dreketh stared at her with a sidelong glance, her expression incisive, but not disparaging. She had never before seen the druid this way. Normally Laera took on a somber manner that was more depressing than anything. Yet here she was, ecstatic and full of energy. Playful.

“Give it years, and I still don’t think I’ll ever understand you, wood elf,” the shadow knight said, shaking her head.

Laera chuckled openly and spread her arms wide, similar to the way she had done in the rain shower back in Qeynos Hills. The druid reveled, obviously not caring what her companion—or anyone on Norrath, for that matter—thought of it one way or the other. She was home, and that was all that mattered.

Dreketh suppressed a twinge of envy for her companion and the joy she witnessed. The sheer contrast between her own homecoming and the druid’s dug into her like a dagger when she realized that all Laera had to do was walk several yards in one direction and she would be met by friends and family happy to see her. Where Laera would be welcomed with open arms, Dreketh was welcomed at the end of a blade. Where Laera would lie in a safe, comfortable bed, Dreketh had lain stripped and bound in cold iron chains on a stone slab.

The shadow knight shook her head, dismissing the memory with a sneer. What was done is done. She deserved it and nothing less. Time to move on. Leave the past alone. Time to move on.

Some day, perhaps she would be able to.

In the meantime, she did her best to weather the wood elf’s incessant buoyancy. Since stepping foot into the misty forest of the Faydark the night before, Laera’s smile hadn’t waned an inch. The druid actually giggled aloud at one point, and Dreketh simply had to leave for several minutes before she gave in to her violent urges to throttle her companion.

Annoying as it was, the dark elf had to admit that Laera’s revelry had infectious qualities. A part of her wished she could join in and experience such joy. She wondered what it would be like to cut loose her strict control and discipline to indulge in a moment of unfettered delight. But it was not to be. She was a disciple of Innoruuk. Such things as joy and delight were contrary to the principle of hate, and were therefore corrupt. Besides, her people had no reason for revelry—only their purpose.

Dreketh stole another sidelong glance at the druid next to her, insisting to herself that she had no regrets. She had to remind herself that she was standing in the very heart of enemy territory. Not only was the wood elf city nearby, but the reviled high elves made their home in the Faydark as well. Felwithe was an even greater threat, for its people were of a more serious breed than their wood elf cousins.

Forgetting any potentially blasphemous thoughts she might have had moments before, the shadow knight kept a wary eye out for any travelers that could be about. One guard on patrol is all it would take, and she would become yet another historical statistic for her people to take vengeance on. Exile or no, she would rather that not come to pass.

The morning progressed without incident. Laera would occasionally make contact with the occasional passersby, while Dreketh took cover amongst the trees and brush. Always eager to catch up on current events, she always returned with a bemused expression as if something wasn’t quite right.

“I can’t put my finger on it,” she said one time. “Everyone seems stilted, like they’re putting on some brave front or something.”

“And that’s unusual?” Dreketh asked distractedly, only half-interested.

“Well, not for high elves, I suppose,” the druid admitted with a small shrug. She thumbed over her shoulder as she spoke. “But those were wood elves back there. It’s very uncharacteristic for my own people. We normally don’t have a care in the world, unless…” her voice trailed off.

“Unless what?” The shadow knight continued her scan of the trees.

“Nevermind,” Laera said, shaking her head slightly. It was obvious to the druid that Dreketh wasn’t the slightest bit interested in wood elf politics. Best to move on to another subject. “So, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

Laera spread her arms wide, gesturing to the trees all about.

“What do you think about the Faydark?”

“If you must know, it makes me nervous,” Dreketh replied caustically. “There’s no telling who’s out there watching us, ready to turn my head into their latest trophy on the mantle.”

“Now that’s disgusting,” Laera said with a revolting look. “You may be used to such things in Neriak, but my-”

“You know what I mean,” Dreketh interrupted peevishly. “I’m not welcome here any more than you are in Nektulos. And thanks to your people’s self-stylized sense of morality, I can’t masquerade as your slave if we’re caught.”

