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

The Long Lost Blades of Aloria ap Ravar
Herein lies the tale of the elves of Doron Amar and their quest to recover a set of relics long thought lost with one of their founders. Please enjoy this player-driven story as it unfolds. We pointy-eared folk humbly request that this information not be used to meta-game, and that others refrain from replying here so that we may better maintain the continuity of this thread. And so it begins....

ONE: A Message from Beyond
On chill summer morn among the soaring oaks of Doron Amar, the elf swordsman Sevilthir Silverthorn stirred to the waking world from high upon a tree platform. Tendrils of mist drifted through the verdant wood below, coiling about fern and cedar, damping newly risen saplings from the recent spring. The falls roiled behind him, sending a cloud of spray unto the bridged above. Hiss of steel as the elf unsheathed a pair of sabers, clasping each to his chest in crisscross form, a daily ritual to focus his mind. Sev drew deep breaths and contemplated his place among the citizens now heading out to the morning hunt, passing like silent phantoms through the low-lying fog below. Gwyvari and Celduil might have traveled among them, but those two prowled more ghost-like than any others and if present then they went hidden to his eye.



Sevilthir turned attention to the weapons gripped in either hand. The twin blades were as though an extension of his arms, an integral part of him. These were no mundane swords, but neither were they of extraordinary properties. For while his skills had vastly progressed since his arrival to these western shores, his equipment had not kept up and remained more suited to one of lesser aptitude. He often wondered why other adventurers were so fortunate in their dungeon delving while he ever found naught but useless items that left him feeling like a magnet for junk.

It was with such a frame of mind that the elf climbed down from his perch, strode purposefully through the mist, and requested an audience with his kinsman. Sevilthir bid the Evereskan rangers spread word all along the Sword Coast that he was in need of a pair of katanas of exceptional quality. The rangers lit out that morn, heartened by the chance to aid a brother in need and further encouraged by the offer of coin.

Though the rangers spread his message with great speed, weeks passed without a single reply. Sev came to understand that uniquely crafted katanas were indeed a rarity in this region, much more so than in the lands of his eastern origin where the skill of the Shaaran bladedancers was legendary. But here in the west such weapons were considered exotic, hard sought. When at last a response was received, it was most certainly not as anticipated.

On a particularly dark night, when the moon was yet new over Abeir-Toril and nary a creature stirred along the southern edge of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, a parcel was left at the gates of Doron Amar. So stealthily was it delivered that the gate wardens did not notice it until the light of dawn: a scroll case set on the ground, poised upon a tripod of bone. It bore the name Silverthorn.

The rangers hurried the parcel to its designated recipient, and Sevilthir received it with intense interest. A pungent smell of decay issued forth as he removed the cap from the scroll tube. He carefully spilled the contents onto a nearby table. It lay bound by a black seal, unmarked and so awkwardly applied that it pinned outward and took on the appearance of a small insect. Undaunted, in fact overly eager, Sev broke the seal and scanned the contents:

I remain in possession of the long lost blades of Aloria ap Ravar. Seek me out if ye dare.

Wide-eyed, Sevilthir reread the simple message several times, perplexed. For as was widely rumored along the Sword Coast, Aloria had long ago passed from the land of Faerun – indeed, Aloria ap Ravar was said to have passed altogether from the land of the living.

Interlude: A Shift in the Ranks
For days after receiving the message, Sevilthir kept it a much-guarded secret, partially out of wonder at what treasures might yet be revealed, but more due to an inexplicable fear of the unknown sender. The unsigned parcel had left him feeling vulnerable, apprehensive to take action. He found himself remaining quartered in an upper room at the Everae Jest, and did not even deign to take comfort with his kinsman beside the downstairs hearth. After a week of such aimless fretting, by then somewhat angered by his inertia, he steadied his nerve and resolved to uncover this mystery.

The name Aloria ap Ravar was entirely unfamiliar. Clearly this was the first piece of the puzzle to investigate. Sev’s mind shot to Ayla Elidole, renowned scholar of Candle Keep. He had long counted Ayla a close friend, and she was in fact the first person he had encountered at disembarking upon the Sword Coast. If there was a forgotten history to be regained, Candle Keep offered the best chance to find it. And thus, before ending his self-quarantine, Sev hastily penned a message to Ayla and beseeched her to research whatever information should could find about one Aloria ap Ravar; the Evereskan rangers would have it couriered within a day.

