Rysdan Syth: Rise of the Bloodbow

[Cradicalred]

Part 1: A Heartland Exile

“Another Dark,” commands the shrouded wood elf from the Oak Barrel’s darkest corner. More out of fear than respect, the barkeep responds without hesitation. “Here you are Mr. Syth. This one’s on us.” A dismissive gaze falls upon the barkeep from under the wood elf’s hood. “If there’s one thing I don’t mind paying for, it’s Berduskan Dark,” he demands as he nonchalantly tosses three coin on the heavily scarred and ale-stained table. “As you wish Mr. Syth,” as the barkeep scurries back to his post behind the bar.

“Who is that?” asks an elderly human sitting at the bar. With a simple shake of his head in response, it is clear Wendel, the barkeep, intends to avoid any conversation referring to “Mr. Syth.” Obviously inebriated, the elderly human stumbles his way over toward “Mr. Syth’s” corner, intending to satisfy his curiosity regarding the wood elf’s identity. “Hey…you,” the old man says approaching. “What’s your name boy? I’ve been a patron of this establishment since you were knee high to a steed. You think you can come in and…” And that was it. That’s all it took.

The moment the old man began to make his way toward “Mr. Syth’s” corner, the wood elf instantly took the initiative to reach for his tattered old longbow, proceeding to knock an arrow from under the table. Three steps later, in the middle of the old man’s sentence, the wood elf leaned back in his booth, extended his legs, and released and arrow which found its mark squarely on and through the old man’s larynx. As the wood elf relaxed in his booth, gasps filled the Oak Barrel. It hadn’t been three days since such a unified gasp could be heard from even the bowels of Berdusk. For it was three days prior that the city witnessed an assassination attempt on High Lady Cylyria Dragonbreast, during a public address.

“You know, people are beginning to talk Rysdan,” expresses a middle-aged wood elf, well into her 500th year. “With the Oak Barrel incident and your renown for your marksmanship…I mean, what’s it been, 16 years in a row now you’ve won the Sunset Vale Archery Competition?” Rysdan finishes his morning meal, seemingly ignoring his mother’s comments, and proceeds to tie his hair back with a dark green band, as was his custom.

“Rysdan…was it you?” she inquired. Rysdan turned to face his mother Lilliana. As their eyes locked, Rysdan’s began to narrow. Dismissively, Rysdan slowly approached her, kissed her cheek and muttered, “Thank you for the meal mother, I must be going.” “Damnit Rysdan, you musn’t ignore me! I birthed you! I’m your mother! Now was it you?!” Lilliana exclaimed pounding her fist into her son's chest.

Her and many other's curiosity had been riled about whether or not Rysdan was the assailant responsible for Lady Dragonbreast’s near death. “Shhhhhhh,” Rysdan responded pressing his finger to his mother’s lips. “Come now mother. Since when have you known me to miss my mark? Should I have been hired to take the High Lady’s life…why then, does she still breathe?”

This would be the last conversation between Lillliana Syth and her only son, Rysdan…

[Cradicalred]

Part 2: Into the Wilderness: West along the Chionthar

As Rysdan Syth left the world he knew in Berdusk, he began to make his way west along the River Chionthar. It had been 40 days since he left his mother Lilliana...

“How…how did you find me?!” exclaimed a shuddering High Lord Dhelt as the shrouded figure deliberately approached. “By Helm’s grace….how did you get past my Hell Riders?!” “Shhhhhhh…Come now Lord Dhelt. You knew this day would arrive,” stated the cloaked one, as he reached for a blood red longbow slung over his left shoulder. “No use in delaying the inevitable is there? Hmmmm? Any last words before….”

Suddenly, the grinding rhythm of steel on stone interrupted the confrontation as the sound of footsteps filled the hidden stairwell beneath the Hell Rider’s conference room at the High Hall. “One word…and you’ll all die this day,” whispered the intruder to High Lord Dhelt. “One word,” he stated clearly before vanishing right before Lord Dhelt’s eyes. “Sir, we have some troubling news,” clamored one of the three Hell Rider’s as they rushed over to Lord Dhelt from the narrow stairwell. “There’s been an invasion my lord! Captain Borin sir…he’s dead.” High Lord Dhelt slowly lowered his head as he took a hard swallow of what appeared to be a palpable fear.