Laera opened her mouth as if to say something, but checked herself at the last moment, looking into the trees with a hunted look.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Dreketh continued, ignoring the wood elf’s question. “Our only hope would be for you to say I’m your prisoner. Though what sort of reason you could give for not having killed me already is-”

“Shh!” Laera grabbed hold of the shadow knight’s shoulder, pulling her to a stop urgently. “Listen close.”

Dreketh cocked her head, trying to listen over the usual sounds emanating from the depths of the forest.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“It sounds like metal hitting metal. Very faint,” Laera insisted.

“That?” Dreketh rolled her eyes. “I’ve been listening to that for ten minutes now. It sounds like a fight. It’s a common sound in Nektulos. Don’t you people have hunting grounds?”

“There’s no way that’s a normal fight,” the druid said darkly. “We’re too far from Clan Crushbone for it to be orcs.”

Dreketh listened to the sounds with more attention.

“It’s consistent… almost rhythmic,” she said thoughtfully. “How close are we to the gnomes? Could it be something they’re doing?”

“We’re just entering Lesser Faydark,” Laera replied, skeptical but hesitant. “It’s not impossible, but my gut says it’s something different. I’ve never heard a sound quite like it in all my years growing up here.”

The two stood alone, silently listening to the recurring sounds of metal echoing among the trees.

“It sounds like it’s coming from this direction,” Dreketh said, pointing off to the right. “Are there any hills or mountains around to get a better look?”

“There’s a ridge up ahead that divides the forest,” Laera replied. “That’s where Greater Faydark ends and Lesser Faydark begins.”

The shadow knight turned a concerned eye toward the unnerved druid standing next to her.

“You want to have a look?” she asked pointedly.

“Could we?”

“Okay,” Dreketh said, nodding. “Anything to get off this path.”

As the two companions made their way toward the ridge, they recognized the metallic sounds growing louder with each passing minute. A silent glance between them confirmed this fact to the other, and they pressed on without a word. Soon, they found themselves laboring up the side of the ridge Laera spoke of, the sounds becoming ever louder the closer they approached Lesser Faydark beyond. The louder the sounds grew, the darker the shadow knight’s expression became.

“Are you all right?” Laera asked cautiously, noting the sudden change in the dark elf’s manner.

“I know this sound,” Dreketh replied evenly. The ridge’s crest loomed several feet away, the metallic sounds ringing more clearly as they climbed.

“Blades,” the wood elf said, nodding as she climbed the rocky terrain. “Something’s going on in Lesser Faydark. Nothing ever happens there—not this close to the ridge.”

“I know what it is,” Dreketh muttered. With a scowl, the dark elf redoubled her efforts to reach the top, leaving Laera to scurry behind to catch up.

“Well, by all means don’t go telling anybody!” the druid said sarcastically as she reached out to pull herself over the top. “Like the Erudite says, ignorance is essential to-” Laera’s words stopped short as she looked out into the forested hills of Lesser Faydark. “Tunare’s mercy…” she whispered breathlessly.

“Not quite the term I’d use,” Dreketh muttered as she peered calmly to the ground below.

Before them, nestled among the sparse trees, stood an army teeming with numbers well into the tens of thousands. High elves, wood elves, and a highly respectable number of humans could be seen in orderly ranks as they went through battle drills with one another—hence the ringing metal sounds bleeding into Greater Faydark.

But sparring and battle maneuvers alone were not the sole cause of the ruckus that disrupted the forest. Off to the side, a number of glowing forges had been constructed. Men wearing the trappings of Freeport citizens labored away the noontime hours to create weapons and armor with which to outfit this army. Cooks labored over boiling pots and sizzling grills to feed them. Messengers raced between ironclad soldiers, delivering reports. The camp was alive with bustling activity of every manner.

Closer to the ridge, lined up along its base stood rows of straw dummies where archers practiced their prowess with the bow. Upon closer inspection, Laera could see that the straw had been dyed blue, granting them a significant racial overtone.

The wood elf glanced slowly over at her scowling partner.

“Those… could be orcs from Crushbone,” she suggested hesitantly. “They have bluish skin, you know. Kelethin has been struggling with them right at our doorstep for years. Maybe we’re going to do something about it once and for-”

“Open your eyes, wood elf!” Dreketh exploded. The thrust an angry finger toward the teeming army in the distance. “Look down there! There are easily twelve thousand elves and humans! They wouldn’t even all fit in Crushbone if half of them rode on the shoulders of the other half!”

