Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

Deacon: A Summertime Story
I recommend that you, the reader, play the background music that comes with every few chapters. It is meant to set the mood and hopefully it will make your read a more enjoyable one.




I: Daffodils

One quiet morn in the year of the Morningstar - when Elminster went into retirement and Bane stole the warhammer of Tyr (it promised to become an eventful year) - Deacon awoke to the singing of larks and robins and the distant call of a mother fox awakening her young. "Time for our first breakfast of the day." Deacon mumbled sleepily to himself, as he rose from his box-bed - an old contraption made from soft pinewood and filled with fresh and heavily scented mosses - and started to rub the sleep from his eyes. His eyes were odd for a humanoid. They were small and beady, more akin to those found on a rodent. But the old and deep wrinkles around his eyes and bushy brow topping it off made his expression a benign and friendly one.
Deacon's chubby toes began to search for something. They arched down and wiggled until they stumbled upon a pair of thick slippers, made from various cloths sown together and resown through the years. It could be said that the slippers were patched up. But that would be an understatement. In fact, the slippers were so patched that they resembled a busy quilt more than a repaired piece of garment.
With his feet finally comfortably resting in the slippers, Deacon jumped out of the box-bed and wobbled slowly towards the source of a stream of light. It was a calm ray, ever so slightly lighting up the room Deacon was standing in. A room that did not seem to connect to anything but the shuttered window and a big oaken door. The room itself was circular with no hard edges. A table and a chair sat on the far end, farthest away from the window. While a large armoire - crooked, nearly collapsing under its own weight and covered in clothes - rested nearest the door. Under the window one could make out a small kitchen.
Brushing the tip of his night cap from his eyes, Deacon made his way to the kitchen and the window beyond. Squinting as the ray of light touched his eyes, Deacon reached for the shutters while tip-toeing on his feet, and opened them gently.
Light washed over Deacon and began to fill the nearly unlit room. The scent of daffodils grew strong as the vase in the windowsill began to warm up and a summer breeze sent the eye of the flower to face Deacon's humble home. It left Deacon with a cheerful expression, almost squeeling at the delight of the smells and the warmth. "Today will be a good day for a hike, methinks!" Deacon spoke to himself - or was it just himself? Something stirred under the shadow of one of the kitchen cabinets.


II: Bird in the Windowsill

"Good morning, Nibbles!" Deacon exclaimed at the shadow under the wooden kitchen counter - the counter was made up of old elmwood boards with large wooden peg nails hammered down across its surface, painted a dark green and decorated with a teal and pink flowery pattern - as he began to reach for a cupboard overhead. "Had a pleasant night, Deacon hopes?"
The cupboard opened with a loud creak and the shadow under the counter began to move again, now clawing its way out from underneath the kitchenworks and showing itself in the early morning light. Now in full vision, the badger looked up at Deacon and chittered. It chittered as if it was replying to the nightcap wearing and slipper donning Deacon.
"Good, good!" Deacon replied distantly as he focussed on heating a kettle of water over an old wood-stove. A bird (a swallow) flew across the window, singing its song and its wings beating a steady drum in flight. The fire made for a pleasant crackling sound and - being of hickory - created an auroma that was easy on the senses. The small badger laid himself down infront of the stove, enjoying its heat after having spent the night under the dark kitchen counter and on the damp kitchen floor.
"Shallt thou be joining Deacon on his hike today, mister Nibbles?" Deacon asked the badger while pouring himself a cup of hot tea. "Deacon's ankles ache a bit and the swallows fly low. Which means there will be some rain today. Perhaps thunder even. That always makes the forest smell so good. So alive!"
The badger chittered again in return, then lowered its weary head down and dozed off - sleeping in after a long cold night. "Good. Deacon will enjoy thy company on the trot."
The swallow swooped down and landed carefully on the windowsill, its tiny talons grasping the frame with the flaky green paint (it was in dire need of repainting), next to the vase of daffodils. Deacon placed his lips against the edge of his cup and took a sip. As always, Deacon's large and bulbous nose got in the way, making him spill and causing a trickle of tea to run down his long white beard. He did not care ---

*Shlllrrrrrp!*




III: Distant Thunder

The rain fell gently from the sky, hitting the canopy of leafs before falling down ontop of the mushroom's dome. Thunder resounded in the distance: Its violent call dimmed by the heavy shield of trees and leafs - making it a comforting sound, a token and testament of the safety of this place. The mushroom was Deacon's home; an exceptionally tall and bulky fungal growth that had died centuries ago and had since been petrified - even before Deacon carved out his dwelling here.

It had always comforted Deacon, knowing that things that lived to grow and endure so many years could still exist and service Faerûn after they expired. It comforted him because he himself had lived for close to thirty decades. The mushroom home was now covered in living things. New shrooms, toadstools, stinkhorns and other fungi grew on its ageless carcass.

Nearly tripping over a small rabbit, Deacon opened the heavy oaken door that kept the small interior of his mushroom home secure from the outside world. The door creaked and the rusted metal hinges squeeked - The door was an old one, created from thick oaken planks decorated with runes who's meaning had been lost ages ago, their origins forgotten and perhaps only still known by Deacon himself - but finally the heavy gateway swung open: Greeting the great grove where the mushroom sat. It wasn't much of a clearing - nature's growth was too thick here to allow for a proper grove - but it still let in more light than most of the Misty Forest. For that is where it sat.
Deacon leaned over and prodded the rabbit with a short stick. "Come now, Fluff! Let thy fluffy paws scramble and remove thyself from this inconvenient location. Zip zip! Deacon wishes to let in some fresh air and greet the hills and dales. And the trees - and the beasts..."
The rabbit jumped away after letting out a high-pitched squeel. The door flung open full force and the light of the clearing began to fill Deacon's dwelling. Deacon stood there for a moment, taking in the sounds and the smells and smiled. "Ah. Goodmorrow glade. Goodmorrow En Dharasha Everae. Good morrow Fluff and Nibbles. A new morn awaits. Full of possibilities and - "
Deacon paused, seeing a pale figure sitting by the pond. Deacon, still wearing his sleeping attire and bare-footed, began to close in on the figure sitting by the pond. The sun climbed ever higher, now casting a play of light on the pond's soft eddies. A rainbow took shape overhead as sun and drizzle played their skybound game.


