| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
ElaineCunningham
Forgotten Realms Author
2396 Posts |
 Posted - 04 Jul 2010 : 15:15:37
|
I'm re-reading the stories dealing with Arilyn, Elaith, and the moonblades, both published and unpublished. For those who might be interested, here's an unpublished scene. It revisits an event mentioned in ELFSHADOW through the eyes of Amlaruil, Evermeet's queen.
*****
The Year of Dreamwebs (DR 1337), 12 Eleint
Everything ends.
Amlaruil Moonflower, queen of the elves, watched the line of grey clad mourners ascending Evereska’s tallest hill. The candles they held seemed to float smoothly upward, winding through the deeply shadowed gardens like a string of glowing pearls. A sharp wind blew in from the Greycloak Hills, scattering autumn leaves and nipping at the heels of fleeing clouds. None of the candles in the mourners’ hands so much as flickered.
Everything ends. Amlaruil knew this full well. In her long, long life, she had seen nations rise and fall, mighty cities crumble into ruin, gods die and fade into legend. She would survive this, as well.
She felt a tug on the sleeve of her silver mourning robe and looked down into the face of an elven maiden, an acolyte of the temple. The girl offered her a candle. Twilight mist clung to the flame in a softly glowing sphere. Through Amlaruil’s double veil of thin silk and unshed tears, it seemed a once-bright spirit, not yet willing to depart.
“It is time, my lady,” murmured one of her guards.
The queen accepted the candle and lifted her gaze to the white marble and moonstone temple crowning the hill. Her youngest daughter had been devoted to Hannali Celanil, goddess of love.
Much good had it ever done her.
Bitterness rose in Amlaruil’s throat like bile. She swallowed hard and moved forward to join the silent procession. Except for a handful of veiled guards, she was the last—the last of many who came to honor the elf they knew as Z’beryl Moonmage.
The sweet lament of a crystal flute drifted from some hidden alcove as the mourners encircled the hall with candlelight. When all had gathered, the officiating priestess raised both hands high and bowed her head in silent prayer. At this signal the procession began anew. The elves walked past the foot of the casket, each pausing briefly to extinguish his candle before returned to his place in the circle. Z’beryl’s half-elven daughter stood at the casket’s head, her thin, childish face as stoic as a soldier’s, her blue eyes dry. It was her duty to hold the last candle, to be a living reminder that no life was ever truly extinguished.
To Amlaruil’s critical eye, the girl seemed more human than elf, graceless and gawky as a colt. Unpolished boots peeped out from under her robe, which had been fashioned for someone much shorter, and she’d neglected to place her candle in one of the silver holders the temple provided. But she stood vigil credibly enough, acknowledging each mourner with a slight nod, as was proper. If she noticed the melted wax dripping onto her hands, she gave no sign.
Finally the only light in the temple came from the single candle stub in the hands of a half-elf girl. The flute’s last, lingering note floated off into the gathering night, and the mourners left the temple as quietly as they had entered.
The silence held until the queen’s party reached a temple antechamber. When the last guard shut the door, Ilyrana, Amlaruil’s oldest daughter, brushed aside her veil. Her wise green eyes were shadowed with weeping, and grief had deepened the furrows carved into her face by the passing centuries.
A new sorrow smote Amlaruil’s heart. When had Ilyrana—her firstborn, her beautiful baby—grown so very old?
“Are you well, my lady mother?”
Amlaruil read the concern on her daughter’s timeworn face and did not need to ask the cause. The queen had lived long past the years allotted to elvenkind and she wielded magic beyond the reach of most mortals, but her power and her life were intrinsically tied to the island kingdom she ruled. On Evermeet, she was ageless, eternal. Away, she began to fade like any other mortal elf.
“We leave in the morning,” she said, addressing the unspoken question.
“And what of my sister?” Ilyrana asked softly. “Will Amnestria’s dust mingle with the land of her exile, or will she return home at last?”