“Your orders my lord?” “Return to your barracks at once!” he shouted violently. “Ulric, Tybalt, Fendrel do as I say!” “But my lord,” questioned Leiutenant Ulric. “Call together the elders of Elturel and reassure them that Captain Borin’s death was an accident. Am I clear?” “An accident my lord? But…” “Leave my presence at this instance Ulric! Do as I command!” “As you wish my lord,” responded Ulric with his curiosity riled but never to be satisfied.

As three of Elturel’s finest Hell Riders departed, the shrouded figure materialized before Lord Dhelt’s very eyes. With a subtle clap, a bow, and a grin he mocked, “Well done my lord. You’re quite the thespian you know?” “Go on, get it over with you bastard!” shouted Lord Dhelt. “Oh no. You see, my work here is done.” “Wha…what?!” The shrouded figure slowly pulled back his hood to reveal his identity to Lord Dhelt. Looking into the wood elf’s eyes he could only muster one word, “Bloodbow.” The wood elf smiled proudly as if he’d been awarded an honorific title.

“You see Dhelt, as much as I enjoy a good bloodletting I quite fancy triggering a good old fashioned existential crisis or two from time to time as well. No…you see, killing you would be too easy. Instead, I’ll let you deal with your feigned piety as you explain to Helm why it is you lied to three of your finest and to the citizens of Elturel.” Lord Dhelt’s anger quickened as the wood elf disparaged his faith…his morality. He fell to his knees, considering the compromise he was forced to make. “Syth! Take my life and take it now! May Helm use you to fell me this day!” he exclaimed weeping. “To what end you fool? You’ve died this day without my hand…my touch!” The wood elf slowly pulled his hood back over his head, slinging his red bow over his left shoulder, and leaned forward resorting to a whisper. “Now go and dig your own grave...”

[Cradicalred]

Look at them…the way they prance, flaunting their elitism about for elf, human, hin alike. And to think, I thought it in my best interest once to serve them…to die for their cause. Live and let live Wythran asks…and for now, I’ll oblige. After all, it is beyond the scope of any coastal colony to define a Berduskan, a Heartlander.

It seems some bonds are never broken…and for that I am thankful. I needn’t mention any names, you know who you are. For your loyalty, the greatest reward I can offer…mine. The road ahead is a dark one, paved with misfortune for friend and foe. But in the end one remains…rising like ether, falling like rain…


R-

[Cradicalred]

Part 3: Liberation Found

Few things in life can derail us like the death of a loved one. Kingdoms rise and fall, the pages of endless tomes continue to turn over and over with the lick and flicker of an index finger, the seconds march, driving home an infallible, rhythmic consistency as we place our blind faith…in time’s hands…

The frail elf sits, weeps in the darkest corner of his mother’s kitchen…the one where the root vegetables are kept to extend their life. “Ironic isn’t it?” A voice calls out as a sliver of light intrudes from underneath the opening front door, invading Rysdan’s privacy, his person, as it casts itself forcibly up his pant legs, onto his tear-soaked tunic, and splashes against his glistening cheeks and chin before disappearing abruptly with a creak and a slam. “In the very corner where your mother sought to maintain, extend life….you find yours fading quickly, slipping through your feeble hands.”

Rysdan’s gaze fails to address the voice as it remained fixed to his mother’s limp, mangled body strewn across the kitchen floor. “Your crestfallenness is rather disappointing Rysdan. Surely you’ve not reattached yourself to the romanticism of normality? You are a killer….simple as that…incapable of love.” The shadowy figure paces about the kitchen; his features well concealed by a cloak the color of the night sky, empty of stars. “It…is a shame however that it took me, taking your mother’s life, to remind you of this…son.”

Thirteen months later….