IV: Blueberries & Biscuits

The swallow flew up from the window and Deacon made his way to the pond. He stopped by the moss-covered stone bench - once part of a greater construct that had since been reclaimed by the forest - and carefully placed a handful of blueberries and a few biscuits next to the figure sitting there. He then used the mushroom shelves that grew on its sides as steps and mounted the bench himself. "Good morrow, Ithilwen." He spoke in Elven. "Deacon brought thee some breakfast. It isn't much but one should at least have some."
Sneaking a berry into his mouth, Deacon watched the pond in silence along Ithilwen. A large pink salmon tried to make its way from the pond and through the waterfall - it wasn't much of a waterfall, more a cascade of water coming down from a slightly elevated stream above - and then into the stream leading west through the forest, disappearing from sight in the hazy morning mists that formed underneath the damp shadows of the pines.
When the salmon finally succeeded in its quest Deacon decided to leave the quiet and pale Elf to her thoughts. Leaving her a humble breakfast - minus one berry - he quickly and quietly returned to his home, wiping his slippers on the doormat.
"Where did I leave my rucksack, Nibbles?" Deacon wondered as he entered through the door. Nibbles chittered. "What is that, Nibbles? Clothes? Oh, yes! Deacon had better get dressed first."
Absent-mindedness was no stranger at Deacon's address as he would constantly forget one thing in favour of focussing on another. Despite this handicap, Deacon had managed to survive for an exceedingly long time. He approached the armoire and took a neatly folded mossgreen and wheatyellow robe from the top. The robe was about as long as Deacon were tall - which, ironically, wasn't very tall at all. Deacon didn't appear to be any taller than a hare sitting on its hind legs. The front had a V shaped cutaway while the back had an elongated tail that trailed across the ground as Deacon put it on. "A bib for the buttocks." Deacon had often called it in jest. The robe had been patched up through the years, though nothing as drastic as the 'quilted' slippers. The fabric was a thick and thightly woven wool. It looked heavy but at the same time comfortably soft. The shoulders had pouldrons on them, made from some animal's hide and decorated with a row of silvery white feathers. After tying his robe around his waist with a bright red end of rope, Deacon reached for a drawer, wrapping his stubby fingers around the iron knob - one of the few bits of metal in his home - and pulled. As the morning light eased through the open window, it revealed several pairs of socks, a meerschaum pipe shaped like a rose, and a brown leather satchel that had been decorated with a leaf-pattern. After donning the accessories from the drawer, Deacon reached for his hat - a green pointy hat that had been hanging from one of the kitchen cupboards.
Having dressed and packed, Deacon headed for the door, against which leaned a gnarled willow staff topped off with an amber stone. Deacon's 'walking stick'. "Come Nibbles! Let us find Fluff while the day is still young!"

V: A Dark Trail

Walking past the pond and the stream that trickled east across the Dharashan village's border, Deacon took in the smells and sounds of the early summer. Dragonflies zipped across the sky, playing a game of hide and seek among the tall grass and the low reeds that graced the edges of the gently babbling stream. Bees buzzed as they carried their harvest from the flowers - mostly early blooming foxgloves and snapdragons and even late bluebells - to their nearby nest (Deacon prefered to refer to bee hives as nests - for reasons unknown). The auroma of the brightly coloured flora grew stronger as the sun's rays began to warm the cold and damp grove - and the dew on the reeds and blades of grass glistened like tiny pearls. A lone heron turned its head as Deacon approached - then as it recognized Deacon it eased up. Finally though it flew off as Nibbles appeared out from behind Deacon's short legs and rushed toward the bird in an act of curiousity. "Pity." Deacon noted.
Finally, Deacon reached a narrow trial that lead up to and swirled back around his home and a few large oaks. Such trees had little chance of growing tall this close to the grove, as its borders were marked by a thick row of pines that cast so much shadow, nothing could grow underneath, safe for the hardiest of plants. No nut or acorn could settle here, eventhough they were often burried in the safe cover of the evergreen by magpies and blackbirds. But these oaks had stood here longer than the grove had existed - they reached so high that their canopies could take in all the light they wanted - and they thrived. The trail grew narrower further down, as more evergreen growth arched over the passageway. This, however, posed no problem for Deacon, who could easily pass underneath.
Deacon started humming and a dove started cooing, as it sought shelter from the rain under the cover of a pinebranch. Its call resounded through the forest - echoing - until it became a faint ghostly cry that would send shivers up the back of any would-be traveller. The light grew more dim as Deacon advanced through the narrow trail. Shadows began to play their games as the wind moved the arching branches. Suddenly, the sound of rushing feet could be heard and Deacon reminded himself of the Orcs that would occassionally venture too close to the grove. The rushing became louder - closer - and branches started to break underneath.

*CRACK*

Deacon stopped in his tracks and followed Nibbles' gaze. The dove stopped calling. It too could sense something was coming. They looked to their right. Something stirred behind one of the pines. The faint sunlight revealed a long shadow.

*SNAP*

Gleaming black eyes suddenly revealed themself, as well as a pair of long sharp teeth, as the creature from the shadows lunged at Deacon.

VI: The Beast Attacks

There was a loud crash as Deacon lost his balance and fell over with his back and buttocks ending up on the forest floor. The dove flew up in panic. Several crows cried their alarm. But Deacon laughed heartily -- as a ball of fur had thrown itself at him. "Fluff!" Deacon squeeled: "Mind the beard. I had spent the better part of my morning combing it, dost thou not know?" He happily lied to the fluffy bunny. "Get thy muddy paws off my beard, madam! Right this instance!" - Finally Fluff obeyed and hopped off of Deacon, looking guilty and hanging her ears in shame.
With the help of his 'walking stick', Deacon managed to rise to his little feet again. He brushed the dirt, rotting leafs and a particularly frightened dungbeetle from his boots. "Pardon Deacon, mister Beetle." He apologised quickly.
The boots were well crafted, made from an animal's hide and dyed a dark green, which stood in bright contrast to the red shoe-laces that kept the boots tightly wrapped around Deacon's ankles. The brim of the boots were decorated with a smart ruffle.
Deacon turned to face Fluff and Nibbles, giving them an appraising and stern look - one of his eyes closed shut while the other glittered in the faint sunlight, which passed through the shroud of pineneedles up above. "What is Deacon to do with ye? One frightens whatever comes on our path and the other lunges herself at the nearest traveller." Deacon sighs. "Best ye behave thyselves as we pass along old Mumblebark. Ye both know the old tree does not suffer shenanigans or tomfoolery." Deacon sets off with the animals in tow. Nibbles holds a steady pace and trails along like a loyal pup while Fluff scurries and jumps along irregularly, often distracted by small insects, shiny rocks and pebbles and bright flowers and berries.
Finally having cleared the narrow and dark passage, beset by evergreen, the party reaches a fairly open glade; The glade would be no different from any other opening in the forest's foilage, were it not for the giant - nay - gargantuan oak that sat on its edge. Its canopy so high it would not allow anything else to grow underneath its cover - safe for grass and weeds, some flowers, mosses and mushrooms. The ancient oak arched toward the west with its massive branches, creating a spiny claw, covered in leafs. It was clearly old, but still alive as the leafs were fresh and green - almost golden as the rising sun beat down with its warm rays, trying to break through the myriad of coloured leafs. Shades of red, green and yellow danced around the glade. The trunk of the oak was so broad that it could house an entire hostel of Or-tel-quessir (Wood Elves) - were it that the tree had died and wouldn't suffer from being hollowed out.
Deacon approached the base of the tree, where its roots formed a lair resembling a badger's sett. Deacon sat down on one of the exposed roots that surrounded the sett on both sides. He picked the leftmost.