Yet, while Candle Keep offered hope, it was no guarantee. Stepping forth from the Jest for the first time in days, he set out to seek the ear of Eowiel Le’liana, Hand of the Mathora. Surely the Counsellor would know how to advise him, for he trusted her more than any other in this land. He solemnly strode out the gate with renewed purpose, the wind whipping at his cloak as he passed.

It did not take long to track down Eowiel. He found her at the western edge of the forest, locked in deep conversation with Levinil, a woman of the wilds and close ally of Doron Amar. When their business concluded, Sev imparted to the Hand that he must have word regarding his recent endeavor at a weapons purchase. He further relayed that this information was highly confidential and unfit for their open environs. With but a gesture from Eowiel, the trio of elves set a return course to Doron Amar. And it was during that trek through the Wood of Sharp Teeth that Eowiel Le’liana upturned the otherwise highly disciplined existence of Sevilthir Silverthorn.

“Sev, you have been long afield and may not be aware - Celasoran has stepped down as Captain of Doron Amar.” Sevilthir remained utterly silent. This change was completely unexpected, for he considered Cela to be at the very foundation of Doron Amar’s strength.

“In these recent months, you have proven your commitment to our people and our cause. This position cannot remain empty. I offer that you take up rank as Captain of the Mathora.”

The elf soldier’s jaw went slack, his mouth agape. He stammered out “But...but....”. His mind traced back to when he first encountered the fierce warrior along the Trade Way. Celasoran Longfeather had taken him under wing without hesitation, even offered him a position within his Grel Academy. The sun was warm upon the land that day....



The Hand met him with a stern look, compelling him into service of their noble folk. “Of course, Counsellor. I stand honored before you.” Sev released a heavy sigh, for he was certain Cela would have his head for this seeming act of betrayal; it would be easily misinterpreted.

“Very good then, we can discuss the details behind the safety of our own walls. Let us make haste.”

Back within the sanctity of Doron Amar, Eowiel led Sev and Levinil to the Council Hall. She then suggested they adjourn to the new Captain’s private office, which was the same chamber of the previous Captain. Sev’s conscience felt another twist of the knife; Cela was not only a close personal friend, but also a mentor whom he much admired. What would the others think of his upstart promotion? Cor’Selkerdrim of the Mathora Tel’Quessir. Would they help pry Cela’s iron grip from round his neck? As he settled into Cela’s highbacked chair - now his highbacked chair - a cold wave of trepidation swept over him. This could not possibly end well.

TWO: Ghosts of the Past
“Be assured no prying ears can penetrate these walls, for they are warded by powerful magics.” warned Eowiel. “Now what is this secret that you bear?”

No wonder she was Hand of the Mathora; her voice was commanding and returned his focus to the task at hand. “I believe you are aware of my recent search to improve upon these,” spoke Sevilthir as he rested a gauntlet on saber hilt at either side. The elf then reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a rolled parchment. He unrolled it upon the mahogany desk before him, spread the scroll flat, and read the contents aloud:

“I remain in possession of the long lost blades of Aloria ap Ravar. Seek me out if ye dare.”



A moment of silence ensued. “Well?” queried Sevilthir, “Do you either of you recognize this name?”

Levinil remained in bestial form, presumably because she had naught to offer, but Eowiel shifted forward in her chair, and matter-of-factly stated “Yes, I know this name, though not the person. Aloria was one of the founders of Doron Amar, our very citadel, and as well a member of the White Council. But she was lost to us many years ago, and remains an enigma to most of our folk. Alas, I regret I know nothing of the weapons she once wielded."

A second extended silence. Seated at Cela’s forfeited position, Sev could not help but feel as a steward awaiting the return of the truly entitled ranking officer. He stared at his reflection in the polished wood: Traitor or Usurper? Confidant or Backstabber? This would take some getting used to.

“Rhys,” came the smoky, sultry voice of Levinil. The druidess had returned to human form and now reclined in a red leather chair at the end of the table. The color of the padding matched her hair, a deep crimson highlighted with streaks of black, grey, white. Sev had always found the woman’s appearance quite striking. “I suggest you confer with the mage, Rhys Fevira, for he has walked among our kin since we first took stewardship of this wood. He is loquacious, that one, but his knowledge is vast. With patience, you might be able to extract a thing or two about this Ravar woman.”

