They Might Be Heroes: Series 1

For those of you that don't know me particularly well, I'm a huge Dungeons and Dragons fan. I love being able to create a character and live vicariously through their adventures. As a result of this passion, I tend to write pretty extensive "backstories" for my characters which help both myself and my DM get a better idea of hte direction I'd like the character to go. What follows is the first one that I was really proud of, as well as some stories for support characters in his world.

To paraphrase Bo Burnham: Just because someone's not real, it doesn't mean they don't have feelings.

I'm not particularly pleased with how Zeraphel's story wound down, but I'm very happy with the rest.

Not that it matters particularly, but these characters were created under D&D 4E, and this story was originally posted to Facebook on May 17th, 2013.

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Zel'Marak
Changeling Assassin

            The orders were simple enough – eliminate Faerun Malacar. Human, male, an initiate of the druidic order. The job promised to be a quick one; sneak in, eliminate the target, escape quietly. Zel'Marak, however, perceived subtleties (his) superiors seemed to ignore. The druids of this region were rightly suspicious of the Night Stalkers. They viewed the guild as profane, as if it somehow desecrated nature by its very presence.
            'That makes sense, I suppose,' thought Zel'Marak. 'Our business is to end life prematurely, which disrupts the natural cycle of life and death. Misdirection also contravenes the serenity sought by druids in nature.'
            Reason always felt relevant, especially before the fulfillment of a contract, but it also made completing assignments much more volatile. Reason forced one to consider the repercussions of one's actions, perhaps even more broadly than one's immediate surroundings. This particular job had many such repercussions. If the druids suspected foul play, the guild would be the first target of their ire, and they may take severe measures to avenge the death of one of their own.
            Regardless, the pay was sufficient, and one does not refuse direct orders from the guild. The Night Stalkers valued loyalty quite highly. Unfortunately, while Zel'Marak thought highly of this particular ideal, the guild was never something to which (he) felt particularly loyal. It was an occupation; a way to satisfy curiosity about the world and to hone (his) skills. They seemed to think that they were fulfilling some deeper purpose through their crimes, when in reality they were essentially petty thugs. Quite skilled, yes, but serving no greater ideal than that of economy.
            (His) brooding was interrupted by the faint sound of chanting. (He) was getting close. (He) faded into the shadows and continued onwards. So thick was the canopy above, and so skilled was (he) at hiding, that not even the creatures of the forest could detect him here. The druids would have no forewarning of (his) presence.
            Soon (he) came upon a small clearing in the wood. Around its edge was a ring of hooded figures, chanting the unintelligible rites of druidic passage. The ceremony was beyond (his) grasp, but the sight of the target kneeling before another robed figure meant (he) was too late. (He) cursed silently – things are now more complicated. But patience is not something that Zel'Marak lacked. If (he) couldn't convince the druids that their new recruit simply fled from trepidation, (he) would have to take a more subtle approach.
            After several hours, the druids finally began to disperse. Admittedly, the ceremony was intriguing, but remaining undetected throughout proved to be more difficult than Zel'Marak would have liked. (He) found (himself) to be stiff in several uncomfortable places. 'Probably for the best,' (he) thought. (His) next move would require the emulation of a certain new initiate, who probably didn't appreciate having to kneel for as long as he did. As Faerun moved away, Zel'Marak followed. The hunt was on.
            It wasn't long before the new druid was left alone with his thoughts. He was meant to become one with nature, to embrace his new forest home. He did so with a smile alighting his face, unaware of the fate that would shortly befall him. He promptly nestled himself in the moss and began to marvel at the rite he had only just finished, and ponder thoughts about what he would become.
            As he did so, the shadow of Zel'Marak slowly crept closer. There was no rush; only the objective. (He) studied the human sitting before him – legs crossed, eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling as he basked in the forest around him. It was too risky to let him interact with others. The job had to be completed while the he was completely alone, isolated from his peers. This would make integration much harder, but it was a risk that had to be taken.
            After several minutes of carefully choosing (his) steps, Zel'Marak finally reached his target, who was completely oblivious of (his) presence. Without the slightest hint of a sound, (his) shortsword slowly left its sheath. It made its way to rest a hair's breadth away from the back of the meditating human. Then, with a quick movement, the blade was thrust forward, piercing the heart of the target. As the blade moved, so too did its wielder. Zel'Marak sprang into action, cupping the target's mouth with (his) pale, blue hand, and slowly used (his) body weight to force the human down. As (he) did so (he) faded completely from sight – a mere shadow with cruel intentions.
            Faerun's eye were now wide open, and were filled with shock and despair. His life had only just started to gain momentum, only to be taken away by a silhouette. As the light faded from his eyes, Zel'Marak slowly laid him down. As (he) sheathed (his) sword, (he) suddenly came back into view, seemingly from nowhere. (He) took a quick measure of his surroundings; nothing seemed terribly out of place (aside from the corpse at (his) feet). It was a clean kill.
            Now for the hard part.
            It wasn't long before the druid was shed of his nondescript robes and melded with the forest not far from the clearing. The discovery of his corpse would certainly put a damper on the changeling's plan. After quickly washing the blood from the robes, (he) donned them. After another quick glance at where he'd buried the human, it was time to set things in motion. With but a thought (he) began to change. (His) blue skin reddened, (his) brilliant white hair shifted and darkened, (his) shoulders broadened. Soon, he was his target.
            However, there was still much to learn. After stowing (his) belongings in the nearby brush, (he) glanced idly back at the patch of moss where Faerun had been sitting. (He) slowly sank onto it and crossed his legs, closing his eyes.
            "So nature," (he) softly spoke to the forest, (his) voice that of the young human he had just slain, "tell me your secrets."