“That would depend upon her will, Princess,” replied an ancient gold elf male. He pushed back the deep hood of his robe. “Assuming Princess Amnestria left a will. Many do not.”
“She’ll have made provisions for her moonblade, at least.” Urijah Amaryllis, the captain of the queen’s guard, placed a hand on the hilt of his own hereditary sword.
A younger guard cleared her throat uneasily. “The princess taught at Evereska’s school of arms. I heard some of her students talking before the funeral. They said her half-elf daughter is a prodigy with the sword. They also mentioned that Amnestria—or Z’beryl, as they know her—bequeathed to her daughter an old sword she always carried but never used.”
“But that’s ridiculous! Impossible!” sputtered the captain. “No half-elf can inherit a moonblade. No half-elf could draw a moonblade and live.”
“Perhaps her students did not realize the nature of the sword.”
“Idle talk, most likely,” Urijah said.
“Most likely,” agreed the aged gold elf. He lifted one thin, ink-stained hand to tap thoughtfully at his chin. “Yet it must be said that Princess Amnestria was ever one to do the unexpected thing. And to my knowledge, no law actually forbids such a bequest.”
“No one knows the law better than Elasha Evanara,” Ilyrana said respectfully, “but surely Amnestria would not endanger her child so recklessly.”
“What moonblade does not carry great risk?” the captain said. “Many a fine, admirable elf has died trying to claim his sword. And how many elves, the last in their line, have drawn their family blade only to watch its magic fade away? I learned swordcraft from Elaith Craulnober, and I would have sworn that no elf alive was more worthy than he.”
Suddenly Amlaruil could bear no more. She raised one slender hand, palm out. Silence fell at once.
“Await me here.” She met her captain’s eyes. “All of you.”
Urijah’s ready protest died unspoken. The queen spun away and fled the room. She shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, blinking back tears.
Amnestria. Elaith. Two more of her children—one of her body, the other of her heart—lost to her, one because she had claimed a moonblade, the other because he could not.
Behind her, the elves resumed their argument over the future of Amnestria’s moonblade.
A stab of anger cut through Amlaruil’s grief. Would there never be an end to the thrice-damned swords?
She abruptly pushed herself away from the door and retraced her steps to the great hall. Three priestesses kept vigil over the casket. There was no sign of the half-elf child. It occurred to Amlaruil that some provision would have to be made for the girl. Perhaps a good family could be found to foster her here in Evereska. The child had lost her mother. She should not lose her home, as well.
Amlauril raised her veil, revealing a narrow face framed by elegantly coiled silver hair—not her true form, nor the petite, dark-haired guise she usually assumed when she left her island kingdom. Her guards insisted upon it, claiming her unusual height and distinctive cloud of red-gold hair made her conspicuous, an easy target for assassins.
“I would see my daughter one last time,” Amlaruil requested.
One of the priestesses made a small sound of distress. “My lady, I must warn you. Her wounds were terrible—”
“Open the casket.”
Amlaruil spoke softly, but her words carried the power of an archmage and the authority of a queen.
The priestesses responded instinctively, hurrying forward to unclasp and swing back the lid. They gasped and fell back, staring.
For a long moment Amlaruil stood with her hands fisted at her side, steeling herself with memories of battles she had seen and fought. She could do this. Hadn’t she pulled an assassin’s dagger from her husband’s heart, and with her own hands prepared his body for the funeral fire? She had lost children before, and she had survived. She could do this.
Amlaruil stepped closer.
Her gaze went first to the sword resting on her daughter’s quiet form, its magic sheathed by a battered metal scabbard. An indentation in the hilt marked the place where a moonstone had once resided. In the madness of grief which had followed the king’s death, Amlaruil had tried to destroy the sword. She had succeeded only in sundering it.