VII: A Delicious Briesich

Pools of light formed on the grassy glade, as the leafs above let the sun shine through. Swarms of small insects danced low above the earth; lit up like a chapel full of tiny candles as they reached the pools of light - their wings a dazzling display of reflective brightness - another tell tale sign that a thunderstorm was drawing closer. The rain also continued to drizzle downward. Suddenly - a pale white light shone through the tall elms that surrounded the clearing. The sound of thunder followed once more. Again. And again.
"Deacon is glad he remembered to bring his hat." Deacon told the animals, his eyes set in a sagely expression. The hat looked to have be treated - oiled or waxed - as rain droplets continued to run down till they hit the brim, where they would hang on for a moment - like a man to a cliff, hanging on for dear life - before falling into the abyss.

*drip - drip - drip*

Deacon placed his rucksack next to him on the large root. The root grew wildly, bending around large boulders and finally disappearing into the ground. He took out a wrapped up package - some sort of cloth handkerchief - and placed it on his lap. The animals gathered around him, including a particularly cheeky squirrel that had just come down from old Mumblebark; the great and ancient oak upon who's roots Deacon sat- "Shall we see what the missus packed?" Deacon chuckled. No-one knew who this missus was. Did she really exists? Deacon would only rarely mention her - and often in half jest. Her hypothetical pressence only added to the mystery of Deacon's life story.
"Oh, lookie! 'Tis a quarter wedge of of a wheel. A wheel of fine, delicious brie cheese! And here! A slice of freshly baked mushroom and acorn bread." Deacon exclaimed cheerfully. He tore off a bit of the bread and divided it among Nibbles, Fluff and the inquisitive squirrel. Deacon then took the rest of the bread and wrapped it around a nugget of cheese - and munched down. "Mwoh! Delicious! *gulp* Truly delicious. The cheese is just right, not too runny and not too hard. Unlike last week's old cheddar."

*munch - munch - munch*

The thunder grew louder right before another flash of light appeared, and a none-too-distant broadleaved tree caught fire. Deacon squinted at the light, then he looked up but quickly realised that the rain would make short work of the flames. He sighed in relief and continued to work down his 'sammich' (or 'briesich', as Deacon would likely call it ***).
"Would thee like a bite, old friend?" Deacon spoke in Treantish while he looked up at the massive oak. "No? Deacon did not think thou would, but felt compelled to ask thee out of politeness. Afterall, 'twas us who sought out thy company. Might Deacon say that thou dost make a great warden from the rain?" Deacon pauses to listen for a while; seemingly listening for a response from the massive tree - but more likely taking in the various sounds that started to fill the clearing as dawn turned to early noon. The sun rose higher overhead.

---

***Briesich recipe:
-A centre slice of freshly baked bread
-A sizeable slice or nugget of brie cheese, left out to room temperature for a good while till it is a little runny
-A little homemade mayonaisse - from vinegar, nut- or olive oil, eggyolk and a spoonful of mustard
-The stomach to deal with the gooey goodness

Nom!

VIII: Silver Glance

Another thunderclap rang throughout the forest. A bird landed near Deacon - holding on to a flower with its thin, stubby beak. It reminded Deacon of the swallow that had landed in his windowsill earlier that morn. And... was that Deacon's daffodil it was holding? Before Deacon could think more of it, the swallow took off with beating wings - dropping the flower in flight - as if startled by something. Something that stirred on the other end of the clearing. A shadow. A sound. Then - suddenly - Deacon caught a gleaming in the corner of his eye. It was the reflection of sunlight; as if caught by a mirror, or - No! Metal. A silver glance that grew stronger as a thundercloud rolled up overhead, meeting with the sun and ultimately engulfing it - creating an eerie bright pale light that crept across the clearing.
It stood no more than ten meters away - in the poor cover of a bramblebush - a foul, grinning monster. The remnants of cold morning air turned into vicious steam as it drew breath and snorted heavily, savouring Deacon's smell within its nostrils and upon its sickeningly yellow tongue. A thick muckus ran from its fleshy lips; dripping down like the raindroplets from Deacon's hat. It revealed an irregular row of sharp teeth. Then it held up its iron blade.
"Orcs." Deacon exclaimed under a deep sigh. The small bearded fellow slid down Mumblebark's (the oak) root and stood between his animal friends and the vicious creature. Then more appeared in the western edge of the clearing. One drew closer from Deacon's left - a spindly and sinewy Orc wearing nothing but a beige loincloth and holding a short wooden spear topped with a stone head - another came from Deacon's right - a short and stocky Orc, covered in course hair and wielding an axe the size of an adult badger. Nibbles chittered and looked worried.

"Indeed, Nibbles. They match our numbers."

---



The leftmost Orc let out a high-pitched shriek, causing many crows to fly up from the trees surrounding the clearing. A particularly large rook - near bald and weathered - refused to budge. It sat calmly on a large gnarled branch and peered down at the Orc with unforgiving eyes. It cawed angrily as the gaunt and sinewy Orc looked to its master in the centre, before it charged forward towards Deacon. The Orc's legs were long and spindly - Deacon could see its bones almost protruding the flesh. The creature looked malnourished and maltreated, as it was covered in open wounds and poorly treated scars. There was a look of fear and obedience as it looked over at its master. Deacon had a look of pity on his face for a moment, which quickly made way for disgust, as the gaunt Orc was now charging at him in rage and in hunger.
The skinny and gaunt Orc was still charging as Deacon looked over at the large master by the bramblebush. Clearly it had sent this poor creature to probe Deacon's strength - or lack there-of. Deacon would not give in to the master Orc's curiousity. Instead he lifted up his staff. The humongous rook turned its head and eyed the Amber stone on Deacon's staff. Then it took off. It swooped down, due to its massive weight, but soared up quickly after the heated air from the clearing hit the underside of its wings. The Rook lifted up. Then the large Rook struck down on the sinewy Orc. Peck. It hit the Orc on the top of its head. Peck. Its sharp and long beak hit the Orc in the eye.
The poor savage screamed in pain. Gnaw - Nibbles caught the Orc's left leg and pulled the Orc off its feet. The rook swept in once more, running its sharp talons across the poor Orc's back. The beast lay screaming, before scrambling up to its feet and 'turning tail', heading back into the forest. It dropped its spear.

"Nrhan'g nohhapho! Little ahnr - Filthy servant of Elvenkind! Murkilar will feast on your flesh, tear every bit from your pathetic bones!" The fat and large Orc down the centre raged. "Deacon thinks not, servant of Gruumsh. Thy try at terror and fear will not find foothold here." Deacon stated in return. "Remove thyself from the Misty Forest and head back to the moors that so gracefully welcomed thee amongst bog and filth!"