…

            It had been one month since Zel'Marak assumed the role of the human druid, Faerun. (He) found the druidic order to be painfully tedious, if not downright boring. As (he) diligently washed the robe before him, (he) heard the soft sound of approaching feet. 'At least the company is nice,' (he) thought.
            "Hail, Faerun!" (He) paused from (his) duties and smiled back at (his) friend and mentor, Anastasia. Her small elvish frame deftly navigated the roots and branches of the rough forest to join (him) by the river. "How are you today?"
            "Quite well, thank you." The smile still sat stoically upon (his) lips. By far the most tolerable part of (his) new existence was Anastasia. She was kind, gentle, and highly intelligent; by all means a good match to (his) more analytic personality. (He) found her to be fascinating, given (his) current predicament, and was glad that (he) had her as a friend. It couldn't last forever, (he) knew. Each day was spent thinking of a way out; a way to truly dispose of Faerun Malacar and return to the guild. As much as (he) was learning, this was not (his) life. (He) had (his) own that needed living (to such an extent as a changeling can field individuality, in any case). Still, it was good to have a companion in the mean time.
            The air of the small clearing soon filled with soft laughter as the two conversed. It was short-lived, however. Out of the corner of his eye Zel'Marak noticed the smallest of disturbances in the trees to (his) left. It was a movement that (he) recognized. (His) brow darkened slightly, and (he) became silent.
            Anatasia tilted her head slightly in confusion. "What's wrong? Why are you suddenly so quiet?"
            "There's something I just realized I must attend to. Would you excuse me?"
            "Certainly. Do hurry back, though. I'd hate to be left with your cleaning!" While her voice sounded cheerful, her eyes betrayed worry. She did not understand what was happening, but it troubled her. Still, out of respect she said nothing. (He) was grateful for that. This wasn't something that (he) could easily explain.
            With that, (he) gave her a quick, tight-lipped smile, and arose, walking not to the North, from where he'd seen the movement, but to the West. (He) quickly disappeared into the shadows.
            After a few minutes of walking (he) heard a familiar voice from behind him. "You're rather perceptive for a druid."
            With a grim smile, Zel'Marak turned to see a stout Drow leaning against a tree, idly spinning a knife in his fingers. His eyes never left the 'human' standing before him, and he wore a slight smirk. "You should know by now that not everything is what it seems, Zaraphel."
            Suddenly the smirk grew to a smile, and then a laugh as he deftly flipped his knife into the air, catching it by the tip with hardly a thought, then spinning it into the sheathe mounted on his lower back. "Ha! I suspected you were up to something, brother. Granted, I didn't expect this! The life of a druid wears you poorly, my friend."
            "Be that as it may, there are larger implications at work here. I haven't yet found a way to slip away without leaving loose ends."
            "Loose ends being... the girl?" The cruel smile that found its way onto Zeraphel's face sent a shiver down Zel'Marak's spine. (He) knew precisely what that smile meant, and did not approve.
            "Loose ends being suspicion, brother. You know as well as I that the best assassinations occur without the help of an assassin." The longer the smile remained on the other's face, the more it disgusted (him). (He) would kill if the situation required it, and would steal from those with some form of excess without a second thought, but some crimes are unforgivable. Zeraphel had committed all of them.
            Zeraphel let out a quiet howl of laughter. "Always thinking, brother! Always thinking! That's what I like about you. In any case, I think I've got your escape plan. These druids have quite a few enemies, it seems. This next one we won't be able to hide. I could casually 'take care' of the meddling human during my dealings."
            "I see." He was right. If another was to be killed openly, then 'Faerun' could be eliminated with relative ease. "You realize we can't recover the body. It's been hidden for some time now, and the forest is rather damp."
            "Don't worry brother. What I had in mind won't really leave a body behind," he said, a cruel smirk still resting upon his face. "In fact you may want to leave beforehand. Things are going to get a bit messy."
            A slight frown crept onto Zel'Marak's face. "You're probably right. I suppose this is where we part ways for now."
            "I'll see you back at the guild." And with that, he turned to leave.
            "Oh, Zeraphel." The curt summons caused the Drow to turn back, a look of confusion on his face. "Don't let me see you again. You're better than that."
            After another burst of amused laughter, the drow was gone from sight. Zel'Marak waited for a minute to ensure that Zeraphel was indeed gone, then (he) turned back East. There was but one more task ahead of (him).
            (He) arrived back at the river to find Anastasia staring idly into the clear waters, her brow slightly knit. (He) could have made it to her silently, but instead (he) pointedly broke a twig under his padded boots. The Elf jumped at the sound, and turned smiling back to 'Faerun.'
            "There you are! I was starting to get worried!" She rose to approach (him).
            "I would be lying if I said I've been meaning to talk with you, but there's something I must tell you regardless." There would be no easy way of saying this. Every instinct in (his) body was urging him to leave now, and forget about the girl, but somehow (he) couldn't bring himself to leave without her knowing the truth.
            Her brow knit once again, and a frown found its way onto her slender lips. "I'm listening, as always. What is it Faerun?"
            "That's it precisely." (He) paused for a moment, unable to get the words past the nervous lump building in (his) throat. (His) eyes found hers, and with a swallow, (he) continued. "I'm not Faerun."
            (He) closed his eyes, and began the transformation back into (his) true form. What had once been a fair-skinned human was now something out of a nightmare. The pure black of (his) eyes boldly offset the white of (his) hair and the pale blue of (his) skin. Considering the transformation that just occurred, (he) was a little surprised that Anastasia appeared to be merely shocked.
            The look of confusion in her eyes soon turned to fear, and then anger. "You... You... What have you done with him? How long..."
            "Since his initiation. Faerun Malacar is dead." (His) tone was somber and direct. There was no need for deception anymore; just the truth. (He) had already resigned himself to the consequences of (his) choice.
            "Why are you telling me this? Why are you showing me this?"
            "I've been searching for a way to leave. I've found it. You will not see me again. I felt I couldn't leave without saying goodbye."
            "But WHY!?" Tears were now streaming from her eyes. She felt betrayed, (he) knew, and likely terrified.
            "Because I respect you. You deserve to know the truth. For what it's worth, I'm sorry." (He) began to slowly turn away, but paused and turned back briefly. "You should leave this place."
            With that, Zel'Marak walked away. He heard a thump as Anastasia collapsed in a sobbing heap. Everything she knew had been shattered. She had no way of knowing what was real. Every conversation they'd ever had was a lie. (He) desperately wanted to comfort her, but (he) knew there was nothing (he) could do; not now. The merciful thing to do was to leave. (He) didn't even look back.
            (He) returned to the clearing where (he) first became Faerun and retrieved his pack. (He) had hidden it well enough that it hadn't even been disturbed by the wildlife. (He) quickly changed into his armour, now feeling uncomfortable in the extra weight. Everything was going back to normal.
            No, not normal. (He) decided at that moment that (he) would not be returning to the guild. (He) couldn't handle that; not yet. (He) glanced at the canopy above, focusing on the golden sunlight shifting through the leaves. 'I think it’s time I gave the rest of the world a try,' (he) thought.

