Nashkel Mine

"Arranis! I love that guy!" Aiwë had been around for a few of his visits. Her parents always scolded her for harassing him with her intentionally-orcish-accented elvish, though she knew her mother did the same. Still, he is a living relic, and Aiwë had been eager to learn what she could drag out of him. "You know he taught me a poem?" Finally, when she presented perfect elvish and completely innocently recounted a few stories of Ilmadia searching for knowledge of her heritage from forbidden places within his earshot.

"Want me to sing it for you?" She catches sight of Sheemish separating himself from the group. "Oh, maybe I should sing for Sheemish. You got this, Sister-Girl!" She jogs off.

"Hey Sheemish! Are you—" She stops next to him just as he finds the elf. "Oh... Oh no."

She looks at Sheemish and crouches next to the elf. "Aiya," she greets softly, removing his gag. "Can you speak?"

Dieter examines the pile of bags and supplies " finally get to sleep I’m so glad we don’t have to deal with any further complications in this mine" a trait of a young but seasoned soldier is the ability to sleep anywhere under any circumstance in any condition and Dieter was ready and willing to demonstrate.

Stella stops her chanting and gestures, the spell incomplete, then painfully stands and hurries over as best she can.

Stella gasps at the sight of the elf, then opens her healer's kit, taking out what seems to be the last of her herbs and bandages. Ignoring her pains, she gets to work.

Sheemish's strong and clever fingers quickly open the manacles, causing the elf to slump forward onto the blacksmith. With a hand from Aiwe, they soon have him laid out on a blanket, and then Stella begins her healing work.

The elf's pale face makes his bruises look even darker, but it's the deep cuts on arms and legs that draw her attention. She's recently cleaned up similar wounds on Dieter and the others, and recognizes the marks of kobold weapons. The bloody knot on the back of his head, though, must have been delivered by Mulahey, or someone of equal strength.

"...hollow life..." the elf murmurs, eyelids flickering. "A hollow...life..."

After Stella finishes her healing work, the elf sighs and opens his eyes, his gray-green eyes focused on Stella's. "In the dark of the night, I dream of morning, of sunshine on my face. Yet now dawn's light heralds warming, I miss the stars' embrace."

He looks about to pass out again, but then his eyes open wide and he sits halfway up. "The dark priest? Where is he?"

All need for sleep leaves Dieter as he rushes off to investigate the cries for help. While seeking to help Dieter is suspicious of the elf. "What’s your name and why are you here?"

Aiwë repeats his words under her breath, fascinated.

"Relax, Diets." She waves in his direction, not taking her eyes off the elf. "Mulahey? He's dead. But over there, specifically." She gestures to where he lies under his blanket.

The elf groans and leans back onto the blanket. "Thank Corellon, my time of doom has passed... for now."

His eyes drift to Dieter. "I could ask the same of you, but as I am no longer bound and my wounds are cared for, I would suppose you benevolent wherever you might be from. I am called Xan Blacksheaf. I was looking into suspicions in the region when I was ambushed by Mulahey and his kobold lackies."

Xan's gaze searches the room. "I don't suppose in your explorations of this dark place that you've discovered an elvish sword? A moonblade, to be exact... If you have, I ask that you return it to me. You'll quickly find it will have no other bearer anyway, and so will serve you little."

Aiwë jumps up, gasping loudly. "I'm Aiwë Blacksheaf! My father is Erevain Blacksheaf! You and I are cousins!!" Her tuskish grin is a mile wide. "By the Seldarine! I had hoped to meet you since travelling south, but didn't expect to encounter you like this!"

um okay Dieter thought at the elf’s rebuttal. But Dieter knew that people with too much confidence either A) knew exactly what they’re talking about and that he was too novice to comprehend their skill and understanding or B) their death was going to be quick and easy. Option B is only the case if you did not act as though it was true as playing with your food always kills you. "I am Dieter son of Tulfgar son of Tulfgyr."

"We haven't found such a sword, no," Stella says, making sure his bandages are all in place, and checking for signs of disease. Her eyes widen and she looks to Aiwë at the sound of Blacksheaf.

After their exchanges, she asks, "How long have you been down here, and how and why were you captured?"

