The Ever Vigil

[Elder Doom]

1- The Long Road

It had been a while.

A long travel...first by ship, then joining a caravan for protection (theirs, obviously...), and finally this unlikely inn in the middle of nowhere, "The Giggling Goat". Some local names really sounded stupid...He was sure most travelers this side of Daggerford considered it a blessing: a soft bed and a roof over their heads, the protection of solid walls after days of traveling outside. None of that mattered to him, of course. He had not stopped for a bed or a hot meal. He had stopped because three merchant wagons had vanished along this stretch of road, and every clue pointed towards this place.

The food and drinks were served warm, with a decent presentation on a clean table, and the smell was inviting enough. Very smart of them. He noticed the knife was hardly sharp enough to smear some butter on bread. He wasn't surprised. Scanning the room, he pretended to get ready to eat and drink any moment, while biding his time. The dining room held two more guests: a gruff, bearded human that looked like a lumberjack sitting no farther than three meters from him, and a plain-looking woman dressed in gray, sitting in a far corner, her plate half empty already. He lowered the mug from his lips without drinking a drop for the second time, before it finally happened.

Pale skin, raven hair and dark leathers, the tall human casually approached him, his tone overly friendly:

"And who do we have here...?! My, my...well dressed, even better armed..." he whistled in approval, eyes on his sword "You are not from around here, are you?"

Vaelen smiled at him, slowly getting up, while deliberately turning his back to the newcomer, sluggishly heading to the fireplace, his step wobbly.

"Not in the mood to talk, knife-ears, eh? You are all the same...with your arrogance, your fancy runes and your gold, you think y-"

"Can we skip this part? I am kind of...in a hurry. I need to expedite my arrival to Baldur's Gate ." the interruption came in a hushed tone, as he reached for a fire poker and began stirring the dying embers with it. The voice used to be listened to, no matter its volume.

A nervous laugh escaped the bandit's throat "I'm sorry...wh-"

"The lumberjack, over there...? He didn't order his meal, nor touched it in about half a candlemark. One of his hands never raised above the table. I guess that's the one he was signing you with. He waited for my second sip of drugged ale, just to be sure, I reckon..." before the man could reply, he continued "Her, in the corner...? She's about to pretend she's fainting after allegedly eating the meal served to her, isn't she? Plain-looking, plainly dressed...but you're not plain, are you...?" He did not need to look her way to know daggers were now bared, ready to strike.

Any semblance of cordiality left the bandit's tone, as he coldly replied "Almost right.", nodding towards a fourth member of the gang coming out of the kitchen.
To his credit, the bandit leader reacted fast. In a sleight of hand, a small crossbow appeared and shot almost at the same time, the poisoned dart headed straight towards the centre of his back. The poker spun once through the air, knocking the dart aside before continuing its impossible path. By the time the leader understood what had happened, Vaelen was already moving, the room seeming to fill with iron arcs, like death in motion.

"No more preying on desperate people. No more travelers' corpses to dispose of."

In a heartbeat, the other two joined in their former leader's fate. As they drew their last, shallow breaths, gurgling in blood, he added softly:

"If you are wondering why I did not bother to use my sword to kill you...it's because the likes of you do not deserve to hear its song, even at death's door."

He let the poker fall to the ground, and in walking away, he asked:

"By the way: do you know where I could find a good horse, by any chance?"

Unsurprisingly, no answer came.

He paused. The smell from beneath the floorboards told him all he needed to know. How many futures had ended here? How many songs would never be sung, how many lives never given the chance to grow? Stealing the future was an unforgivable sin.

He waited for the dying to stop breathing before setting the place alight with a few words of power, and walked away.

[Elder Doom]

2- The Silver Wake

The mists clung to the forest's edge like half-remembered dreams, veiling the ancient trees in silver and shadow. Vaelen Oronar stood before them without haste, his sea-green cloak stirring in the evening breeze that carried the scent of pine, rain, and old magic. Before him lay the Misty Forest, a place where memory lingered in bark and stone, where songs older than kingdoms still whispered beneath the leaves.