Traits: Careful, intelligent, reasonable, analytical, patient.


Mark of Scribing

            It was a quiet night. The crickets idly chirped as Malacath tended to his work. He liked the quiet. The quiet made him productive; gave him time to think.
            And there was so much to think about.
            A creak in the chamber's small wooden door brought him out of his brooding. He looked up to see his maidservant Valana enter the room. "Hello, young one."
            "I hope I'm not disturbing you, master. I've brought tea."
            "Thank you. Just place it on the desk." The distraction essentially passed, he went back to quietly scribbling away in his journal. He listened carefully as Valana's steps approached. She carefully placed the tray she was carrying upon the desk and turned to leave. He noticed her curtsy respectfully and smiled.
            Your respect is a kindness, child.
            The acknowledgement was in Elvish, as if he were not thinking, and had become too absorbed in his work.
            He was never unthinking.
            So long as I serve, the kindness is yours, master.
            There it was. Valana responded in fluid Elvish, a meek smile upon her face. As she turned to leave, Malacath reached below the desk and grasped the hilt of the shortsword hidden there.
            Valana did not know Elvish. She had just revealed her true self.
            With a sweeping motion Malacath stood, sending his chair flying backward to crash against the wall. As he did so he drew his sword, shadows gathering around it. As the blade arced through the air, the shadows leapt forth, taking a surprised Valana to her back as they collided with her chest as she turned. Her head made a profound thunk as it collided with the stone floor, causing her eyes to roll back in her head. Parchment, disrupted by the violent outburst, slowly began settling in the growing pool of blood around the felled maidservant. As they did so, she began to change.
            The rosy red of (her) cheeks began to bleed away, replaced with a sickly blue. (Her) flowing brown hair shifted to a blazing white, now tainted pink by speckles of blood. (Her) eyes, once innocent and full of charm, soon became the stuff of nightmares, murky shadows swimming through their charcoal void. Unable to focus through the pain, the changeling reverted to its true form. Defeat was scrawled across (her) face, and shock could be found in what gasps and sputters remained of its voice.
            You... You know me...
            This, too, was in fluent Elvish. A single, bloodied tear rolled down (her) face. All mirth gone from his visage, Malacath coolly approached and knelt beside (her), cradling (her) head in his robes.
            Yes, child.
            For now, there was nothing more to say. More and more tears began flowing from the eyes of the creature before him – She emanated the most pure and unadulterated despair he had ever encountered. Utterly broken, the changeling just waited to die; wished it with all (her) being. But life hung on by a slender thread, not yet ready to sever.
            Be at peace, child, your mission no longer matters.
            Ho-- A cough burst from (her) mouth, sending speckles of blood before (her) that hung in the air for a moment that seemed an eternity. (She) could not force her inquiry through (her) pain.
            It matters not, child. It is ended. I know why you were sent, and know that I was sent to stop you.
            He took a moment to gaze into (her) eyes. He couldn't help but feel sorry for (her), but he knew that he had done the right thing. Still, the piteous creature before him left a distinctly unpleasant taste in his mouth.

            What did you do with the girl?
            A small smile appeared on (her) face.
            She is free. I offered her a chance to escape, and she took it. I brought her to no harm.
            (She) grimaced as (she) finished, but (she) visibly relaxed at the thought of her deed. This was no monster. Just a scared child, about to die. He took the time to whisper the (girl) a few small words of encouragement, and gently laid her head to the stone floor. With a resolved grimace and a quick stretch, Malacath stood and turned to the door. There was still work to do.

…

            Malacath slowly descended the dark stairwell. It was a dreary place, but his client was safe here, and that was what mattered. As his foot touched the cold stone below the final step, he was met with the scowling glare of his own face.
            "Take that off, creature. It doesn't suit you. You are not to impersonate me in my own presence!"
            With a respectful nod, Zel'Marak shed (his) disguise, showing (his) true form.
            "Well? Out with it! Is it done?" The man was clearly impatient. It had been days since he'd left his stronghold, for fear of his life.
            "Indeed it is." Zel'Marak closed (his) eyes and sighed softly as he remembered the scene he had witnessed. "The changeling will trouble you no more."
            "And about time, too! This place is damp, dank. No place for books. Now my research can continue." He straightened his robes and started toward the staircase.
            "I believe there is a matter of payment." Malacath stopped in his tracks and angrily turned on Zel'Marak.
            "Payment? You left me down here for days, damn you! Days! Can you even begin to fathom the knowledge I could have gleaned if not confined to this prison? And I suppose you've left my home in a dreadful mess as well! Why should I pay you? Tell me! Why!?"
            "Your temper gets the best of you, scholar." Zel'Marak's steely gaze stole all of Malacath's fury. He took a small step back, then straightened his robes once again. This seemed to be a compulsion, as if any wrinkle were somehow an affront to his status as the town's most practiced scholar.
            "I suppose you're right about that. It must be the musty air down here, yes..." Again, the robes were straightened. Malacath hastily cleared his throat. "Yes, payment. As agreed, one astral diamond. Though you've gouged me, you have also saved my life, and so I thank you." He held out his palm, atop which rested a brilliant diamond.
            Zel'Marak reached out to retrieve his prize, pausing briefly as his client twitched when he picked up the stone.
            Safe travels, scholar.
            Malacath seemed unsure of how to react in parting. He shifted nervously for a few seconds, then, nodding his head and straightening his robes once again, turned and headed up the stairs. About halfway up, the scholar stopped and turned back briefly.
            "Um, er, if I may..." He seemed unsure of how to ask the next question, for fear of offending the assassin before him. "If I may be so bold, um... Well, who was it, exactly?"
            "Your maidservant, Valana. A clever ruse, but not unbreakable."
            "Ah yes, of course. Valana, really..." He seemed deep in thought as he turned back up the stairs. "The poor dear..."
            Zel'marak waited until he heard the door close above. Only then did (he) move to follow. As (his) foot touched the first stair, (he) began to change.