It takes Xan a long moment of rubbing the back of his head before he seems to understand Aiwë's words. He sits up fully and peers at her, taking in her eyes, her ears, her jawline. Her teeth. And then he groans so hard the companions would be forgiven for thinking him still in great pain. "Oh Erevain, you've sent your girl to die here in these forsaken lands?"

His hand, nearly so pale as to appear blue, passes over his eyes and he releases a heavy sigh. "Woe that these days should be mine, to guard over and fail my own cousin's daughter! And my moonblade, lost!" He locks sorrowful eyes with Aiwë. "When your last breath rattles with death's chill, then will my cousin know his folly to trust in one such as I..."

Xan turns to Dieter. "And you, doomed sapling... It grieves me to see the fresh green of life hewn down before it has a chance to bud." He squints. "You're not my cousin, too, are you? Ah! Then you have truly been blessed this day, for my ancestral line is cursed to care too much and fail always. Flee while you can, young Dieter!"

And then to Stella. "A rose by any other name yet dies in trembling silence when cut and removed from its home. Return, I pray, to whatever star-blessed land raised such a beauteous woman, before the fate of those embarked on this vain quest also claims your life."

He sinks back, eyes focused on nothing. "Alas, my moonblade, may you find a bearer more worthy than I! One deserving of your great magical power. For without the strength to search about for you in this cave, I must lay here and relinquish my life to whatever awaits beyond the mortal veil... Farewell!"

The strange elf closes his eyes and begins snoring lightly.

"Wow!" Aiwë laughs. "My dad said Xan was a lot. He wasn't kidding!" She seems delighted. "Better let him sleep and get some rest ourselves. First I'm going to look for that sword though. I think moon blades are sentient, I wonder if it misses him as much as Xan misses it."

Aiwë pulls out her bedroll and lifts Xan into it, then goes off to search for the blade.

"He’s in shock. Wrap him in a blanket and put him in the corner. With luck his mind isn’t broken " Dieter leans down to him I understand you’ve been through a lot but if you can hear me I am bound to these people and sworn to their protection not to you. Compromise their confidence like that again and I’ll leave you here elf."

"Relax, Diets," Aiwë laughs, pushing Mulahey's desk out of its spot. "He's just dramatic. If a depressed guy's ramblings are enough to shake your guys' confidence then he isn't the problem. Also, this guy is the first elven relation I've met. Torm, he might even be the only one I have." Straightening, she points at Dieter.

"Don't blow this for me."

"Guys! Check out all this stuff! Oh, wow!" Aiwë reverently picks up the moonblade. From what her father told her, it was almost as much a part of her family as he or Xan.

"Hello?" Aiwë tries to reach out to the sword emotionally. She quietly hums the song Arranis 'taught' her as she waits for a response, carefully polishing any dust, dirt, or blood from its length. Had Erevain been like this, when he was in his sword?

"What do you mean relax this isn’t funny he could die? And he’s bumming everyone out! It’s a good thing we have Stella here or we would be checking his boot size right now."

Shelur tosses Dieter a sharp glance. "You're not leaving my cousin here, Dieter." She returns to the moonblade and ignores him.

Aiwë's careful efforts to communicate with the moonblade are met by an immediate force of will, a patience beyond what any living creature might claim, lashing out to ensnare her mind and make her its slave... But just before the domination takes hold, the sword's consciousness hesitates. Aiwë isn't the one it was expecting. A resonating ping sounds throughout her mind and body as the moonblade examines her, searching her thoughts, her soul, her blood.

There are no actual words in the weapon's actions, only raw intent. Aiwë can't help but feel that if the sword were an actual person, it would be more strict than any of Candlekeep's guardians. Strict... or perhaps opinionated.

It quickly discovers her elven lineage, and Aiwë feels a sense of approval reflecting back to her as it traces her family line to its current bearer. But then... mild discontent, followed by a sweeping rage. Blue flames race across the blade and into the pommel, flickering across Aiwë's hands and burning them harshly (Aiwe takes 10 dmg, a mix of fire and radiant).

Apparently the moonblade doesn't like that its chosen family line, its noble elvish household, has bred with orcs.