Far, far behind him was Evermeet, the Eternal Isle, whose alabaster towers gleamed beneath stars that seemed brighter than those of Faerûn. Before him stretched the path that Corellon had shown him, not through command, but through visions woven of moonlight and music. For many nights the Protector and Preserver of the Seldarine had spoken in symbols rather than words: a silver stream flowing uphill, a stag crowned in sapphire flame, and a forgotten glade where three stars descended to earth. Each dream ended here, at the threshold between certainty and mystery.

Vaelen closed his eyes for a single breath.

"Walk where beauty endures despite sorrow."

The voice was scarcely more than the memory of a melody, yet it settled within his soul with the quiet certainty only the First of the Elves could bestow. He did not question it. Faith, to the People, was not blind obedience, but the recognition of harmony long before mortal understanding could catch its tune.

His hand found the hilt of his sword.

The blade answered as though awakening from reverie. A pale azure radiance blossomed along its flawless length, soft as moonlight upon still water, yet bright enough to send the gathering darkness retreating from its edge. Sacred positive energy coursed through the steel, not with the violence of fire, but with the serene certainty of dawn dispelling night. It was not a weapon wrought with the exquisite elegance expected from a master of the Bladesong, a champion of Corellon himself. Its beauty was different, alien to Elven eyes, yet no less striking.

The light climbed from the hilt to Vaelen's arm, where silver-blue tattoos shimmered beneath his fair skin.

Ael.

The first sigil awakened, its glow like the first star to pierce the twilight.

Ulaeth.

The second answered, winding silver fire around his forearm in delicate, flowing patterns.

Keryth.

The final rune flared into brilliance, and together they pulsed in quiet rhythm with the song within his heart.

Vaelen inhaled, and the Silver Wake Bladesong began.

His first step was almost imperceptible, yet the forest itself seemed to acknowledge it. His body settled into the noble strength of the Lion, each sweeping cut commanding the space before him with effortless authority. Every stroke flowed into the next without interruption, measured as the tides that washed Evermeet's shores. The luminous blade left shimmering wakes of silver and sapphire that lingered in the air like reflections upon water.

The rhythm shifted.

The Panther emerged.

His movements became fluid beyond mortal perception, silent as moonlight slipping through leaves. Grace replaced power without sacrificing either. Each turn carried him beyond where an enemy expected him to be, while spectral echoes of his sword followed an instant behind, ghostly afterimages that blurred the boundary between substance and spirit. To any potential watcher, it would seem as though unseen blades danced beside him, weaving an ethereal tapestry that denied every avenue of approach.

This was not merely swordsmanship.

It was remembrance.

Every motion echoed a dance first performed beneath the boughs of Arvandor, every measured breath an offering to the Creator of Elves, every radiant arc a fleeting glimpse of beauty preserved against the encroaching darkness of the world.

When the final flourish settled into stillness, only the whisper of leaves remained.

The tattoos dimmed, though they did not fade entirely. The blue radiance upon the blade softened until it resembled the glow of distant starlight reflected upon calm water.

The forest exhaled.

Somewhere beyond the veil of mist, something ancient had felt the Bladesong awaken. Whether guardian or foe, Vaelen could not yet tell. Yet no fear touched his heart.

Corellon's song had led him across the Trackless Sea to this inscrutable place.

The reason would soon manifest.

[Elder Doom]

3- The Song Among The Peaks

The Greypeaks had always been a place of old wounds, he was told.

Ancient stone rose toward a sky of iron and ash, where the winds carried whispers of forgotten wars and the distant roars of creatures who believed themselves too powerful to ever be challenged. The Fire Giants had carved their halls deep into the mountainside, believing the world beneath their feet existed only to endure their footsteps.

They had forgotten something.

Stone remembers. And so do the People. Vaelen stood upon the blackened slope, pure white cloak stirring in the mountain wind, Mournblade resting loosely in his hand. Beside him stood Mendel of En Dharasha Everae, silent as the forest shadows from which he had emerged, the strange curved blades he carried reflecting the dying light.

The ranger said nothing. He rarely did. He did not need to.