IX: Vengeance

"Morsel! Little hairy Elfling mothered by Fey!" Cried the indiscriminate Orc: "You ahnr! Nohhapho! Destroy it! Kill it! Attack! Raaaghh!" The gluttenous Orc master raged at his stocky kinsman that stood to the right of Deacon, while motioning wildly to where Deacon were standing - pointing with a fat finger and sharp yellowed talon: "There! Destroy it. Kill!"
The stocky Orc obeyed and raised its crude axe overhead - it was composed of a thick branch tied to a large wedge of jagged flintstone - and charged at Deacon. The Orc looked disgusting (even for an Orc) as it was misshapen and covered in large lumps, growths and thick course hair. It also looked really, really powerful - with muscles as large as Deacon's whole physique.
The Orc leaped forward and threw itself in the air, soaring down to where Deacon was standing. As the Orc's shadow began to engulf Deacon's vicinity, the little mage raised up his staff and spoke a few words in some ancient tongue. A bright light came from the tip of his staff and the Orc turned grey. First its tufts of hair. Then its skin. And then, as the Orc was still soaring through the air, cracks appeared all over its now grey body. The Orc had been transformed into a statue - And shattered into numerous pieces as it finally hit the ground.



CRASH!

Having dodged the falling Orc, Deacon now stood several meters closer to the gluttenous Orc leader. It wasted no time in its assault. The Orc threw a javelin at Deacon and nearly missed - Deacon was pinned down to the ground as the tip of the javelin had pierced the long tail of his robe, connecting it with the earth.
The Orc moved in on its prey. "Haharh! Little squirming worm. Murkilar has you now!" The Orc spoke in delight as it kicked away Deacon's staff and began to approach the little bearded fellow. Nibbles and Fluff threw themselves at the Orc, but the back of the monster's hand quickly sent them flying through the air.
For a moment, the forest appeared to hold its breath. No birds could be heard and even the sky above seemed to grow silent, as its thunderclouds had moved on south. Were anyone to pass by, all they'd hear would be the quiet creaking of old Mumblebark's branches and the heavy snorting of the Orc. That silence quickly got cut short. A sudden roar filled the clearing as a one-eyed creature burst out from the undergrowth - it was the spindly Orc that had attacked Deacon earlier during the battle. The wounded Orc ran for its spear and quickly retrieved it. Then it charged on, holding the spear out infront of itself. It rapidly closed the distance to where Deacon lay helpless on the ground. Its face had a determined look, one that called for revenge.
The Orc sprinted forth and closed the distance instantly. Another shriek escaped its lips; A scream so shrill it would cause one to unwillingly cover their ears. The one-eyed Orc jabbed its spear forward with one lethal thrust from its long spindly arms. The spear pierced the flesh of its victim.
Deacon's eyes widened and observed in surprise as it wasn't him that were the target of this attack. Instead the one-eyed Orc found its mark in Murkilar, the fat leader of the bunch. Years of torment and belittlement must have lead up to this moment. The portly Orc master fell to the ground, the spear having skewered its rotund and corpulent gut. "Free... I is free! At last... at last!" Cried the spindly Orc. Then it ran off, back into the dark cover of the forest.

Deacon fell back and exhaled slowly. "Pfffffhhh!"

X: Sunset

The walk back home felt twice as long to Deacon. Though he enjoyed every bit of it and with twice the vim, following his nasty ordeal with the Orcs. Stopping for the tiniest things - such as a Holly Blue butterfly fluttering by, a ladybug scaling a mossy rock, and the act of saving a dungbeetle from a fingerdeep pool of rainwater - Deacon savoured every experience. It was late when he arrived at the village clearing. The sun had already started to hide behind the trees, sinking ever deeper, while orange light and dark shadows played their game on the forest floor and on the clear waters of the Delimbiyr stream. A thick fog began to move in from the south and started to fill the clearing slowly but surely. Like smoked glass it filtered the remaining daylight, making for a milky light that warned nocturnal creatures that their time had come to awaken. The heron that had fled from Nibbles earlier that day had returned to its usual fishing spot along the water. It too cast a long shadow. One that resembled an upturned garden hoe.
The graceful bird turned its head as Deacon approached. Its black coiff still dripping wet from an earlier plunge into the water. "Evening!" Deacon exclaimed cheerfully. The heron did not budge as it had turned its attention back to the frog that sat on the other end of the stream. Nibbles and Fluff followed in Deacon's wake as he wobbled along the bank of the orange tinted stream. Deacon plucked a tuft of tall grass from the soggy bank and placed it between his lips and moseyed along. Fluff eyed the grass and reeds but decided against it. Probably in favour of whatever delicious roots Deacon had shelved at home.
Deacon's home came into sight. Like a hulking, squatting Ogre it sat under the cover and shadow of a large oaktree. It was quite an intimidating structure from this angle. Its solitary window like a large eyesocket - the door its mighty maw. "Perhaps Deacon should have left a fire burning?" Deacon wondered to himself as they approached the dark structure. While they neared the doorstep, a torch-bearing ranger from the village came up to them. "Good evening, master Deacon. I am sorry to trouble you, but the Council wishes to have a word. They seek your insights."
The ranger was clad in a suit of armour, composed of boiled leather and dyed hides. The colour of choice appeared to be a forest green, mixed in with brown and black leathers. On his back the ranger carried a quiver, filled with arrows, their nocking ends topped off with sharp silvery feathers, not unlike those found on the heron. A long blade worn in a brown leather scabbard hang from his left hip, while a short dagger was dangling from his right.
Deacon sighed under his breath. He then turned to look up at the ranger and spoke with a weary voice: "Tell thy elders that Deacon shall hear them... soon." The ranger smiled a smile of relief and hurried back along the bridge that connected the village to Deacon's little abode. On our side of the bridge Deacon started to head inside, nearly stubbing his toe as he searched for a candlestick. Having lit the stick and after placing it on a nice brass candleholder, Deacon turned to scold Nibbles and Fluff. "Oh, why dost ye not wipe those paws! Look at Deacon's floor! Thy muddy prints a myriad of murk. Now who is going to have to clean that up? Precisely!" Deacon turned and walked to the kitchen counter. But before reaching for a cleaning cloth, he did something else: He reached for his herb-pouch and pulled out a beautiful daffodil (the one the swallow dropped!), then placed it back in the vase on the windowsill.

"There." Deacon simply said.

XI: The Night - Veil over Light

Having taken care of the daffodil, Deacon turned to clean up the muck on the floor. His free hand quickly reached for his back as he leaned down to clean the flagstones with his other hand. "Ungh! Deacon is getting far too old for this." He mumbled.

The night cast its thick murky shadow over the clearing and Deacon's home. A sole candle on a kitchen counter lit up the circular room. Deacon took the candle in hand and pursed his lips, right before ending its fiery light with a single puff.

Pfffff!