…

            "Ah, mistress Anastasia, you have returned at last." The gnome cleric, Horgamash, jumped down from his stool before the bloody table and rushed to shake the slender elf's hand. "I trust you have the payment."
            With a smile and a curt nod, Anasatasia reached into her simple robes and retrieved the diamond. It glowed in the soft candlelight, mesmerizing the gnome.
            "Of course, master cleric." As the gnome greedily reached for the stone, Anastasia's slender hand closed in a swift motion, breaking the gnome's trance. "You are sure this will work, I presume."
            "Yes, of course mistress." Horgamash shook his head, as if waking from a dream, and moved back to the table. A changeling lay upon it, a wound in (her) chest. (She) was no longer breathing. He deftly sprung onto his stool and began to quietly chant.
            As he did so, a soft glow began to emanate from his fingertips. The glow spread over the body before him, and soon began to do its work. The wound in the (girl's) chest began to mend. (Her) skin, a deathly pale, soon began to darken. After several minutes, (her) dead, soulless eyes became once again vibrant with distant shadow. (Her) chest now fully healed, (her) lungs began to once again fill with the breath of life.
            The resurrection was complete.
            Anastasia breathed a sigh as the (girl's) eyes began to blink slowly. A small groan escaped (her) lips, and her once lifeless limbs began to creak and crack as they once again saw life. She opened her palm once again, and the gnome's eyes shone with excitement. He quickly scurried over to the elf and slowly, carefully plucked the stone from her grasp. He backed away in a hurried motion, bowing and thanking her profusely, before rushing to his desk to inspect his new prize.
            "If you would be so kind, master Horgamash, I'd like a moment alone with the girl."
            "Oh yes, of course, where are my manners. This must be quite a reunion, after all, for you to seek such lengths... Oh yes, pardon me." He quickly made his way through a portal at the back of the small chamber, securely closing it behind him. Anastasia turned her attention to the newly risen (girl), now sitting on the bloody table.
            "You... I..."
            Quiet child. Words are needless. I require only your ear.
            The (girl's) eyes widened slightly.
            "You... But... You killed me..." Incredulity quickly became fear as (she) struggled to try and back away, but in (her) and (her) body's confusion, (she) could do little more than shiver.
            Desist. The command was pointed, and the changeling froze as soon as it was spoken. Another tear slowly made its way down her cheek.
            If I wanted you dead, I would not have brought you back. Anastasia gracefully approached the (girl) and wiped the tear from her eye. Again, I require only your ears.
            Confused, the (girl) managed a small, fearful smile, and nodded.
            You have chosen a dark path. The hunters do not sit well with you. This is clear. I must ask you to trust in me when I tell you that you will find no solace there. I have given you a second chance; a chance to be free, and to live a simple life. I can sense your desire to do this; to escape what you have become. I bid you to be free. Go home, child.
            I do not know how to repay you for this. All that you have done...
            Thank me by living a full life. I expect you to pass on this kindness. I have seen good in you, and I have seen innocence. I have shown you fear. I have shown you darkness. This is not the life you seek.
            The (girl's) arms suddenly came to rest around Anastasia's neck. (She) stifled sobs as she pushed her graciousness past the growing lump in her throat. "Thank you, sister. May your form always be true." The embrace was short, but it was filled with love. When they parted, (she) wiped her eyes and held out a welcome hand. "Of course, I have been known by many names, but to my closest friends I am Pariah."
            Zel'Marak took it and gave it a firm shake. "And I am Zel'Marak. If you chance across this name, I would care to see you again. Safe travels, sister." After another tender embrace, the two parted. Pariah, after a pointed glance back at Zel'Marak, left the room using the door that the Gnome did not. As it closed, Zel'Marak stared at it for a long time. (He) wasn't sure why he had brought the (girl) back. By all rights, she should have remained dead. It felt, however, as if the right action had been taken. A warmth grew inside the changeling that defied all logic. It was terrifying, but at the same time comforting.
            There was still much to ponder.
            Zel'Marak's brooding was interrupted as the gnome re-entered the small room. "Oh, she's gone." Startled, (he) quickly turned to face the speaker. "Ah, I apologize, mistress. Is there anything else you require of me?"
            "No, thank you master Horgamash. You performed admirably." (He) turned back to the door. As (he) did so, the gnome let out a small gasp.
            "You... Mistress, destiny must indeed favour you. Your mark glows strong this day."
            Zel'Marak turned back in confusion. "My mark?" Out of the corner of (his) eye (he) briefly caught his reflection in one of the room's mirrors. On (his) face there glowed a small glyph.
            A dragonmark.
            "Yes, I suppose it does." (He) reached up and gently felt the glowing glyph. I felt the same as any skin (he) had touched before, but somehow different as well.
            Much to ponder, indeed.

EVENTS: Unaligned → Good, Dragonmark of Scribing acquired.

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Anastasia Durandil
Elf Druid (Primal Predator)