Her daughter’s hands lay crossed over the moonblade’s hilt. Amlaruil forced her gaze upward. A gown of deep blue silk bared the princess’s arms and draped her slender body. Her black-sapphire hair, so like her father’s, had been gathered into two thick, glossy braids. No wounds marred her arms or marked her face.
Amlaruil frowned. Her warrior daughter would not have died easily, but the only sign of battle were faint red lines on her forearms and throat.
The queen stroked a gentle hand down her daughter’s cold cheek, then smoothed her fingers across the line on her throat. When she lifted her hand away, the mark was gone.
Disbelieving, she leaned closer. Yes, gone. And the lines on Nestria’s arms were fading, as well.
Necromancy! Or worse, resurrection.
The wrath in Amlaruil’s eyes sent the priestesses stumbling back. “What foul magic is this?”
The priestesses exchanged troubled glances. “None of our doing,” the oldest ventured.
The moonblade, then. One never knew what magic these swords might hold. Amlaruil had never learned the powers of her daughter’s sword, except for that which had led to the death of her husband and king. This moonblade’s secrets had died with her daughter.
Not so, argued an unwelcome voice in the back of her mind. Bran Skorlsun will surely know.
Amlaruil bit back a decidedly unregal curse. On the whole, she would rather break bread with orcs than seek out this particular human.
“Await me here,” she told the priestesses. She touched the indentation on the moonblade and traced a rune of her own creation.
Suddenly the night was filled with sound. The chirping of unseen insects, the rush of a small, swift stream, and the crackle of a camp fire greeted her, along with the complex green scent she recognized as a Moonshae forest. Two more of her children had died on this distant island—one falling prey to an unspeakable monster, the other earning a warrior’s death some three centuries later.
Amlaruil dashed a strand of red-gold hair from her face, wishing memories were as easily brushed aside.
Red-gold . . . .
Apparently the magical journey had stolen her disguise. It was, she decided, just as well. Let Bran Skorlsun look upon her and remember the day this hair had shrouded Evermeet’s king and veiled the tears of his heart-torn queen.
Amlaruil would have sworn she made no sound, but the lone man sitting at the campfire leaped to his feet and spun toward her in one swift, smooth movement. Firelight glinted along the edge of the dagger in his hand.
A moment passed before she recognized the man. Humans changed rather alarmingly with each passing decade. Bran Skorlsun had been absurdly young when he stole the heart of Evermeet’s crown princess; now he was a man in early midlife.
But he knew Amlaruil at once. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head respectfully, but not before Amlaruil noted the devastating knowledge and grief etched into his face.
“I see you know why I have come,” she said, speaking more gently than she would have thought possible. “Yes, my daughter is dead. I would know what powers her moonblade holds.”
After a moment, Bran Skorlsun reached into his jerkin and held out a large, pale moonstone. “One of them, you already know.”
Alas, all too well! Amnestria’s moonblade had opened a gate between humans and elves, the mainland and Evermeet. Assassins had followed the princess and her lover to the island. To this day, the elfgate remained open. The best efforts of elven wizards, and a few trusted humans as well, had managed only to move and obscure it. A moonblade’s magic was never easily undone.
“And the sword’s other powers?”
“She did not speak of them,” he admitted. “I saw her moonblade glow to warn of danger, and sometimes she dreamed of things she could not know without magic. She said it was tradition that none but the wielder and the blade heir should know every secret of a moonblade. Think what you will, but the Princess Amnestria honored her heritage.”
There lay ground Amlaruil did not care to tread. “Can you tell me nothing more?”
Bran’s face grew thoughtful. He rose—without the queen’s leave—as he considered the matter. “Some years after Nestria came to the mainland, she went to Tethyr with her kinswoman Thasitalia Moonflower. The grave of an ancestor had been plundered, her body taken away. They tried without success to recover it. Thasitalia died in the attempt, and Nestria inherited her moonblade.”
“The ancestor they sought—she was also a moonfighter of this line?”