XII: Sunny Side Up

It was late in the morning when Deacon finally awoke to the bright song of a pair of robin birds. Deciding to have a hearty breakfast - right after getting out of bed - Deacon wobbled to his little kitchen to prepare his meal. Eggs with their golden yolk had their sunny sides up as the fire licked at the underside of the old iron pan. The flames were bright orange and emberlike; like a newly introduced coal to a pit of fire. Whatever was burning in the woodstove may have been magical in nature as the fire was rediculously warm and bright.
The eggs came from the wild chickens that would roost up on the branches of the great white birch behind Deacon's mushroom home - The only birch around for miles. It was never made clear whether these roosting poultry were the result of Deacon's magical punishment or actual natural beasts. His power to turn any living being into a feathered fowl was the justified fear of many, even to those who considered him friend. It was one of his quirks - though a rather dire one, all in all. Nevertheless, Deacon seemed reserved in his use of magics. This to the ease of many a mind.
"Sizzle!" Next to the pan sat a heavy bronze kettle. Its surface a coppery texture graced by greenish patina. The kettle's lid wobbled as the steam tried to push it off, like a lazy man might blow a fly from his nose. Yet the fly - or rather the lid - resisted with every ounce of its weight.
The spout whistled sharply and made Deacon reach for his ears. Big heavy hands (for such a small creature) covered his ears. "Oh! Quiet thee! Make thy spout spittle spearing splosh elsewhere!" Deacon said as he reached for the kettle's ear and poured a cup full of deliciously scented tea. "There... that is better, now wouldn't ye say, Fluff?"
A small bunny hopped out from its wicker-basket (an old contraption littered with pieces of cast-out fabric; such as cleaning cloths and old blankets) and rolled around on the kitchenfloor, before stumbling into Nibbles and waking up the old badger. "Squee! Snarl!" The badger grumpily started to make sounds at Fluff, before turning its head up to face Deacon. It looked hungry and wide awake. "Oh, breakfast then, Nibbles?" Deacon inquired. "Well, thou art not having any of Deacon's precious eggsies! Go on outside and find thyself some 'licious worms and snales!"
The badger obeyed and scurried out through the door, squeezing itself through the archway's frame and the heavy green door - the little bunny in tow. The creak in the door allowed the mornlight to wash into the room. Deacon smiled as the light touched his face. Suddenly a tear formed in the corner of his right eye. Followed by a long and forlorn sigh.

-Chapters XIII through XV record the events that followed Deacon's meeting with the Elders and the request that he'd keep watch on Ithilwen-

XIII: Deacon & Ithilwen

Deacon watches from between the reeds, near the pond that lies at the heart of the village, as Ithilwen settles on an old stone bench and begins to stare out across the water. Deacon controls his urge to skip a nearby pebble across the pond and over to Ithilwen. Instead he quickly and quietly makes his way to where she is seated, passing over a small bridge.

"All is well?" the little Deacon inquires with a squeeky voice. "Low to the ground, the mists are thick at night. Deacon envies those of tall stature, being able to look out above the fog." He exclaims, trying to catch Ithilwen's attention with his idle banter. Suddenly Ithilwen snaps out of her daydreaming and scours the ground with her eyes. "Oh. Greetings! Yes, our height can be an advantage at this place. But, how have you been, master Deacon?"

Deacon then goes to tell of his travels south along the Sword Coast, where he aided various hapless travellers from the 'bites of beasts and the bolts of bandits'. Noting her appreciation but attempting to pry further into Deacon's wellbeing, she asks Deacon how he has been himself. To which a smiling Deacon responds with a 'same old, same old'. Likely refering to his age in jest, while at the same time avoiding a straight answer. Perhaps with the intent not to trouble her with his own problems.

"Deacon? Deacon is feeling as well as can be expected. If his friends are well, then Deacon is well." Deacon answers while beaming a bright smile up at her. "Though, that brings Deacon to thee. Art thou feeling well? Why would Deacon be asked to keep an eye on thee?" Deacon wonders with a worried look.

"Keep an eye on me?" Ithilwen mutters with a hint of irritation. "Yes, well... It seems Mendel thinks it necessary that I stay under protection at all times, for the time being." Ithilwen sighs before proceeding. "Strongly backed up by Kael for that matter. I can't say I agree myself, however."

Deacon looks uncomfortable, wiggling his bum trying to sit on a mossy rock near the pond. "And... Ugh! Sharp edges... Uh. Why dost thou suppose Mendel thinks it better for thee to stay under protection? With the vocal support of a resident mage, no less?"

"It is a long, long story. But to put it short, they have the feeling something is out there to get me. There is no evidence, however, that it can actually reach me here." Ithilwen ponders for a moment before asking of Deacon: "Are you familiar with shadow creatures, master Deacon?"

Deacon goes into the matter of shadow creatures only briefly, explaining to her that he has dealt with such things before, but that his knowledge on the matter is actually limited. Wether that is true or false remains to be seen. Then Deacon is suddenly found digging through the pouches in his robe and pulls out a brilliantly radiant stone, resembling a small pearl.

" 'Tis a special thing. And very rare. It could help thee in dire times. It holds the power to close wounds and cure terrible effects, without the aid of divine magics." Deacon explains in a sagely fashion as he holds it up to Ithilwen. "As of now, 'twould serve thee better than it would Deacon."
Ithilwen looks amazed at the Saintsblood Pearl and apologetic at the same time. "It is beautiful. But it is too much, master Deacon... I have nothing for you in return. I don't know what to say."

"Oh, no need for words. The look on thy face speaks volumes. Something tells Deacon that this was meant to find its way into thy hands." Deacon replies while smiling cheerfully. "Thank you, master Deacon!" Ithilwen replies. "Thank you! But know this: if you are ever in need of it, or anyone else needs this pearl, remember to ask it back. Until then I think I could make good use of it. This is a first something good would find me. Do you think I might endanger the village, with this creature after me?"

"A first? This place found thee, did it not, dear Ithilwen?" Deacon replies reassuringly. "And no, Deacon dost not think that thy pressence here endangers the village. This place among the trees has a purpose: to protect the people. And thou art part of the people. En Dharasha Everae."

"That is a relief to hear." Ithilwen nods slowly.

XIV: A Light in the Dark

Selûne's lunar light vanished as a veil of clouds passed overhead and embraced the night sky. The air was thick and unpleasant. A shadow formed out of no-where. From it rose two tall figures - as black as the night itself, giants of shadow and darkness - with their pale eyes searching for prey. Having found their quarry, they swept upward from from the gloom. With long strides they escaped their shadowy host and thundered through the clearing, in the direction of Ithilwen, Kael and Deacon.

A circle of enchanted stones lay scattered around the place, like a protective perimeter. Each of them shining brightly in the dark. The shadows moved closer still. Kael moved in - standing infront of Ithilwen - like a lean sentinel, his hood arching over a determined face. Deacon zipped across the clearing and brought a brilliant stone close to one of the shadowy abominations. After being blinded and dazzled for a brief moment, the shadowy figure rose up and swept a large black claw across Deacon's face - the stone fell from his hands and shattered - and the light dimmed. Raising his amber-topped staff up in the air, Deacon cried an incantation and light burned down from the sky - forcing the shadows to retreat and vanish into nothingness.

The forest held its breath.

"This isn't over" Said Kael. "We must return to the village."