            Anastasia slowly walked through the forest on her way to find Faerun. She had heard he was attending to chores near the northern river clearing, and having finished her own chores for the day she intended to join him. He was always much more methodical in performing his duties, which she admired greatly.
            Faerun had only been initiated into the order a month ago, but he had been proving to be a dedicated student of nature. She had not met him before his initiation, which was in large part why she had been assigned as his mentor, but she had heard stories from her peers. To the others he seemed arrogant, almost entitled, but when she met him this was not the case. When he became initiated the others noticed a change as well.
            "You must be a calming influence on him, Annie!" her sister, Kelwyn, often joked. This often evoked a blush upon the fair elf's cheeks.
            Regardless, she was glad she met him when she did. She looked forward to their daily lessons. Faerun was an eager student, always listening and taking her lessons to heart. He was not a very good spellcaster, but his eagerness always brought a smile to her face. In truth, she enjoyed his company more than that of friends she had known for years. He had a very analytical approach to life, but he was kindhearted and gentle as well, and fully focused on whatever objective was at hand. She felt comfortable, safe in his presence, as if the forest closed around them and they were the only two in the world.
            In fact, she felt she might be falling for him.
            Relationships were not unheard of among the Mira Fe'Melorus, but neither were they common. Most druids dedicated themselves entirely to nature, and for the most part took vows of abstinence so as to remain pure in the face of Melora's light. There were a few, though, that succumbed to love, and others still that sought it actively, believing that true enlightenment came from sharing Melora's light. Anastasia wasn't sure where she sat on this issue, but she definitely felt a strong connection to Faerun.
            She didn't want to think about that though, not right now. For now she just needed a friend, and he was one of the best she'd ever had.
            She was still lost in thought when she entered the clearing where the human was sitting. He was hard at work washing robes in the clear waters of the river. She came to her senses when she noticed him and a small smile found its way onto her face. She picked up her pace slightly, and called out "hail, Faerun! How are you today?"
            He turned to her with a smile, but was not surprised. It was almost as if he'd sensed her presence before she made herself known. The thought made her smile widen slightly.
            "Quite well, thank you."
            The two conversed for what seemed like hours, and soft laughter filled the clearing. She loved these moments, where the two of them just sat and talked. This was when she felt safest, as if nothing in the world could harm her; as if nothing in the world could come between them.
            Then suddenly, Faerun stopped. His visage darkened and his eyes seemed to come alive. Anastasia's smile dampened and she paused. "What's wrong? Why are you suddenly so quiet?"
            He didn't respond immediately. He seemed to be lost in thought. There's something I just realized I must attend to. Would you excuse me?"
            Her heart dropped a little. Whatever was happening, it felt serious, but she couldn't imagine what it could be. Still, she tried to keep a brave face. The smile returned, this time strained. She did her best to make it look natural. "Certainly. Do hurry back though. I'd hate to be left with your cleaning!"
            Faerun gave her a tight-lipped smile as he rose to leave, a smile that he seemed to reserve for her alone. Maybe she was imagining it, but at that moment it didn't matter. She just wanted him to be safe, to be back with her.
            The seconds painfully passed as she stared into the river. She slowly dipped her and into the cool waters, feeling the water's ebb and flow, as if it were alive. She was at peace with nature; it calmed her. And right now, she needed to be calm. Her world was becoming so confusing, where once it had been so very simple. Every day was more complicated than the last.
            She jumped as a twig pointedly cracked behind her. She looked back to see Faerun re-entering the small clearing and smiled once again. He had only been gone for a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.
            She stood as she greeted him, "There you are! I was starting to get worried!" She had, of course, been worried all along, but him knowing this wouldn't help either of them.
            For a moment, Faerun was quiet, once again seeming to be lost in thought. Finally, he spoke, "I'd be lying if I said I've been meaning to talk with you, but there's something I must tell you."
            A lump rose in Anastasia's throat. What could that mean? Her mind reeled at the possibilities. Her eyes betrayed her worry, which resonated more deeply than Faerun could possibly know. She swallowed. "I'm listening, as always. What is it Faerun?"
            "That's it precisely." He paused briefly, sending a shiver down Anastasia's shrine. He looked deep into her eyes before he continued. "I'm not Faerun."
            The news hit her like a dagger. What did he mean? She had only a second to contemplate the statement before he began to change. His hair brightened and elongated, his skin shifted to a pale blue, and his eyes...
            A changeling.
            She couldn't manage any emotion more complex than surprise. Her entire view on life had been shattered, and her mind went blank. She had become so attached to Faerun in the past month, but this...
            "You... You..." The words fought hard to escape her throat, now constricted by a torrent of emotion. Tears began to form in her eyes, seeming to pour from her very soul. "What have you done with him? How long..."
            The changeling seemed somehow defeated, broken. He responded coldly, calmly. "Since his initiation. Faerun Malacar is dead."
            Dead? Her world was spinning. It was all a lie – every moment, every laugh, every smile.
            All of it, lies.
            The tears began to flow freely now. "Why are you telling me this? Why are you showing me this?"
            "I've been searching for a way to leave. I've found it. You will not see me again. I felt I couldn't leave without saying goodbye."
            "But WHY!?" Tears were now streaming from her eyes. She felt betrayed. All this time, nothing was real. Everything she knew was a fantasy. She had always known it was too good to be true, but the reality of it was more overwhelming than she could have possibly imagined.
            "Because I respect you. You deserve to know the truth. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
            With that, he started to walk away. Her legs began to shake as she watched him leave, becoming unsteady as her entire body weakened from the despair. He turned back briefly.
            "You should leave this place."
            She didn't even consider what he meant by it. She just collapsed in a heap, her legs no longer able to support the weight of the realization that had just befallen her. Her world was shattered. She could manage nothing more than sobs as she sat crumpled in the moss. She didn't know how long she sat there.
            Eventually the tears stopped. There was nothing left to cry. Her chest rose and fell with dry heaves, trying to release even one more drop of sadness. But she was completely empty, left to sob pitifully on the forest floor. How could she trust anyone anymore? The one person she thought could never betray her wasn't even real.
            After awhile the sobbing stopped. She just lay there, a broken heap. She knew she couldn't stay there forever, but the thought appealed to her more than anything in the world. Summoning up her last bit of tenuous courage, she slowly stood, taking a deep breath.
            I'm still alive, she thought, and that's all that really matters.
            And then she heard the screams.
            She immediately forgot about her worries and became completely alert. The screams were continuous, and filled with pain and suffering. It was as if they were too far away to hear. The sound resonated in her very core, coming from the forest itself. But she knew exactly where it was coming from.
            It was coming from the village.
            She began to panic. The village was hours away, but she couldn't just ignore it. A spark of rage grew deep within her soul. Her people were in danger. With renewed resolve, she closed her eyes and called upon Melora, the Goddess of the Wilds. With but a thought, she began to change.
            Her features twisted and changed, contorting as the wild spirit of the Goddess filled her body and soul. She became one with the natural world she fought so hard to protect. Her body began to shrink; her hands began sprouting claws; fur began appearing in patches all over her body.
            In seconds, the transformation was complete. Where once had been standing a small elvish maiden now stood a ferocious beast. The Wild Hunt Hound steeled its resolve.
            Then it began to run.