“Wise advice, mistress, we must –“

“Sev,” interrupted Eowiel, “you are certain the guards found no other clues at the gates?”

“Nay, Counselor, no other evidence has yet been discovered.”

Eowiel was clearly unsatisfied with this response. “It is difficult to accept that our sentries neither heard nor observed any sign of an interloper at our very doorstep. We must reconsider who – or what – delivered this message.”

The trio exchanged uneasy glances. Eowiel’s words infused the moment with dread, rendered it with grim portent, and each wondered at what threat might lie in wait on the path ahead.

Eowiel gently pressed her fingers together. “I shall have a look myself when time affords. But now, come – we must seek out Rhys”.

THREE: Rendezvous on the Roof
Embers glowed orange-red-orange across the hearth, matching the bloodstones inset in the eye sockets of the worg head above the mantle. Eowiel and Sevilthir reclined before the fireside in the Friendly Arm Inn. It would be another hour before the scheduled rendezvous.



Sevilthir: Then you have commenced the hunt?

Eowiel: Yes. Our mysterious adversary is quite devious, enough so to evade the faculties of our rangers, a fact which is itself unnerving.

Sevilthir: I regret I was unable to join with you. But I would only have slowed you down, for my time as a hunter never quite got off the ground - no pun intended.

Eowiel: We are fortunate, for the trail has not yet run cold on us. Though difficult to detect, the sign was there. Deep, wedge-shaped indentations. Whoever made them is good with a blade and strong of hand.

Sevilthir: Then you interpret these markings to be that of a weapon?

A lilting voice interrupted from behind: Greetings, kin, I bid you good eve. Firelight reflected off the awkward features of Rhys Feivra, esteemed Master of the Arcane Tower of Doron Amar.

Eowiel: Rhys, we thank you for your prompt response to our summons.

Rhys, with the wave of hand: Not at all, nothing that a teleport spell cannot accommodate. Though I do somewhat regret leaving Myhun Kren in the middle of a most curious tale.

Sevilthir, noting an intensifying scuffle at the bar: Perhaps we had best adjourn to environs more conducive to conversation.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The elven trio reconvened on top of the squat tower keep otherwise known as the Friendly Arm. Sevilthir stoked a small fire, the flames flickering off angled faces and pointed ears casting eerie horned shadows across the battlements.



Eowiel: This is Sev's story to begin.

Sevilthir: Master Rhys, we are honored, for I have much need to gain your ear. A fortnight past I bid our Evereskan rangers spread word along the Sword Coast that I seek katanas of exceptional quality. In the weeks that have followed, we've received only one response, but a noteworthy one indeed. A message left unto our gate by unknown messenger: "I remain in possession of the long lost blades of Aloria ap Ravar. Seek me out, if ye dare."

Rhys, with an eyebrow raised high: Aloria?

Eowiel: You walked with her in the days of the founding of the White Council, did you not?

Rhys: To be honest, I did not know her well. Dajala Silverleaf was my master. I only met Aloria ap Ravar a few times. I remember her only vaguely.

Sevilthir: What can you tell us of her?

Rhys: Aloria left Doron Amar soon after its beginnings, but returned from time to time to observe our progress. I recall hearing that she was very pleased our community had chosen to name our settlement with one of the names she helped put forth. It was not long after our founding that Aloria ceased to play active role in Doron Amar.

Sevilthir: Most unfortunate, for I seek to learn more of the nature of Aloria's weapons. Is it possible to send word to your former master?

Rhys: That is not so easily accomplished, for Dajala passed long ago unto the shores of Evermeet.

Sevilthir, with a heavy sigh: Then the mystery remains cloaked in darkness. A shadow obscures the true intent of the one who left the message.

Eowiel: Not altogether hidden, young captain, for we have a trail to pick up. Rhys, I've found a marking, a cut made in stone with a blade. Triangular in appearance and very deeply cut.

Sevilthir: Counselor, I have not asked a most begging question: Where did the trail lead?

Eowiel: South past Beregost, past Nashkell, and then up - into the Cloud Peak Mountains.

Sevilthir, after a long pause: Eo, what do you make of this?

Eowiel, with conviction: A challenge.

Rhys: Could this be the handiwork of the betrayer, Toshiro, the Dark One?