XV: Circle of Light

"Now, Deacon!" A dark robed mage yelled as a vaporous shadow appeared. "Yaaaah!" Deacon came running out from the underbrush - his tiny feet a whirlpool of rapid movement - lighting a series of small spherical stones with his magic as he ran by them. The circle of light closed around Kael, Ithilwen, Mendel, Grimm and the others that stood quietly in the centre of a large circle. Deacon leaped into the circle as well - just in time as shadows began to engulf the entirety of the clearing around them. It crept through the trees and tall shrubs and prevented any daylight from reaching the earth. A thick, black murky fog. Many small forest creatures ran in fear.
"Uh-oh! The shadow is not trapped within - but we are." Deacon spoke as the shadows grew stronger and started to creep closer to the stones of light. The shadows had trouble reaching them within the circle; but for how long they did not know. A great Nightwalker materialised infront of the circle and several lights suddenly dimmed. "The circle..." Deacon warned the others. "...we must- " Before Deacon could finish his sentence, the dark robed Kael stepped out from their sanctuary of light and charged at the shadows. He vanished under an onslaught of dark claws and long black talons.
Deacon sighed out loud, then rose his little gnarled staff up in the air and conjured forth a powerful weave of light. "Sunburst!" Deacon cried out in ancient Espruar - and the clouds overhead parted and several great rays of light shone down where Kael stood. Being hit by the light, the shadowy creatures appeared to be in pain for a moment - giving Kael some much needed respite to rejuvinate his wards - but the shadows recovered quickly and continued to batter the mage - his wards lit up and dissipated quickly.
"What is happening?" Ithilwen looked and sounded distraught. She was blindfolded, yet the bright lights still seemed to cause her some pain, as if the fabric of the fold could not stop the light from piercing into her soul. A soul beset by darkness. "Where is Kael?!" She cried. "Where is he?!" - Deacon tried to comfort her, but was too distracted to make a convincing case. "Worry not, dear Ithilwen. Everything is under control and- " Deacon's words were again cut short by another yell: "Now! Come forth from your cover and attack the shadows!" Mendel cried out to the hidden force of Elves up on the northern ridge. The Elves charged down and joined the fray. Among them were Nai and Elethineth. The stones of light were all but gone and those that stood within its failing circle now too rushed out to meet their shadowy enemies. Several more Nightwalkers appeared to fight the group. Battle was joined: The Dwarf, Grimm Oathbreaker, charged headlong into the walkers with his powerful weapon and iron determination. WHAM!; A shadow came crashing down as the Dwarf had hit it full-force. Mendel moved quickly and quietly through the fighting, stabbing the dark creations left and right, always on the move. A hint of light reflected in his blades before they disappeared into the black mass of two Nightwalkers. The Nightwalkers fell to the earth and turned into a thin vapour. On the far end of the field, Elethineth and Nai fought with a ferocity rarely seen. Their attacks sent several shadowy creatures screaming to Myrkul's wall! Deacon tried to stay as close to the remaining stones of light as he could, but ultimately darted off to provide aid where possible; casting healing spells and throwing endless barrages of magical missiles at their foes. A shadow hit Deacon with its mighty and razorsharp talons, sending him soaring across the forest floor. Before the shadow could stomp Deacon, a ferocious wolf and frenzied badger threw themselves upon it - tearing it apart.




The shadows began to fade away, as their dark manifestations were struck down by the group. As they vanished, it became clear that Kael had fallen to the darkness. His battered remains lay silent on the forest floor - blades of grass covered in thick red substance. Several carried him away to the village, to where their the priest Luthien resided. The rest stood deviantly to face the humongous Nightwalker, which appeared to be the very embodiment of the shadows. A dark essence incarnate. It was tall, darker than the darkest darkness, and loomed over them like a foreboding churchtower, with its voice like the slow ringing of a large and broken bell: "Come, Ithilwen. Join me!" It began to speak with a booming and dangerously beguiling voice. Luring her away from the group and the remaining light. "I will join you in return for Kael's life!" She answered, having removed her blindfold, she now stared directly at the shadowy creature.
Deacon spoke up: "That would be unwise." The little mage rose his staff overhead and a great barrier of light shot up from the earth, forming a powerful wall between them and the shadow. The shadow seemed unamused and appeared to be waiting for Deacon's magic to run its course, after which it could have its way with them. Deacon threw up several more walls of light. "We must leave this place before 'tis too late. Quickly now, take Ithilwen and escort her up to the village!" Angered by the loss of their comrade and irked the desperation of their ordeal, the rest of the group did not seem to want to budge. Finally though, as Deacon's walls of light finally faded and the shadows lunged forth at them, a slow retreat was set in motion; up over the northern ridge and back into the safety of the village. All the while fighting off shadows.

A blow had been dealt. The Shadow had learned that Ithilwen would not be such an easy prize and that the Elves had strength enough to counter its darkness. But surely, this was not the end of it... "It would try again." Deacon thought.

The following is an apparent halftruth (true, false or exaggerated) surrounding Deacon - oft told as bedtime story or tavern tale.



The year was 1338 - the Year of the Wanderer. It has been said that in this year the spritely altruist Deacon encountered a young mage and his even younger apprentice on the Trade Way north of Baldur’s Gate. It all began where the road bends around the Fields of the Dead and pierces rogue streams and the wet river-forelands of the Chionthar's banks. The Mage - a tall man in tattered robes with wispy red hair - introduced himself as Cyril. His apprentice he introduced by the name of Icharys. The apprentice was stocky and looked to be of mixed heritage, having a trace of Orc blood grace his ancestory.
Cyril the Mage offered Deacon some rations and a part in their friendly company; while they all made their way down south. It was not until they reached the intersection where the Tradeway goes west into Baldur’s Gate and south toward the Wyrm’s Crossing, that the Mage revealed his nature and true motives. Being that it was before the days that the Radiant Heart had constructed their stronghold - and prior to when Saint Merielle’s Orphanage sat by the intersection - the road was ill guarded at this crossing. Overwhelmed, Deacon was seized and taken in a burlap sack. Carried off into the graveyard bordering the crossing. Screaming maniacally, the young Mage revealed himself to be a necromancer, bound to discover the secrets of unlife and Lichdom, with the help of his apprentice.

Deacon remained calm, and made the best out of his stay within the burlap sack. A day and a night slowly passed, until the rope was loosened around the sack. Enough time for Deacon to regain his focus and strength.
When taken from his poorly woven prison and placed upon a cold slab, Deacon began to surge in power. Arcane energies ran across his tiny physique, bolstering his resolve and ultimately turning the tide. Before Cyril could take a scalpel to Deacon’s chest, the tiny Deacon jumped up and turned Icharys into stone. Then quickly sent a hand of Bigby to smack the scalpel from Cyril’s clutches and sent him flying forcefully into a wall.

Overpowered by the tiny Deacon’s magical prowess, Cyril began to curse Deacon. Being lured in by an act of helpfulness, then trapped to be dissected and turned into a mindless servant, Deacon reached into the darkest reaches of the Weave. Their crimes against nature left Deacon no other alternative then to punish them by tapping into his darkest powers. At what may have been Deacon’s darkest hour, shadows and red fluorescant lights rose up from Deacon. Negative energy abound, Deacon turned Cyril into a corporeal-less wraith and Icharys into his skeletal servant. Finding it a suitably ironic punishment, Deacon instructed both the wraith Cyril and the skeleton Icharys to guard the graveyard for little more than an eternity. To this day Icharys the skeleton and Cyril the Wraith may be seen at the Baldur’s Gate graveyard, keeping the rising dead confined to their graves.