…

            The screams had stopped.
            Anastasia had been running for ages. Her paws ached; her legs burned. But she could not give up. The forest told her of sadness and despair, of pain and sorrow. It wasn't far now. She had to keep going.
            Soon the smell of burnt flesh filled her canine nose. The rusted scent of fresh blood hung thick in the air. Fueled by her worry and love of her people, she pressed on.
            And then she saw it.
            Her village, her home, was in flames. Most of the fire had died down, but what remained of the small huts was in smoulders. Bodies lay strewn throughout the encampment. Some were burned, as if the flames of Asmodeus erupted from the very air and consumed them. Many more were mangled, almost ripped in two. A darkness lingered in the place – and evil presence.
            As she stepped into the village she could no longer maintain her resolve. Her body shifted and contorted as anger and worry reverted to absolute sorrow. She collapsed, humanoid once again, and could do naught but kneel in the pool of fetid blood all around her. There was nothing left to live for. Her love was a lie, and her livelihood – her family, her friends, her home – was completely destroyed. Everything she knew and loved had been crushed in one fateful day. Everything...
            Suddenly her eyes widened. Kelwyn. She had to find her. She had to make sure her sister was okay. She crawled frantically through the blood and bodies, checking each in turn. Her hands were stained red as they rolled over body after body of her closest friends and mentors. She slid along the ground, mustering every fibre of her being to push onward. She had no tears left. She was empty. But she had to find her sister. She had sworn to protect her sister with her very life.
            She had to be okay.
            She had to...
            Suddenly she heard another scream. She looked up, her eyes widening. At least one person was left alive. A growl rose in her throat. She struggled to rise through the slick blood, eventually finding her balance and running full tilt toward where she had heard the sound. The scream had come from a woman, and sounded forlorn, tortured. Another filled the air, this one more like a wail than anything else.
            Fire burning through her every muscle, Anastasia pushed on, getting closer and closer to where the noise had been. She turned a final corner to the clearing on the west side of the village, and then she saw him. A drow in dark armour stood over a young girl. Anastasia couldn't tell her race or age after what the drow had done to her. She was completely naked, and her whole body was covered in small cuts. A bloody gag lay just next to her mouth, and she was sobbing helplessly.
            The drow looked up slowly, a white smile shining past his dark skin as he raised a bloody dagger before him. He was covered in blood from head to toe. Much of it was in various shades of crimson. She couldn't tell how much, if any of it was his.
            All she knew was that he had to die.
            He had done this. He had destroyed her home, her family. She would end him if it was the last thing she did.
            Prayers to Melora flooded her mind, filling her with strength. She let out a scream of rage as energy crackled through her veins.
            He would pay for his crimes.
            Almost in sync, the two sprang into action. Anastasia shot forth her hands, from which burst a bird of prey, wreathed in flame and righteous fury. It shot toward the drow, now running toward one of the forest's towering redwoods. As the flaming hawk dove, so did he. Just before the bird hit, he disappeared, diving into the tree's shadow. Not missing a beat, Anastasia sprang immediately into action.
            Now she knew what she was dealing with.
            As the assassin appeared behind her she was already diving. She cast out her hands toward the ground, and let forth a torrent of clear water. She slid on the small wave as the drow's blade, bathed in shadow, passed over her head. She rolled to her feet and immediately dove to the side. As she did so a wolf seemed to grow out of the forest floor and leapt at the drow. He rolled under its swooping claws, letting loose his boomerang as he rose. He didn't aim at either the wolf or the elf, but rather off to the side. It began to round on the battle even as they continued. Anastasia shot forth another flaming hawk as the drow rose, only to see it slashed out of the air by the enraged assassin.
            The combat was furious, and continued for some time. Each move made by one was immediately countered by the other. The drow's blades were whirling death, attacking the elf from all sides, but she could not be caught, and lashed out with both magic and mighty beasts and she shifted between her human and beast forms.
            Then suddenly, it was over. The assassin, preparing his blade by gathering the shadows, suddenly stopped, and vanished from view. Anastasia prepared to blast the entire area with whatever remained of her magical energy, willing to expend even her lifeforce itself if it meant destroying the evil one, but she heard a voice through her bloodrage. The glow about her hands faded when she turned and saw Kelwyn running toward her, a host of druids with her. They were all steeled and filled with rage, preparing their strongest spells to defeat the assassin.
            At the sight of her sister, Anastasia collapsed. She had no energy left. She had given herself entirely to the battle. Beside her lay the body of the girl the drow had tortured, mercifully killed during the combat. Anastasia looked into her cold, dead eyes as the world slowly began to fade.
            She was so tired...
            So... Tired...

…

            "Are you alright, Annie?"
            Anastasia groggily opened her eyes. She was in a small hut of a neighbouring village. Kelwyn sat over her, gently wiping her brow with a cool cloth. The sight of her sister unharmed brought her to tears once more. Anastasia reached up and held her sister tight, refusing to let go. Kelwyn's arms closed around her.
            There was no need for words.
            "I... I was so worried." Tears slowly crept down Anastasia's cheeks as she choked back sobs.
            "As was I, sister. There was so much death..." Kelwyn's eyes were also filled with tears. The two of them had seen so much pain and suffering. Their lives would never be the same. Suddenly Kelwyn moved her sister out to arm's length, but held her hand tightly. "What of Faerun? I know you cared for him, but I haven't seen him since yesterday."
            A distant look came over Anastasia's face. "He... I... Kel, he wasn't real."
            "What? What are you saying?"
            "I... I don't even know. Before... Before the attack. He came to me, and..."
            Kelwyn's chair slid across the floor as she stood in a rapid movement. "You're not saying he had anything to do with this!?"
            "No! I mean, I don't know. He couldn't possibly have, but... Kel, Faerun is dead. He's been dead since the initiation ceremony."
            "What are you talking about?" Kelwyn retrieved her seat once more and set it down beside the bed. She sank down beside her sister.
            Anastasia looked into her eyes with the utmost sorrow. "Faerun – the one we knew... He was a changeling. He came to me, and set he had found a way out. He said he couldn't leave without knowing the truth. He wasn't real..." Tears once again started rolling down her cheeks. She sniffed and choked on the words. "He wasn't real. I loved him, Kel, and he wasn't even real..."
            Kelwyn sat back in her chair, taken aback. She had known the real Faerun, the human, before he was initiated. "That explains it... I knew something changed after the initiation. I though maybe the forest spoke to him, or that you had taught him what it meant to be a druid, but it was something even simpler. He had been replaced." She looked deep into Anastasia's eyes. "Don't you see, Annie? You never knew Faerun. That changeling, whoever he was, that was the man you fell for. He couldn't have possibly been a part of this. I saw the way he looked at you."
            "It's not that simple, Kelwyn. I can't forgive him for this. He betrayed me. For all this time, he lied to me. He manipulated me." She sniffed and wiped away the last of the tears, steeling her resolve. "No, I can't forgive him. Not yet. This hurt me, sister. More than you could possibly understand."
            Kelwyn gave her sister a slight nod. "I respect that. But he was a good man. Don't forget that."
            Anastasia laid back in the small bed she was placed in, thinking on her sisters words. She couldn't forgive him for what he'd done. Not yet.
            She lay there for several minutes, losing herself in deep thought. All the while Kelwyn remained silent, stroking Anastasia's as she brooded. Suddenly, Anastasia realized how quiet it truly was. There was no bustle outside the small hut; no cooking fires; no plaintive cries as druids mourned their lost loved ones. She pushed herself up on her elbows.
            "Kelwyn... Where is everybody."
            A dark look crossed Kelwyn's eyes. "They've gone to war, sister."
            The simple phrase took Anastasia aback. "War? With whom?"
            "The Night Stalkers, sister. They have done this. The one you fought was one of their number – we're sure of it. The Mira Fe'Melorus are marching in force to punish them for their crimes."
            Anastasia collapsed. She knew the drow had been an assassin, but to think that the Night Stalkers would be so bold was unthinkable. This day was simply too much for her to bear. Gathering her resolve, Anastasia slowly rose from the bed. "I'm leaving, sister."
            "Annie, no. You are not strong enough to fight. You must rest."
            "I'm not going to the Night Stalkers, Kel. Too much blood has been shed this day. I've lost so much today... First Faerun, then the village... I will pray to Melora each night in thanks that I still have you... I can't be here anymore, sister. The forest no longer feels like my home."
            Kelwyn stoically nodded, holding back tears. "I understand, sister."
            The two embraced warmly. It was long, and loving.
            May you be blessed in your travels, sister.
            I will return one day. Wait for me.