Laera couldn’t look at the dark elf. Instead, she turned to look down at the army, her eyes straying to the straw dummies close by, their blue “bodies” riddled with literally thousands of arrows lodged into them grotesquely. Had they been actual flesh and blood, the carnage would not have been dissimilar to the gore Dreketh described in her mother’s death.

“No,” Dreketh concluded grimly. “Soon this army marches on Neriak.”

There was no denying it—the army of light was no coffee and cake run. The force of tens of thousands strong was to be wielded by Tunare’s Divine Hand and cast straight into the heart of the Teir’Dal, sending the elf nations into one of the largest wars in recent history. Largest due to sheer numbers, granted, but also due to whatever connection it might have held with the Pact of Zeranon. The massing of this force alongside the principle gods’ declaration of the Pact was something neither of the young women could accept as being mere coincidence.

But what was the connection? Was the war to be waged for possession of the Chalice? It seemed the obvious answer. But how could that be if its whereabouts were unknown? If possession was the goal, it would likely be more of a race to get there first once the location was discovered. But swiftness is not something you achieve with this many people—especially overseas. No, the Chalice might have been a part of it, certainly, but not directly.

And what of the Teir’Dal forces? Was a similar army being formed near Neriak?

“If so, it will be massing in Lavastorm,” Dreketh explained on their way through Lesser Faydark.

At first, the dark elf objected to entering an enemy training ground where she was certain to be caught and executed as a spy. But after repeated assurances that Laera knew a shortcut that led straight to Ak’Anon, the shadow knight agreed to give it a try.

“Then why didn’t you hear word of it when you were in Neriak?” the wood elf pressed.

“Excuse me deeply, but I was a tad distracted at the time!” Dreketh replied harshly.

“I’m just saying an army to match this size isn’t something you can keep secret for very long,” Laera said, placating her hot-tempered companion.

“No, it isn’t,” the shadow knight replied, calming down. “For some reason everyone knows about it, but nobody’s talking—not openly, anyway. When that happens, it usually means something suspicious is happening behind the scenes that keeps everyone speculating about what’s really going on.”

“Whatever it is, we need answers first,” Laera said, picking up her pace to match Dreketh’s long strides. “If that army really is connected to the Pact, I’d rather not be caught in the middle if we can help it.”

“We may not have a choice,” the dark elf responded with her usual cynicism. “But you’re right, we need answers. It’s about time we got them.”

The shadow knight cursed under her breath for the twelfth time that evening as she watched the sun dipping low through the western sky. She didn’t like this one bit. The Pact said the two of them were to stay together, never to wander far from each other for any real length of time. Already the wood elf had been inside the city of Ak’Anon for three hours without any sign she was coming out. The closely guarded entrance to the underground gnome city proved to be a hindrance, however, making their separation unavoidable.

Yet again, the shadow knight’s lineage had proven to be an annoying hindrance to their quest. It suddenly occurred to Dreketh how there was really no port of call on this continent for dark elves. The dwarven home of Kaladim lay to the west coast and Ak’Anon lay to the southeast, with Kelethin and Felwithe in between. None of the peoples on this continent were exactly sympathetic to the Teir’Dal cause. Quite the contrary, it was difficult to remain sympathetic when you’re being held with a blade to your throat. This being the case, no place existed where a dark elf could seek refuge.

Well, no civilized place…

Dreketh cursed the wood elf, she cursed gnomes and their impregnable underground city, she cursed the Pact, and she cursed everything else she could think of as she waited impatiently for her companion to return.

The novelty of the Steamfont Mountains had long worn thin on the dark elf. At first, the unique mountain range had earned Dreketh’s grudging respect. From the very rock, huge clouds of steam emerged in geysers and boiling ponds—hence the name of the region. It was said that below the ground existed a complex network of rivers heated by Solusek Ro, god of fire. Or it was Norrath’s naturally heated core, depending on who you talked to at the time. Additionally, intense heat from the incessant eruptions from below had the effect of causing the air to rise, resulting in a perpetual humid wind throughout the mountains and hills.