“It seems likely,” the ranger said. “Her name was Zoastria, I believe.”
The queen’s heart stumbled over its own rhythm, and for long a moment she forgot to breathe. She had met Zoastria Moonflower twice, perhaps three times, but those meetings had occurred more than five hundred years ago.
“They went to retrieve Zoastria’s body?” she repeated. “Not her bones?”
Bran’s gaze sharpened. “Why does it matter?”
Why indeed? A moonblade’s magic could be capricious, but it was never without purpose. If the moonblade held its wielders’ bodies inviolate, there was good reason.
“Claiming a moonblade is always dangerous,” the elf queen said, which was true if not quite an answer. “No one would dare do so without knowing the sword’s powers, for why should a good warrior perish in an attempt to claim a wizard’s blade?”
“And what of my daughter?”
“What of her? She is a child, and half-elven. She need know nothing of moonblades and their magic.”
An expression of profound relief crossed the ranger’s sun-weathered face. He held out the moonstone on his open palm. “Then my oath is fulfilled. I need not remain a stranger to my own daughter.”
This outcome had never occurred to Amlaruil, but she supposed it offered as good a solution as any to the problem presented by half-elf royalty. She plucked the stone from the ranger’s hand. “I will have the girl sent to you.”
“Thank you.” Bran Skorlsun inclined his head. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“It is your loss as well,” she admitted. Then with a quick gesture and an arcane word, she stood again in the temple of Hannali Celanil—not as Amlaruil of Evermeet, but in the guise of a small elf woman crowned only with silvery hair.
Her sudden reappearance startled a squeak from the oldest priestess, quickly stifled by a rather plump hand. For the first time, Amlaruil looked beyond the clerical robes and headdress. The outspoken priestess was a half-elf, not young, but she had probably seen fewer winters than her two sister priestesses.
A passing thought, forgotten when Amlaruil turned her eyes to the open casket. Her daughter’s unblemished arms were folded over her breast. The moonblade was gone.
“Where is her sword?” she demanded.
“Her daughter took it,” said the half-elf priestess. “That was Z’beryl’s wish.”
“But the girl cannot claim it!”
The priestess’s eyes cooled. “I know neither your land nor your customs, my lady, but in Evereska half-elves can inherit property.”
“Not if the property in question is a moonblade.”
Color leeched from the priestess’s face. “It will be her death,” she whispered.
Amlaruil resented the fact of the half-elf girl, but she would not wish this swift, senseless death upon any child. “Where might I find her?”
“The statue of Hannali,” suggested one of the elven priestesses. “Behind the temple, in the Garden of Remembrance. It looks very like Z’beryl. Arilyn may have gone there.”
The temple garden—
Oh, gods. Amlaruil gathered up her skirts and ran toward the elfgate.
The statue was easily found. Standing high on a marble pedestal, gleaming in the light of the rising moon, it did rather resemble the late crown princess. And yes, at the foot of the statue stood Amnestria’s daughter, her hand on the hilt of her mother’s sword. She appeared to be deep in conversation with a dark-haired, golden-skinned male elf. In a movement almost too quick for the eye to follow, the gold elf swept his sword from its sheath and lunged for the girl.
Before Amlaruil could call out a warning, the half-elf drew the moonblade.
Two elven swords met with a ringing clash.
Two swords.
The queen stood in stunned silence, only faintly aware of the skillful swordplay taking place in the temple garden. This was not possible. No half-elf had ever inherited a moonblade. No half-elf could inherit a moonblade.
But had there ever before been half a moonblade?
Suddenly Amlaruil remembered the gemstone in her hand. She remembered also why it should not be in Evereska.
The clatter of swords had ended. The half-elf—Arilyn, the priestess had called her—knelt at the foot of the statue. She held her moonblade—for hers it undoubtedly was—before her with both hands, not in surrender but in a gesture of fealty to the gold elf.