Traits: Kind, compassionate, caring, fierce, loyal

--------------------

Zeraphel Drogue
Drow Assassin (Night Stalker)

            Zeraphel slowly walked through the forest. He was making no attempt to conceal himself. The time for subtlety was past. Someone had hired the Night Stalkers to send a message. That's why they sent him.
            Zeraphel was the embodiment of violence. He sought his foes with ruthless efficiency and an insatiable hunger for death, a force of pure evil leaping from the shadows to rip them to shreds. He reveled in the sight of their blood; their cries for mercy going unanswered.
            The mere thought of his past conquests brought a sordid smile to his face. The smile widened when he considered the task before him. The Raven Queen's court would fill with many a druid this day.
            The sound of laughter halted him in his tracks. His smile turned into a smirk as he gathered the shadows about him, anticipating the suffering to follow. He quietly melded into the forest, disappearing from view as he headed towards the sound.
            As he approached the edge of the clearing where the druids sat by the river. They were washing some robes in the clear water. At first glance he could tell only that one was female and the other male. But then the male turned. Zeraphel's eyes widened. It was Faerun Malacar, the changeling's last mark. The guild reported Malacar dead, but Zel'Marak had not returned for weeks. Zeraphel had merely assumed that he had been assigned another job, but this was an entirely different story. Had the druid bested his killer? Had the guild been deceived?
            His eyes darkened coldly. One way or another, he would discover the truth, if he had to bleed the human dry to find it. He crept quietly along the tree line, staying to the shadows, but trying to get closer to the two druids. Suddenly the human's eye snapped to attention. He seemed to be staring off into nothing, but Zeraphel could tell that the man was looking right at him. He quickly sank deeper into the shadows.
            That should not have happened. The approach was perfect. Clearly there was more at work here than he had first anticipated. He saw the druid politely excuse himself from his fellow and begin heading toward the Western path out of the clearing. Zeraphel was hidden to the North. Who was this human? Something was not right.
            Now enraged, Zeraphel quickly darted to the West, still keeping himself concealed. He was determined to get ahead of the human. He would discover what this mystery was if he had to bleed the human dry.
            Soon he could hear the soft footfalls of the druid behind him. He dropped onto the path and pressed him back against the tree next to him. He was obscured enough that if the druid were not paying attention he would pass right by. With a quick motion, Zeraphel brought his dagger into the air. He began to weave the blade through his fingers, testing its way, relearning every curve. He became excited as the blade caught the slightest hint of sunlight through the thick canopy above. Soon, my pet, he whispered. Soon.
            As expected, the druid passed along the path without turning. Zeraphel did notice the slightest of falters in his step as he passed the tree.
            Without stopping the fluid spin of his dagger, he addressed his foe. "You're rather perceptive for a druid." He kept his eyes peeled on the human and flexed his muscles, ready to pounce should things become more interesting.
            The human turned and looked directly at him. There eyes met, and he briefly saw behind the grim smile on the other's face. "You should know by now that not everything is what it seems, Zaraphel."
            No, it couldn't be. His smirk became a wide smile. The changeling! That explained it! An incredulous laugh escaped his lips as he flipped his blade into the air. As he caught it he deftly spun it into its sheathe on his lower back.
            "Ha! I knew you were up to something, brother. Granted, I didn't expect this!" He looked Zel'Marak up and down. The changeling wore the robes and demeanor of a druid, but had the bearing of a true killer. Quiet, precise. "The life of a druid wears you poorly, my friend."
            "Be that as it may, there are larger implications at work here. I haven't yet found a way to slip away without leaving loose ends."
            His last remark took Zeraphel aback, slightly. Death was the catalyst, the calling, the way of life. In Zeraphel's mind, once the target was marked ending its life was all that mattered. Then he remembered the laughter...
            "Loose ends being... the girl?" The thought of a shapeshifter committing to any particular individual was terribly amusing to Zeraphel. He could take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. It was but a thought. Then again, was Zeraphel lacked in patience, Zel'Marak had in stroves. After tonight, though, it wouldn't matter. Perhaps he would claim the girl as a prize for his conquest. He imagined her screaming in pain...
            "Loose ends being suspicion, brother. You know as well as I that th best assassinations occur without the help of an assassin."
            As the thought finished Zeraphel realized that his smile had grown quite large. He often lost himself in anticipation. He replaced it with a howl of laughter. "Always thinking, brother! Always thinking! That's what I like about you." He quickly glanced toward the direction of the clearing, then looked back at Zel'Marak. "In any case, I think I've got your escape plan. These druids have quite a few enemies, it seems." He pushed softly off of the tree he was resting on and leaned in slightly. "This next one we won't be able to hide." His smile grew once more as he laid back against the tree. "I could casually 'take care' of the meddling human in my dealings."
            He didn't intend to leave anyone alive, in any case, but he supposed his fellow didn't know that. Zel'Marak was a thinker, not a doer, so he figured he might as well make it explicit.
            "I see." Zel'Marak paused in thought. "You realize we can't recover the body. It's been hidden for some time now, and the forest is rather damp."
            It took a second for Zeraphel to realize what he meant. Always thinking, this one. "Don't worry, brother. What I had in mind won't really leave a body behind. In fact, you may want to leave beforehand. Things are going to get a little bit messy."
            It would be better if the changeling stayed out of his way.
            A slight frown crept onto Zel'Marak's face. "You're probably right. I suppose this is where we part ways for now."
            He gave the changeling a slight nod, but he seemed not to notice, lost again in thought. "I'll see you back at the guild."
            He turned to leave, but turned back as Zel'Marak called his name.
            "Don't let me see you again. You're better than that."
            Another burst of laughter escaped his lips as he darted into the forest. Zel'Marak was one of the few Night Stalkers who could match Zeraphel's prowess at avoiding detection. They'd been rivals of a sort for some time, but they used distinctly different means to achieve their goals. In truth, Zel'Marak was a good fit for the Night Stalkers – a good brother; a strong brother.
            Everyone had their place.
            The faint sound of voices brought Zeraphel out of his thoughts. He was nearing the druids' village. Their dwellings seemed to be grown out of the forest itself. They lived among the roots and low branches of the ancient trees of the forest, an organic and natural lfiestyle that brought them closer to nature.
            And closer to their own doom.
            Zeraphel smiled as he reached into his pack, his fingers meeting the cool glass of the vials contained therein. He came prepared for just such a situation.
            In but a few minutes he had circled through the entire encampment, remaining entirely undetected throughout. He had deposited seven vials throughout the hovels, strategically placed so that he had a line of sight to each, but the druids would be hard pressed to find them before they were activated. Slowly, carefully, Zeraphel pulled his Xen'Drik boomerang from its place in his pack. He idly stroked the blades as he waited. Soon, my pet, he whispered. Soon.
            A few minutes later he saw his primary target emerge from one of the hovels. A wilden as ancient as the trees he inhabited smiled as he conversed with his fellow druids. The others seemed to revere him, as if he were an instrument of Silvanus himself. Perfect, thought Zeraphel. He readied his blade, sinking lower into his cover.
            A group gathered around the elder as he moved through the encampment. A smile grew on Zeraphel's face as his pulse quickened in anticipation of the slaughter to come. Soon.
            After what seemed like an eternity, the target approached the strike zone. Zeraphel's breathing quickened and he tightened his grip on the boomerang. His long knife almost leapt into his off hand. The time was now.
            As the wilden finally reached the front of one of the marked huts, Zeraphel sprung into action. From his perch he let loose the boomerang. It made a wide arc as it approached the first of the vials. The druids in the settlement all jumped at the sound. Then, the blade struck.
            As the boomerang collided with the vial it exploded. Alchemist's fire burst forth from the container and poured over the crowd below. The forest around them rose into a blaze as the druids screamed in agony, some dropping to the burning ground to try and cleanse themselves of the fire, others trying to cast spells to douse the flames. The thick black smoke that emerged made it impossible to concentrate.
            The boomerang continued through the camp, hitting each vial in succession, causing fires to break out all through the camp. Soon the ancient trees of the quiet forest cried out in agony as they were set ablaze. Finally the boomerang began to return to its sender, now laughing openly at the pain and suffering before him. He leapt from his perch as the blade approached, deftly snatching it out of the air as he fell. Zeraphel brandished his long knife as he fell, bringing it to bear with a solid thunk as he landed hard on one of the burning druids.
            Bloodlust in his eyes, he sprung into action...