Deacon can also be seen at times, walking amongst the graves with a sad expression on his face. One of regret and sorrow. Sometimes looking up, speaking with with things that are not there to be seen for the common observer. Or so the story goes...

The days following the Highharvestide, when the leafs of the forest turned red and golden, Deacon would awaken to the sounds of wood breaking and the ground shaking. Leaving his hollowed out mushroom dwelling; Deacon would dart through the forest’s undergrowth. Over gnarled roots and dodging anthills, passing streams and clearings. Finally, he’d come upon a sight that would trouble him deeply.

The men that had always lived on the forest’s edge, taking only what they needed from nature’s bounty, were now hacking down trees and trampling in their wake anything that would grow. While they cut a path through the woods, trees were felled and saplings were crushed. And the creatures that would normally dwell there fled. It would only be a matter of time before the barbarian’s destructive onslaught would reach Deacon’s little dwelling; which sat not far from where the Misty Forest bordered the High Moor.

Back in his secluded home Deacon would contemplate what to do. Soon though, another terrible sound would shatter his thoughts. Storming out of his tiny doorway, Deacon came face to face with a huge boar, gnawing on the roof of his abode. The boar, however, was not alone. There was someone walking up behind her. Someone with a face that looked as troubled as Deacon's.


The face that Deacon caught a glimpse of was that of one of the fair folk. But the Elf walked off, consumed by his own thoughts, never paying any attention to the tiny Deacon. The boar quickly followed in his wake. Deacon followed them for some time, his trusty badger, rabbit and wolf companions in tow. They reached the High Moor. Then they each went their separate ways.

Later they would meet again at the Wyrm’s Crossing over the river Chionthar. The Elf identified himself as Ebreth and his companion boar as Ura. Pleasantly surprised to find that both hailed from the Misty Forest; they each told their tale. Deacon discovered that the Elf had been exiled, driven out by his Wild Elf kinsmen. It seemed that the Elf’s tribe had turned to blood rituals under their shaman. No longer would they tend to the forest. They would not care if it was razed by the barbarians of the High Moor. It would be in others that they had to place their hopes.

Ebreth spoke of a tribe of Elves dwelling on the coastlands near Baldur’s Gate. He mentioned their leader, Laisren, and how he would aid them in reclaiming their home in the Misty Forest. It seemed that these Elves were looking for a new homestead. Deacon mentioned that he too had met with these Elves, and that he would gladly aid them in founding said home. The spriteful Deacon had smiled and presented Ebreth with a map. The map, according to Deacon, would lead them to a pot of gold buried deep beneath the earth. A pot containing a hoard of a million gold pieces.






On the final day of Marpenoth, when the leafs ceased to fall and started to rot, Deacon met up with the tribe of the Elf Laisren Ua Tiernan. They called themselves En Dharasha Everae. The Destiny of the People. The Elves showed their gratitude to Deacon; for aiding them with both his wards and his gold. In turn they revealed their desire to aid Ebreth and Deacon in restoring the Misty Forest to its former glory. Deacon promised to guide them to his mushroom dwelling which sat by a clearing. Perhaps there, within the clearing, the Elves of En Dharasha Everae could find a new home. Deacon also became friends with the Elves’ Dwarven companion; Durin, whom in turn would befriend Ura.

Their journey took them through Thundar’s Ride and to the Boareskyr Bridge; Between the Misty Forest and Baldur’s Gate. There, by a lonely tower, the Elves decided to set up camp. A ruin from the wondrous days before the Crown Wars. The tower’s ruins and moat made for an excellent basecamp. That very night many decided to scout out the High Moor to the north, while leaving their less able kinsmen at the tower.

Soon though, they would come to regret that decision. For when the Elves and Deacon returned, the camp had been raided and those left behind slaughtered. Orcs proved to be the culprit. A cry for vengeance was brief, for all realized all too well that nothing would be achieved by bloodshed. Wisely they decided to push north again. Through the moor and towards Deacon’s home.

The High Moor would prove surprisingly tranquil. The exodus ran afoul of some eerie and twisted Treants by the marshes. Night Twists. But strengthened by the will of their resolve; even the Treant’s luring songs proved ineffective at swaying the Elves and their tiny compatriot. Deacon swiftly lead the Elves through the treacherous marshes and up a hill that would reveal…

...The Misty Forest.





While a welcome sight, the Misty Forest was anything but welcoming to the group of travel-weary Elves. Wood Elves descended from the trees; inquiring as to En Dharasha’s reasons for entering the woods. Their bows kept ready and arrows notched as Deacon tried to explain their plight. The Wood Elves reluctantly accepted Deacon’s reasoning and disappeared, leaving the exodus in a small clearing at the very edge of the forest.

Soon after the departure of the Wood Elves the En Dharasha Everae would set up a makeshift camp. But rest was not theirs, as the sound of a hundred steps could be heard from beyond the mist enshrouded trees. Spiders. Dozens of gigantic spiders rushed forth from the dark shadows of the forest. Among them was one humongous arachnid creature. Its legs, easily ten feet long, carried its grey and gluttonous frame low above the ground. Its powerful mandibles would snap and tear at the Elves. But the Elves would not let up.

The beast and its spawn were vanquished after a long and arduous battle. But not before taking its toll. The exodus’ leader, Laisren Ua Tiernan, had been poisoned. Struggling for survival, the body of Tiernan was carried off by the Misty Forest’s Wood Elves, who had finally appeared to take some pity on the exodus of Elves; taken to their village. Through the insights of the group it was revealed that this spider was the result of the Crown Wars. The very event that blighted the forest of the Miyeritar; turning it into the High Moor. Old fireside stories would have it that these spiders were spawned as the tears of a Miyeritar prominent hit the soil of the woodland. After most of the forest had been ruined, the remaining spiders retreated into what was left of the Miyeritar forest; the Misty Forest.



The poison ran its course through the body of the exodus’ leader. But he was kept well and safe. Allowing for his brethren in exile to undertake a grand journey into the Underdark. The goal of this journey was to locate flora of special significance. Its properties and name kept secret by the author of this tale. According to the combined knowledge of their priests and druids, the exiles knew what to retrieve from the deep and dark bowels of Faerûn in order to heal their leader.

The initial attempt was disastrous. Many fell when the exodus travelled through a realm of fire and brimstone; followed by a place of shadow and haunting visions. A second group was soon formed to save those that were lost in the deep reaches of the earth. Among them was Deacon, who knew the way surprisingly well.

When the first and second group met below the earth and healing magic was exchanged, they all continued their journey full of vim. And that plant or fungus of significance was finally found and harvested. Leading to the healing of Laisren Ua Tiernan; and the founding of a new home amongst the trees of the Misty Forest.