Since they had first walked together beneath the boughs of the Misty Forest, Vaelen had come to understand that silence was not emptiness. In Mendel, silence was discipline. It was patience. It was the calm before the leaf fell, before the arrow flew, before the world realized it had already changed. The first time Vaelen had witnessed his friend's movements, he had searched for the proper words to describe them.

He had failed.

The Bladesong knew many languages. Apparently, the forest knew a few of its own.

Ahead, the mountain shook.

Fire Giants emerged from the pass like living pieces of the mountain itself, towering figures clad in iron and flame. Their armor was forged in the heat of ancient furnaces, their weapons large enough to crush lesser warriors with a single blow. Behind them came more, their numbers filling the narrow valley. A human army would have hesitated. An elven host would have measured the odds.

Vaelen merely smiled. "How many?" he asked quietly.

Mendel's gaze moved across the giants. "Enough."

A laugh escaped Vaelen before he could stop it. "An excellent answer."

The first giant charged. The world moved. Vaelen's hand tightened around the hilt of his enchanted longsword. The blade answered.

Not with a roar. Not with fury.

With a song.

The first stroke was not aimed at flesh. It was aimed at the darkness between moments. The blade carved through the air, and the Bladesong awakened with it. Radiance exploded outward in a wave of golden-white brilliance, a fragment of dawn captured within steel. The spell was not separate from the strike; it was born from it. The ancient magic of the Seldruin flowed through motion, intention, and harmony. Sunburst.

The nearest giants staggered as holy light consumed their vision. Their battle cries became confusion. Their carefully prepared assault became chaos.

And in that single heartbeat of uncertainty, Mendel moved.

Vaelen had seen warriors move quickly. He had seen masters move gracefully. Mendel did something else entirely. He disappeared.

The ranger became a whisper between heartbeats, a shadow crossing the battlefield faster than thought. His exotic blades flashed once, then twice, then a third time, each strike placed with the absolute precision of someone who had spent a lifetime refining every possible movement until nothing unnecessary remained.

A giant swung blindly. The blow met only empty air. A shimmering afterimage of Vaelen dissolved beneath the impact as the true elf stepped aside, his form multiplied by defensive weaves of illusion and arcane misdirection. The giant turned, searching for the one opponent who had moved away. He never saw the second.

Mendel was already there.

The curved blades crossed once. The giant fell. The battle became a rhythm. Not a struggle. A performance.

Fire and steel crashed against magic and discipline. Giants brought the strength of mountains, but mountains were not always the fastest things upon them.

Vaelen flowed between blows, his form shifting through layers of protective magic. Displacement twisted the giants' certainty. Mirror Images danced beside him like reflections upon water. Every movement of his body carried another enchantment, another defense, another hidden answer waiting for an attack that would never land.

Mournblade traced arcs of silver and sapphire. Mendel answered with silence. Where Vaelen commanded space, Mendel conquered distance. Where Vaelen turned the battlefield into a tapestry of light and illusion, Mendel became the thread that passed through every opening.

The giants could not understand it. They were not fighting two warriors. They were fighting one song. One warrior sang with steel and sorcery. The other answered with shadow and precision.

Together, they were something greater.

A Fire Giant chieftain emerged from the flames, larger than the others, his armor glowing like a furnace given form. He raised his massive weapon toward Vaelen, fury burning in his eyes. The Sun Elf looked up. For a moment, the mountain became silent. He smiled. Not arrogantly. Not cruelly. Almost kindly.

The final exchange lasted less than a breath. A flash of radiant steel. A movement too fast to follow. A silent figure passing beneath a descending blade. When the dust settled, the chieftain remained standing for only a moment longer. Then the mountain reclaimed him.

Silence returned.

The last echoes of battle faded into the Greypeaks. Vaelen stood among the fallen, allowing the Bladesong to slowly disappear. The silver-blue light faded from his blade. The protective weaves unraveled. The magic departed as gently as a tide returning to the sea. Mendel cleaned one of his curved blades. Of course he did. The ranger looked exactly as he had before the battle began. Vaelen found it mildly amusing...and deeply reassuring.

