Aiwë

Erevain Blacksheaf might seem an odd sight in Orc Town. The elf is far more slender than the inhabitants of the place, with long golden hair that trails in the bitter wind. Shining mail can be seen under his cloak, where the orcs around him are mostly dressed in traditional hides or simple tunics. Yet he moves through the streets with a familiarity and comfort that can’t be feigned. Even harder to simulate would be the warm, tusked smiles and friendly waves sent his way. No, this elf belongs here more than he has belonged anywhere.

But then again, this is no simple orc camp.

With a cloth-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm, Erevain makes his way to a two-story home. It’s hardly the tallest building in Orc Town; the Temple of Torm sports three stories. But its sturdy walls house the happiest family in the North. Though it will seem much emptier after today…

He enters and hangs his cloak, then sets his bundle down on a long dining table. "Aiwë! The caravan to Easthaven departs in half an hour. Are you prepared?"

A rhythmic banging descends the stairs, heralding Aiwë's arrival before she slides into the room. She dumps her pack beside Erevain, places a second smaller pack beside it with much more care, then tops it with her drum.

"Harroun gronar!" she announces, thin braids swinging as she grins up at her father. 'Ready for death.'

Erevain smiles at the sight of his exuberant daughter, but it quickly turns to a wince. "Preferably not death. You've too many more songs to sing before that!"

He nods to the parcel on the table. "Your mother and I got you something."

Aiwë gives an expression of mock amusement. Erevain knows it's just a figure of speech.

She turns to the parcel with eager brown eyes. "What is it? she asks, even as she unwraps the item.

"We just thought you might appreciate having these on your journey."

The parcel has some weight to it. Within the wrapped cloth Aiwë finds a leather case with both her names printed on it. In the case are four finely-crafted wooden mallets. Two have carvings of twisting leaves and Elvish runes all along their length. The others are very similar, but the images are of snow-capped mountains and Orcish letters.

Erevain smiles. "They're quite versatile. You can use them with your drums, obviously. But also on skulls, should the need arise. And they're weighted well for throwing, either as part of a juggling act or to smash someone in the face."

Aiwë gasps as she uncovers the gift. She runs brown fingers over the engravings, taking in the feel of the wood. She lifts one leafed and one mountained stick and beats out a rhythm on the table as a test.

"These are great, Ada!" she declares, throwing her arms around Erevain's neck. "Thank you! When I get back I'll use them to play a chant detailing their face-smashing."

"I look forward to hearing it!" The elf returns the hug with fondness. "Mighty Torm, you're nearly as strong as your mother! I don't envy the fools who get their faces smashed by you. Although, I hope you encounter few opportunities to smash faces on your trip."

He moves to a nearby desk and picks up a map of the Sword Coast. "Baldur's Gate... I spent a good deal of time in the Western Heartlands as a Greycloak. It's quite a beautiful part of Faerun, with rolling hills, rivers, forests, the coast... and the Cloud Peaks, here, though they are not so grand as the mountains we have here in the Spine."

Erevain sighs. "Part of me wishes I could accompany you and see Xan again, but especially with Keggruk going your mother needs my help here." He looks up from the map. "But perhaps we should get you to that caravan. Your mother won't want to spare an orc patrol to escort you, should you miss it, and the roads are too dangerous for any one person to walk them alone."

Aiwë kisses her father on the cheek. "We've got time. There will be other trips. Sometime all of us will take one together."

After a short moment to reconfigure her gear to accommodate her gift and buckle her sword belt, Aiwë is ready to leave. She and Erevain make their way to where the caravan waits to depart.

Alalla is waiting with them, looking a figure of legend in her full plate armour, crisp white cloak blowing in the Dale's wind, and golden glaive in hand. Aiwë pulls a notebook out of her pocket to scribble down a line for a ballad, but is interruted as Alalla turns and calls out to her.

Smiling, Aiwë fingered one of the beads at the end of her braids, a parting gift from her grandfather.

"Alright then. Love you!" She kisses Alalla's cheek. "Love you!" She kisses Erevain's cheek. Then with a whopping war cry, she barrels off to join her friends in the caravan.