Finding the Way: Wanderings of a Monk on the Sword Coast

[Caelin]

The footsteps fell heavy on the grass, and Bran Emberfist stood frozen as he listened. One, two, three, four, five, six. Silence. Without hesitating, Ban raised the small wand he had pulled from his belt and pointed it. A blast of lightning shot from the wand's tip, arcing through the air and eliciting a small cry of pain from the necromancer hiding invisible six paces away. Again the wand sparked, and again a cry of pain. The sound of foosteps picked up again as the necromancer ran, and Bran quickly followed. There was a stirring in the air at his back, and he whirled in time to see an skeletal figure raising an ax. Fists clenched, Bran rolled to one side and came up on his feet, ready to fight.

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"Again."
The voice rang sharp and commanding. Chest heaving, sheathed in a layer of sweat a lean, muscled youth pivoted on his right leg, he left shooting out in a roundhouse kick at his own head height.
"Again."
The foot lashed out again, but this time he overextended and, losing balance, toppled forward. No sooner had his foot touched the ground than a long staff whipped out and, clipping his heel, took his foot out from under him. The youth crashed to the ground with a cry of surprise.
"Upon completion of your technique you must be balanced, ready to step either forwards or backwards as the situation dictates. You must be Earth and then Water. Solid, then flowing, moulding yourself to your circumstances. Get up, Bran."
"Yes Master," the boy gasped as he rolled to his feet with questionable grace. He stepped back into place, resuming his stance.
"Low palm block," came the voice of the monastery's Master and the boy named Bran quickly obeyed. His rear hand shot forward and down, impacting an imaginary attack and knocking it towards the ground and off to the side.
"Again," came the commanding voice and Bran obeyed.

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Bran knew time was against him. Every second fighting the undead was a second of escape for his quarry. He attacked. Leaping into the air he spun, lashing out with a back-kick that snapped the skeleton's skull backwards. He lunged even as he landed, hardened fist driving into the ribcage sending shattered bones clattering to the ground.

There.

The sound of a footstep sent him quickly into pursuit. He closed the distance, running as quietly as he could to avoid drowning out the sound of his invisible opponent's feet. He had almost caught up when the air in front of him wavered, and a zombie-like form began to take shape. Grunting his frustration he leaped again to attack.

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"Your training is almost complete, Bran. Do you know what is missing?"
Bran sat kneeling on the ground, hs Master seated across from him. The young man's hair was golden colored, matching the shade of his unusual-colored eyes. A lion's eyes. He thought quickly, working his way through the possibilities. Sensing his time running short he blurted out "My technique, Master."
"Your technique is near flawless, Bran. You have grown in size and strength, and your endurance is sufficient. You lack experience."
Bran started, his mouth quick to protest. "I have fought Zhent from Daggerdale, Orcs -"
His words were cut short by a small hand gesture from his Master.
"You have never lived outside of the monastery, Bran. You have never hungered, not truly. You have not seen starving children, beaten wives, men murdered over dice games. You have been sheltered." The old man raised a hand to forestall Bran's growing desire to speak.
"This was not your choice, I know. We have raised you here in innocence, and your heart is pure. You are freed from the material desires of normal men, and that frees you to do right. But you must be able to temper the desire for justice with wisdom. Without wisdom, your skills are an arrow fired aimless into a sea of people."
"You are sending me forth, then?" It was a question said in the tone of a statement, for BRan knew the answer in his heart already. The solemn nod of his Master was all the reply needed.

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Bran dived through the entrance to the mine and came rolling to his feet. He looked frantically around and heard, somewhere in the distance, the sound of a door slamming shut and his heart sank. The musty smells of the abandoned mine hung low in the air. The goblins were no barrier, not really, but Bran knew that his chances of finding the necromancer were now almost nil. The goblins had claimed the mine, and it was a warren of passageways and rooms. He slipped into the shadows at the edge of the room and began to search the place, but he did not hold much hope.

Hours later, he stepped out from the Temple to Lathander in Beregost. He had reported all he knew of the brown clothed, brown-hooded man who had summoned the undead the Morninglord's servants inside. Bran was tired. He had failed, but he had tried. There was virtue in that. Finding a secluded place he sat, hands on knees and closed his eyes. He replayed the earlier events slowly in his mind, considering his words and actions at each step of the way from his first spying the man in brown to his failed search through the mines. He had failed, but he could learn.