A faint blue glow gathered along the length of the ancient sword. Wisps of eldritch light peeled away and began to wander the garden, as if not quite sure what they were seeking.
But Amlaruil knew.
She closed her eyes and envisioned the forest glade. As she stepped through the portal once again, she held out the moonstone to the oath-bound human.
“I fear you must carry this gem a little longer.” She met Bran Skorlsun’s eyes and added with genuine regret, “It would seem both you and I have lost a daughter this day.”
* * *
Only years later, when it was much too late, would Amlaruil think back on that night and realize why Arilyn’s moonblade would allow itself to be raised against another elf.
|
Edited by - ElaineCunningham on 04 Jul 2010 19:01:19
|
|
|
BlackAce
Senior Scribe
United Kingdom
358 Posts |
Posted - 04 Jul 2010 : 18:06:27
|
| Thank you for that, Elaine. A wonderful scene. |
 |
|
|
Kyrene
Senior Scribe
South Africa
765 Posts |
|
|
Zireael
Master of Realmslore
Poland
1190 Posts |
Posted - 04 Jul 2010 : 18:23:33
|
Honestly, I don't know what to write. Obviously, great thanks for sharing it!
Anything else in coming? |
SiNafay Vrinn, the daughter of Lloth, from Ched Nasad!
http://zireael07.wordpress.com/ |
|
|
|
ElaineCunningham
Forgotten Realms Author
2396 Posts |
Posted - 04 Jul 2010 : 19:05:19
|
| I have something very different--a bit of flash fiction entitled "A Connecticut Gamer in King Arthur's Court," which also deals with moonblades. Not sure I should post it, though, as it's more than a little satirical and I'm afraid some readers and gamers who like moonblades might take offense. |
|
|
|
The Sage
Procrastinator Most High
Australia
31799 Posts |
Posted - 05 Jul 2010 : 01:42:51
|
Very interesting. I particularly enjoyed the brief tidbits re: elven music and related instrumentation. My inner Realms-Music-Geek cackled satisfyingly over that.
Thank you Elaine.  |
Candlekeep Forums Moderator
Candlekeep - The Library of Forgotten Realms Lore
http://www.candlekeep.com -- Candlekeep Forum Code of Conduct
Scribe for the Candlekeep Compendium -- Volume IX now available (Oct 2007)
"So Saith Ed" -- the collected Candlekeep replies of Ed Greenwood
Zhoth'ilam Folio -- The Electronic Misadventures of a Rambling Sage |
Edited by - The Sage on 05 Jul 2010 01:44:03 |
|
|
|
bladeinAmn
Learned Scribe
199 Posts |
Posted - 05 Jul 2010 : 05:38:42
|
| Thank you. |
|
|
|
Bakra
Senior Scribe
628 Posts |
Posted - 05 Jul 2010 : 14:17:22
|
| Thank you! |
I hope Candlekeep continues to be the friendly forum of fellow Realms-lovers that it has always been, as we all go through this together. If you don’t want to move to the “new” Realms, that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with either you or the “old” Realms. Goodness knows Candlekeep, and the hearts of its scribes, are both big enough to accommodate both. If we want them to be.
(Strikes dramatic pose, raises sword to gleam in the sunset, and hopes breeches won’t fall down.)
Enough for now. The Realms lives! I have spoken! Ale and light wines half price, served by a smiling Storm Silverhand fetchingly clad in thigh-high boots and naught else! Ahem . .
So saith Ed. <snip>
love to all,
THO
|
|
|
|
GRYPHON
Senior Scribe
USA
527 Posts |
Posted - 05 Jul 2010 : 15:20:27
|
| Awesome... |
|
|
|
Ayunken-vanzan
Senior Scribe
Germany
657 Posts |
Posted - 05 Jul 2010 : 15:27:58
|
quote:
Originally posted by GRYPHON
Awesome...