Eowiel: There are very few clues to yet reveal our quarry - though whether they be quarry or prey we have yet to discern.

Sevilthir: The question must be asked: Do these swords remain with Aloria, such that she now reaches out to us from the shadow of the past? Or has another entity come into possession of her famed weaponry?



Eowiel: We shall attempt to unmask these answers on the morrow. Best prepare thy snow gear, for we set course into the Cloud Peaks.

Rhys, with each hand tucked into folds of sleeve on opposite arm: I continue to maintain the records of Doron Amar. While you take up the hunt, I shall further research Aloria. May the Seldarine watch over you in the journey ahead.

FOUR: Ascent Unto Ice & Mist
Sevilthir Silverthorn, comfortably secured behind locked door of his new office, sat behind a dark mahogany desk and mused over the life-changing events of the past weeks. First came the cryptic message, essentially taunting him to seek out the lost weapons of a Doron Amar founder. Then the sudden and unexpected promotion to Captain of the Mathora. That rapidly followed by Eloria’s discovery of marks at the gate, and then the trail that she traced south all the way to the base of the Cloud Peak Mountains.



Sev ran the many possibilities through his mind.... perhaps the blades had been acquired by one of the less-than-legitimate merchant guilds in the region.... or maybe this was but a mischievous trick being played out by one of those hin tricksters.... or, turning more grim, perhaps it was an ambush cleverly laid forth by some unknown nemesis, perhaps an enemy of Doron Amar.... or could the message have come from Aloria herself, at last reaching out to her kin after so many passing years? They would learn the answer soon enough. The elf soldier stood, slung a satchel to his side, draped his long greatcloak over his pauldrons, and made ready to set forth with Eowiel.

Upon pulling shut the heavy wooden door, Sevilthir encountered a hooded figure upon the steps of the Council Hall. Though cloaked and cowled, elven eyes glowed forth from beneath shadowed hood. “Greetings, kin, I have come at the bidding of the Hand. I am Catam D’Dargente, former Cor’Selkerdrim of the Mathora Tel’Quessir, at your service.”

Sev met the elf’s gaze with a respectful nod, but wondered at how many captains had now sat in the office chair he’d just left behind. Nevertheless, he deemed it fortuitous that Eowiel had summoned a trusted comrade to aid in the quest. “I stand honored before you, having been newly appointed to your former position, a rank recently held by Celasoran Longfeather but recently vacated.” The young captain closed by offering a fist-to-chest salute, which the former captain promptly returned.

“Most appropriate that you two have already exchanged introductions,” imparted Eowiel, having phased in as though from pure shadow. “It shall save us time, for we have a long road ahead and must be underway without pause. Captains one and all, we must be to the Peaks!”



After a long day of travel that included leaf-jumping by way of both Eowiel and Cattam, the trio had rested up and gathered supplies in the frontier settlement of Nashkell. None of the three spoke as they completed final preparations. Thick fur cloaks, bandanas to ward off the frost, boot fittings to better traverse the snow. At last they were ready to begin the ascent.

The three elves set out near midnight, with the two rangers carefully leading the young captain through the Nashkell Foothills. Lumbering forms moved amongst distant trees. Alas, there would be plenty enough fight upon the summit, no need to exhaust their reserves skirmishing with hill giants. Eowiel picked their way forward, running a hand over the indentations left by their quarry, darting through the shadows. Sev lacked the wilderness skill to blend with the landscape, but he was not without a graceful step and found it easy enough to keep up.

The trio gained the path up without challenge, but upon reaching the second switchback their advance was blocked by a massive armored knight. A winged helm rested heavy upon his head, and he wielded both shield and fork-tipped sword. With uncommon ease, the titan warrior stabbed the blade into a thin layer of ice and demanded “Catam D’Argente, what brings you to this trail head? Why lay challenge to the mount?”



“Here you stand before three elves,” stated Catam, “and yet you do not use the tongue of the woodkin as I taught you. Has thy thick helm become filled with rocks?”

The elf's query was met with a resounding tin guffaw. Then, in a voice much too deep for the elegant elvish language yet still grammatically correct, “Mae govannen, old friend.”

“Sir Nathaniel, Holy Crusader of Helm, we would be honored if you would join with our cause. We seek a lost set of relics once borne by Aloria ap Ravar.”

“I regret I do not recognize this name,” advised the Helmite.