These are the dreaded events preceding the Tiding of Harptos, during the eventful Year of the Spur, on the last day of Eleint and the first of Marpenoth. When the equinox of autumn had passed and the long days of leaf-fall awaited.

A great drought blighted the lands surrounding the city of Baldur's Gate. A land already plagued by numerous troubles. Including war and political strife. The drought proved relentless, with not a rain-stricken respite.

The dry season affected many if not -all- in some way. Efforts were made throughout the year to quell the hunger and starvation. Most of which were in vain. Much to the dismay of the season's benefactors.

Everything from handouts by the noble rich, to relief efforts by noble paladins. But ultimately nothing worked to prevent starvation. The rain did not fall like it does today. The crops would not grow and cattle died. Hope was thin.

Untill...
...That is when the festival of the Highharvestide took place, within the farmlands near Baldur’s Gate. A yearly feast where the bounties of Chauntea are celebrated and handed out. When the sun had faded and the leafs started falling; and the first cold winds swept throughout the valleys.

And while there was little to go around, the people of Baldur's Gate feasted that day, forgetting all about their troubles and pains. Enjoying everything, right down to the very last crumbs on the table.

And their troubles went. For after the Highharvestide, Chauntea blessed the lands and rain poured once more down from the sky. Her blessings followed after she witnessed the festival in her worship; The trust placed in her kindness and prowess.

The drought was finally over.

XVI: The Great Goodbye I

Pain. Deacon felt it well before he could name it. "Pain." He finally uttered - nay, whispered with a quiet gasp. But none were there to hear it... A distinct feeling that could not be shared, or discussed. It was sudden, sharp and deadly. And very personal... And he was alone.

In the distance a loon called its lonely cry. Its song like the curse of a lost banshee, echoing over the moor and out through the scarce growth therein. Perhaps it was a banshee?! Deacon thought. The scattered trees were covered in a silvery white veil. It lay thick on the naked branches and evergreen flora. Like a great white velvet blanket, the snow glistened in the light of noon. A nearby birch had its bark (a roughly checkered dark-and-white pattern) tainted by a smear of red liquid. Blood. It became visible after Deacon had fallen into the tree, the wind knocked out of him - pushed back by something dark. Something from out of a nightmare. As the sun receded, the snowy blanket turned orange, then almost red, like the blood on the tree - now dripping from the branches as it melted. Dripping from the bark as Deacon tried to get to his little feet.

Summer had passed. The Shadow was defeated and his promise to the council fulfilled. And Deacon had retired to his home on those warmest of days; rumoured to have fallen sickly and ill. Then, when the leafs started to turn golden and brown and the long days of summer grew shorter and the wind colder, Deacon departed without warning. He had been seen heading for the woods to the east. Then the forest's rangers had seen him descend toward the western moors. Finally he had vanished from the horizon; a small and distant dot, getting smaller and smaller, as the days grew shorter and darker - and winter came to the Sword Coast valley.

Throughout the winter, nothing was seen or heard of Deacon. Nothing might be heard ever again.

"Pain." The faint light overhead almost blinded him, as he looked up after having found his footing. The light was red. The sun had fallen behind hazy winter mists and a black line of distant trees, standing like lifeless and leafless sentinels on the horizon. Its red orb managed to beam fading light over Deacon's face. A warm sensation came over him. The blood poured down his scalp and reddened his brow and beard. And as he looked down he saw several lifeless shapes, their fur scorched and stained with life's crimson fluids and their eyes glazed over. Fluff... Nibbles! Wolf! -- The battered figure winced. Winced in pain. Then looked up at his assailant... And then he spoke:

"Thee took everything. But one thing thou didst forget."

The shape towering over Deacon grew closer, unfettered by the dying light or the chill of winter. It grew closer as its shadowy mass engulfed the frozen earth underneath. It grew closer... and listened.



"...one thing thou didst forget."

XVII: The Great Goodbye II

The figure -- reaching as high as a temple’s monumentary belfry, standing lonely and solemn, nay; sullenly between scattered trees -- stood clad in a dark and murky mass of shadowy substance, like a great wedding gown, begotten of black ink which dripped down and evaporated when touching the ground below -- The figure loomed over Deacon now, its piercing red eyes examining the condition of the tiny mage-like creature. It (the black figure) was strangely daunted by the rigidness and determination of its prey; the figure’s red eyes were translucent, covering faint vertical pupils, like those on a stalking cat or some other night-time creature on the prowl. It seemingly nodded in satisfaction as Deacon stood bleeding and with eyes swollen with blood and tears. --- Deacon spoke: “I came here seeking death. Thy death, Lord Witch-king of Vesa. …and my death. A proper ending to thy spell of terror and a firm closure to my long life.”
The shadow seemed to swell for a moment, following the words from Deacon’s sputtering lips - lips begotten of blood. The figure swell and arched back its pitch-black shoulders and back, tendrils of shadow reaching across the cold winter dirt, as if lashing out to unseen foes --- and with spines of black reaching up towards the sky.

It appeared to be in a state of unrest or unease - as if disturbed by what Deacon had just said. The tiny mage’s sagely words somehow piercing the figure’s carefully laid out plans; and as if surprised by the precise wording of the small caster. --- The contrast between the two could not have been greater: The shadowy figure stood high, with its vaporous horns of black tickling the very sky - while Deacon was not much taller than the merest shrub or pile of stone or moss, covering the frozen land below.
The sound started low, as if originating from behind the old stones that once represented a nearby Miyerithar ruin, mere meters from Deacon’s position. But as the noise became louder, it clearly came into existence from the edges of the shadow’s shrouded appendages, then growing louder as it reached the very gut and core of the creature, evocating a voice within and mimicking and parroting speech: “Old Deacon,” It spoke. “Have we not conversed before?” --- There was a short pause before it continued: “Have we not spoken at length of my desires and offerings? Have I not presented gifts to you, my powerful friend of the earth?”

Deacon looked disgusted at the figure’s attempts at diplomacy and reasoning. He raised his little staff in his wee right arm and summoned forth a pale light that made the shadow’s tendrils retract with a sound of agony and surprise: “Friend?! We are not friends, creature borne of foul magick! Yes, we spoke at the tower of the mage Kor’Vain, the holding at Riverfort. But we did not reach an agreement, didst we…? King of Foulcasters, lord of the lands of Vesa,” Deacon took a deep breath. “Nay, we did not come to an agreement. And thy attempts of luring us into betraying our friends in return for petty gems didst not work either. No holding didst thee acquire upon these lands. Nay, Deacon asked for a meeting… And here we meet at last. Both of us poised to destroy the other… and one underestimating the other greatly!”
The Shadow’s inner gut exploded with both thick renderings of black flesh - covering nearby trees and earth with a blackish mucus - and a gaseous cloud that engulfed Deacon’s surroundings, accompanied with a litany of profane curses.

The litany resembled the calling of tormented ghosts, echoing the cries of hundreds of Zhengyi’s servants. All lost and enslaved as the once great Wizard turned to necromancy and the darker aspects of statesmanship. “No, Witch-king. It is done. Thee took the bait. Now Deacon will take thee with him!”