The Trade Way never looked so inviting. The portion between Candlekeep and Beregost, travelled often by the Berduskan born elf, well covered in a variety of leaves, from orange, to red, to yellow, appeared this time much as a prepared, lush carpet laid out in expectation of his arrival. There was only one person in the world that could provide some sort of comfort, some solace, and some refuge for Rysdan and his mission was to find her. With an ornate wooden box in hand he made his way back to Baldur’s Gate…a brand new world, dressed in lilacs…

[Cradicalred]

Part 4: Memory Lapse

Funny how truth changes; no...how time changes truth. And if perception is reality, then what is truth? Is the truth then what is real?

"He looks healthier, yeah?" said Ida, the plump dwarven keep of Northwinds Tavern in Icewind Dale. "He'll come around," a voice grumbles from near the fireplace. "Quite a fall, he had." The male dwarf, elderly in his own right, slowly stood to his knees and made his way over to Rysdan. His body lay still on the bed; the covers drawn half way up his abdomen. Ida gently brushed the elves bangs aside while he slept, a concerned look fixed upon her face.

Four years later...

A hero's return is triumphant, celebratory. Then what is a villain's? Even the most vile of serpents return to nest, to recover, to regroup. Do people change...or does the truth change? Reality or perception?

The last leg of Rysdan's return was interrupted by a brief respite along the Cliffs of Candlekeep. He made camp at the abandoned lighthouse where he used to go to find peace. He pulled out his leatherbound journal, slowly flipping through the pages until he found a blank one. After finding his quill he began to write:

Ida and Calaius,

Just writing to let you know I made it to Beregost safely. I'll be staying here for a while. Who knows, perhaps I'll find some old friends or make new ones. Either way...things are different now. I'm just not sure if they're better...or worse.

I'll write you soon.

Be well,

Rysdan

[Cradicalred]

The Price of Freedom

It seemed almost too good to be true. It had been five years, after all, since that thing attached itself to my conscience...my soul. I'd tried everything to eradicate it; scholars, magi, potions, spells, blessings...to no avail.

I met Omar on the Trade Way outside the Friendly Arm just two days prior. At first impression I found him a pious fool. And as it stands, a holy fool is still a fool. Nonetheless, I am trying to be better about making new friends...experiencing new things. Gods it hurts to write that.

Yesterday I ran into Omar again in the same spot. I've come to learn it a popular one among the locals. He actually meandered up as I was speaking to the bodyguard, Mary. Talk about irritable. I must say, I enjoy her sense of humor though.

Omar, Mary and I began to speak about truth and piety and living in the past versus the present...something I am an expert on. As the evening progressed we were joined by a cousin. I assume she is living in Doron Amar but I cannot be sure. And I didn't catch her name.

Our conversation on piety led down an unexpected path; one that would reveal my past as the favored of Shevarash. I told them of my time with the Black Archers here along the Trade Way and how we used to make expeditions to the underdark to exterminate the dark ones. This was an easy transition, after all, with my past...."extermination" experience.

I explained how that all changed and how I betrayed my brethren. I don't have many regrets in life, but this is one of them. It is a moment of weakness and one I am not proud of. Simply admitting this, for me, is progress.

In exchange for my betrayal I received a great deal of power...some of it supernatural. In the beginning I could not control it, but over time I became stronger than the Link...or it became weaker. It became a switch I could flick on and off. But there was always the fear in the back of my mind that it would return to its previous level of power. I found the notion terrifying.

I allowed Omar and the cousin to remove my finger...the one where the band grafted itself. The pain was unbearable, but well worth the price. Omar was able to quickly heal the wound and the finger regenerated. I keep it in my satchel, wrapped in soft leather, band still grafted.

From here I plan to take it to the elders at Doron Amar; a place I swore to never step foot into. I betrayed them all; Wthyran, Dajala, Aloria, Siomir, Alarice, Elrithmithrade...the list goes on. I won't dwell on that here...and five years is but a blink for an elf. I am not looking for absolution...and would settle for and impasse.

R-