“Aloria departed Doron Amar after the first Black Orc War,” added Eowiel. “During the early years of our colony, Aloria was a contemporary of Dajala Silverleaf.”

The paladin straightened upright. “Now this name I know, for I counted Dajala a close friend. I often brought her books. If this Aloria was friend to Dajala, then my sword is yours.”

“Welcome, Sir Nathaniel,” spoke Sevilthir, “With luck we shall strike the summit this very hour.”

As the party rose above the tree line, cold mist drifted out of the passes above, spilling forth like some ghostly vapor. Ahead lay Fang Pass, notorious for the unseen beasts that haunted it. Eowiel, with words to encourage the group, “Fear not–-no foe herein shall stay our path forward. Onward!”

The mists quickly wove thick about the party, consuming them so that each could barely see the person before them. Sev pushed up his bandana and pulled his greatcloak tighter about his shoulders. Ice ground beneath their boots, oft giving way to freezing slush that soaked through their leathers. Without warning, a heavy impact knocked the party from their feet. Springing to the side, Eo took note of the large boulder lodged into the snow, heard the next one whistling in overhead: “Incoming!! We are under attack - move!!” Boulders rained down from unknown assailants. The party raced forward, the elves rolling and spinning to avoid the bombardment while Nathaniel took the brunt upon his shield.

The party shot out of the canyon, practically rolling down a sleet-shod embankment before coming to rest in a wind-swept dale. Dusting flakes from their garb, the group paused to get their bearings. Eowiel brushed aside newly fallen snow. “Here, the indentations continue. Indeed, the trail has not yet gone cold on us--pun intended.” Sev and Catam offered a slight smirk. “A glimmer of light ahead,” noted Eowiel, “let us press on.”



With blades drawn, the party flanked a small encampment centered ‘round a pair of wagons. “Abandoned,” proclaimed Eowiel, lowering her bow. “Or eradicated,” added Sevilthir. For whatever lights burned behind those wagon windows, the lives of their occupants had long ago been extinguished. Sev prodded a set of bones with the tip of his saber. “Accursed snow apes,” imparted Catam. A howl broke out from the ridge beyond and refocused the group to the task at hand. “This way,” counseled Eowiel, “we’d best keep moving.”

At the base of the valley, a long draw led straightaway to a massive fortress that loomed in the distance. “Frost Keep,” announced Sir Nathaniel. “As bloody a pile of stone as ever you’ll set under foot.” The party made their way single file. Sev and the Helmite assumed point while Eo and Catam nocked arrows from behind. The sky turned an eerie soft violet as they neared a buttressed wall. Sev sensed they were drawing ever closer to the answers they sought.



Nathaniel pulled to a sudden halt and turned to face the others. “ This is where we make ready. I have fought here many times, and never without great challenge. I can get you into the courtyard, and likely into the keep beyond, but most certainly not without injury. Prepare yourselves, and follow fast on my heels!”

Sir Nathaniel Collins, Holy Knight of Helm the Watcher, knelt to the tundra and evoked the blessings of his god. Eowiel, Hand of the Mathora Tel’Quessir of Doron Amar, flung back her cloak for ready access to her quiver. Catam D’Argente, former Cor’Selkerdrim, uttered a spell that hardened his flesh to bark, winked at his comrades, and phased into shadow with but a smile and glint of steel. Last came Sevilthir Silverthorn, bladedancer from the Forest of Amtar and newly appointed Captain of the Mathora, wielding twin sabers and eyeing yonder portal with fierce determination.

Nathaniel charged forward without a word. Sev matched pace beside him. The two swordsmen clove their first challenger to the ground, outflanked the next with ease, then burst into the courtyard proper. A half-score of frost giants faced them down, and the pair took up a defensive stance.

The giant closest left slumped silently to the ground--as did the next just to its right. A third arrow pierced the eye of a charging berserker, snapping back the fiend’s neck and dropping him to the red-stained snow. But all went against the party when the frost mage at the back called down a nerve-sundering thunderclap that smote the court with a blinding flash. Shaken and unsteady of foot, Nathaniel surged forward and lay siege to the caster, thwarting deadly invocations. Sparks shot past on either side. The elf trio took advantage and launched themselves at the mage with full force. At last hey brought the towering foe to the ground with a spray of ice.



“We have breached the courtyard!” shouted Eowiel. “The doors to the keep are ours!”