…

            The door creaked as the acolyte opened it. Zeraphel boldly stepped through the portal, still smiling from the slaughter from which he returned. He never did find that elf girl, but there were many others. Their screams were fresh in his mind.
            "The night welcomes you, brother."
            He didn't even respond. He could think only of death. The acolyte bowed slightly and returned to his post.
            "And so the triumphant returns." Zeraphel turned to see a small human in dark robes approaching. "I trust you've heard."
            "Hmm?" Still overwhelmed by his conquest, Zeraphel couldn't even form a sentence. He quickly shook his off his daze and dropped into a curt genuflect. "My apologies, master. What news?" The preceptor of the Night Stalkers indeed deserved the utmost respect.
            He idly motioned for Zeraphel to rise. "You've had a long trek. Absent-mindedness is to be expected, considering the ordeal." He kept walking, past the kneeling Drow. Zeraphel quickly rose to follow. "As for the news, a brother has left us. Zel'Marak has been marked."
            Zeraphel froze in confusion for a moment, completely taken aback. He shook his head once again and quickly caught up to his master. "Surely you are mistaken, master. I have spoken with Zel'Marak. It is true that he has not returned, but he remains loyal to the Night Stalkers. He remained behind, impersonating his mark, so that the Druids would not become suspicious."
            "I am aware. For some time he has been adequately fulfilling his duties, but now the situation has changed. Do not doubt my judgement."
            "Of course I wasn't implying... I'm sorry master, I am just confused. How is it that you have come to this knowledge."
            "After you dispatched of the elder, Zel'Marak was spotted leaving the forest to the East. He ignored the sigil when he was called upon. Zel'Marak is no longer loyal to the Night Stalkers."
            Zeraphel once again froze in his tracks. He was caught between total confusion and powerful rage. Why would Zel'Marak turn his back on the guild?
            Nobody turned their back on the guild. Nobody ignored the sigil.
            Nobody.
            When he came to his sense, the preceptor was gone. Zeraphel just stood there, not knowing what to do.
            Steeling his resolve, he slowly drew his dagger.
            Nobody.
            A sudden commotion rudely ripped him from his thoughts. The entrance to the guild hall burst open in a swath of flame, immediately consuming the acolyte guarding it. All manner of beasts swarmed into the foyer, met with shadow and steel. The assassins were caught off guard, but were hardly helpless. Storms gathered in the hall as shadow clashed with beast and blood began to cover the floors and walls of the chamber.
            Zeraphel tightened his grip on his dagger.
            Nobody.

Traits: Ruthless, cruel, violent.