Nowhere on Norrath was there such an abundance of natural energies to be found, making it an ideal home for the inventive gnome race. That very ingenuity was the defining characteristic of the gnomes, and the source of their pride. Harnessing this abundance of energy in a variety of ways, ranging from windmills to underwater turbines below ground, the clever gnomes had evolved a technology that was nothing short of miraculous compared to other races. They had mastered the principals of mechanical energies to the point of creating synthetic automatons to handle the more mundane aspects of life. These clockwork machines built to resemble their gnome masters could handle even seemingly complex tasks—manual labor, defense, law enforcement, even trade skills and bartering.

But tinkering with the cog and spring alone did not achieve this miracle. The gnomes delved into a unique arcane practice they called “Mechanimagica” that was a mysterious blend of magic and technology. Though few members of the other races fully understood how this was accomplished, the results were difficult to refute—though they were often less than perfect in their implementation.

Movement near the city entrance interrupted the shadow knight’s thoughts. Dreketh immediately recognized Laera’s tan skin and auburn hair in the distance as the wood elf cast about in search of her companion.

Glancing over her shoulder to be certain there were no unfriendlies nearby, Dreketh let loose a small whistle. Turning, Laera could see the dark elf signaling to her from behind a collection of boulders off to one side. With her accustomed agility, the druid broke into a run toward the hiding place.

“Let me guess,” Dreketh said once the wood elf arrived. “You couldn’t find their toiletries.”

“Huh?” Laera replied, trying to catch her breath from the run.

“Nevermind,” the dark elf replied dismissively. “Did you find anything?”

“Yeah, filthy water!” Laera looked disgusted. “It’s repulsive, the pollution they have down there.”

Dreketh was again on the verge of throttling the wood elf.

“Did you find anything by Widdlethorp!”

“Uhm…no,” Laera responded hesitantly. “There were several references to Widdlethorps who had written numerous books through the centuries, but none from Zeranon’s era, nor were they manuscripts that had anything to do with the Pact.”

Dreketh slumped, her back against one large boulder that stood between her and the rest of Steamfont. She couldn’t believe they had come all this way just to run into a dead end. Raising her hand, she tiredly rubbed her forehead.

“But, I did find out something that’s going to throw you clear to Erudin and back,” the wood elf continued with a gleam in her eye.

Letting her hand fall, Dreketh opened her eyes to stare blandly at her companion, her mouth closed in a small frown.

“The Widdlethorp we’re looking for—Dathan—actually lived during the time of Zeranon,” Laera said with a small grin. “If that wasn’t enough, are you ready for this…?”

The shadow knight stared grimly at Laera, the wood elf’s dramatics remaining unappreciated.

“He is still alive.”

Dreketh blinked slowly in obvious skepticism.

“A two thousand year old gnome?”

“I know,” Laera replied with a shrug. “The gnomes of the Eldritch Collective can’t explain it either, but it’s true. Apparently he’s some unsung legend to the locals out here in Steamfont. Oh, and Widdlethorp isn’t a writer—he’s a wizard. It seems his entry in the Almanac was a fluke of some sort. Either that, or the librarian suggested that it might be some vague excerpt from a magical tome he wrote that’s lost or forbidden outside certain circles. The way Erudites stockpile knowledge, it wouldn’t be the first time something like that was stolen from gnome archives.”

The shadow knight put her head in her hands, trying to absorb this information and what it all meant. On the surface, being able to talk to someone who actually lived during the era Zeranon had marched against the gods was a dream come true. Unlike the rest of the world, he obviously knew something of events that took place throughout the planes at the time.

Then why did she suddenly feel so uneasy? Perhaps it was the idea of talking to someone who was purportedly two thousand years old, but she didn’t think so. Perhaps now, after so many days of travel with no measurable progress being made, Dreketh now felt the pressure of having things come to a head.

Whatever it was, the shadow knight didn’t appreciate the feeling. She tried her best to suppress the sensation of anxiety that pervaded her chest and arms. She stubbornly ignored the bordering nausea she could detect in the pit of her stomach, and put on a stalwart front.

Pushing herself away from the boulder against which she leaned, Dreketh turned to address her companion.

“Do you know where this Dathan Widdlethorp lives?” she asked.

Laera smiled and nodded.

Chapter 19 - The Wizard