For a while, neither spoke. The wind carried ash through the valley. Finally, Vaelen looked toward his companion. "You know..." Mendel glanced at him. "My father still insists I should have remained on Evermeet." A pause. "And married." Another pause. "Apparently, wandering into dangerous territories, fighting monsters, and disappointing ancient elven nobility are not considered respectable pursuits."

Mendel stared at him. The silence lasted long enough that Vaelen wondered whether he had said too much. Then, slowly...The ranger smiled. Only slightly. But it was enough. Vaelen laughed. Not the confident laughter of a nobleman addressing a defeated enemy. Not the amused smile of a warrior certain of victory. Something quieter. Something warmer. The sort of laughter shared only between brothers.

The Greypeaks had learned many things that day. They learned that giants could fall. They learned that blind reliance on overwhelming strength was only another form of weakness. And perhaps most importantly, they learned that sometimes, when the darkness grew too great, the People did not come as an army.

Sometimes, they came as two.

[Elder Doom]

4- The Nature of Daylight

Where do we come from? Why are we here? Where do we go when we die?

Questions well understood by the faithful. Some have precise, even detailed answers. Others have as many as there are individuals, and none are entirely right, nor entirely wrong.

Rather than the answers themselves, or the greater philosophy that lies beyond them, it is their implications that tend to be misunderstood, if not entirely overlooked. The collateral. The consequences of our actions, or lack thereof.

Can you stand by and watch as something that shakes the very core of what you believe is set into motion, simply because taking action is inconvenient? Can you resent someone for doing to you exactly what you had planned to do to them? Does the place, the family, the world we are born into define us so completely that our choices cease to matter? And if so, what value can those choices possibly have?

The passage of time implies loss. That is the bittersweet beauty of mortal life.

We act upon our memories. In a way, we are our memories. We are the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, carried forward into tomorrow, changing as we do. We have the potential to bring light into the world. And just as light arrives, transforms what it touches, and eventually fades, so do we.

History repeats itself. Those knowledgeable enough, old enough, or both, return again and again to remembered moments. Yet each return feels slightly different, because nothing ever stays the same.

Grief is knowing that every moment passed is gone forever in its original form, even when it is remembered.

Corellon gifted Art to the People so that they might appreciate and love beauty in all its forms. To understand that being temporary does not diminish beauty. It defines it.

If the very sense of self was transient, beauty as frail as a winter leaf, and life itself fleeting, then how could a wrong choice last forever?

He knew the answer already.

And it defined the course of his actions.

[Elder Doom]

5- The Way

Back in his training days, his mentor used to say that a true master does not think of victory or defeat: only commitment.

Strategy, tactics, technique, ways to win a fight and any other form of calculation should leave the mind in the face of action, unfettered by hesitation of any kind. Become sword, unsheath, cut down. And again. Concerns of self-preservation are fetters. Love is a noose.

Even in the face of certain defeat, one must act. It is acceptable for the blademaster to lose. It is acceptable to die. There are outcomes worse than both, and in particular, the passivity that comes when fear is allowed to determine one's behavior. The true master should never lose the capability to act, even when the situation is hopeless.

Most people, even skilled warriors among them, tend to think that knowledge, wisdom and skill are what you need in a dangerous situation. The truth is, like spice on your food, they are a "plus". If you rely on them, they can simply become another form of hesitation. There is a point where one must stop analyzing and simply commit to action.

The master detaches himself from the outcome. After all, if your courage depends on believing you can win, then you aren't truly fearless. The favorable odds are your "courage". A lie. Doing what you believe is right in every circumstance, even when everything is against you, constitutes the very core of the Bladesinger's duty. Victory and defeat, life and death, they all become secondary. The actions themselves have a value that transcend the result.

Life...reputation...future...success...failure...what happens to us. The true master stops bargaining with reality, so that his vision clears. Fear makes one live inside imagined futures. Acceptance brings you back to the present.

Vaelen Oronar, Blade of Nimlith, Swordmaster of the Vael Aelari's Lodge, listened to his interlocutor for a long time as he described the mission he had volunteered for.

He did not simply acknowledge the risks.

He welcomed them.