Indeed! |
"What mattered our lives now? When our world had been torn from us? Folk wept, or drank, or stood staring out over the land, wondering what new horror each dawn would bring."
Elender Stormfall of Suzail
"Anyone can kill deities, cause plagues, or destroy organizations. It takes real skill to make them live on."
Varl
FR/D&D-Links • 2ed Downloads |
|
|
|
Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36963 Posts |
|
|
Hawkins
Great Reader
USA
2131 Posts |
Posted - 06 Jul 2010 : 01:29:14
|
| Many thanks. |
Errant d20 Designer - My Blog (last updated January 06, 2016)
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back. --Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass
"Mmm, not the darkness," Myrin murmured. "Don't cast it there." --Erik Scott de Bie, Shadowbane
* My character sheets (PFRPG, 3.5, and AE versions; not viewable in Internet Explorer)
* Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Reference Document (PFRPG OGL Rules)
* The Hypertext d20 SRD (3.5 OGL Rules)
* 3.5 D&D Archives
My game design work:
* Heroes of the Jade Oath (PFRPG, conversion; Rite Publishing)
* Compendium Arcanum Volume 1: Cantrips & Orisons (PFRPG, designer; d20pfsrd.com Publishing)
* Compendium Arcanum Volume 2: 1st-Level Spells (PFRPG, designer; d20pfsrd.com Publishing)
* Martial Arts Guidebook (forthcoming) (PFRPG, designer; Rite Publishing)
|
|
|
|
Iluvrien
Acolyte
United Kingdom
49 Posts |
Posted - 06 Jul 2010 : 13:09:08
|
Many thanks indeed. Amlaruil has always been a favourite of mine, and I have often felt that we have seen too little through her eyes. It is wonderful to find this addition, unlooked for as it is!
A superb, enjoyable and illuminating tale. Thank you again. |
|
|
|
Kajehase
Great Reader
Sweden
2104 Posts |
Posted - 07 Jul 2010 : 23:57:50
|
| Beautiful writing Elaine. I actually felt my eyes grow a bit moist while I was reading it (of course, that could be the dusty air, but I don't think so). |
There is a rumour going around that I have found god. I think is unlikely because I have enough difficulty finding my keys, and there is empirical evidence that they exist.
Terry Pratchett |
|
|
|
Barastir
Master of Realmslore
Brazil
1607 Posts |
Posted - 09 Jul 2010 : 19:16:00
|
| A great scene, indeed, Mrs. Cunningham. Thank you for sharing it. |
"Goodness is not a natural state, but must be
fought for to be attained and maintained.
Lead by example.
Let your deeds speak your intentions.
Goodness radiated from the heart."
The Paladin's Virtues, excerpt from the "Quentin's Monograph"
(by Ed Greenwood) |
|
|
|
Joran Nobleheart
Senior Scribe
USA
495 Posts |
|
|
Anard_Delamir
Acolyte
2 Posts |
Posted - 29 Jul 2010 : 05:43:18
|
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thanks! |
|
|
|
Elfinblade
Senior Scribe
Norway
377 Posts |
Posted - 10 Aug 2010 : 20:59:04
|
| A wonderful read Elaine, thank you for sharing it with us. |
|
|
|
The Red Walker
Great Reader
USA
3567 Posts |
Posted - 10 Aug 2010 : 21:59:02
|
Reading this brings up a question I had in the past....
Was the cause of Bran Skorlson's personal grudge against Khelben Arunsun ever revealed anywhere? |
A little nonsense now and then, relished by the wisest men - Willy Wonka
"We need men who can dream of things that never were." -
John F. Kennedy, speech in Dublin, Ireland, June 28, 1963
|
|
|
|
Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36963 Posts |
Posted - 11 Aug 2010 : 00:16:06
|
quote:
Originally posted by The Red Walker
Reading this brings up a question I had in the past....
Was the cause of Bran Skorlson's personal grudge against Khelben Arunsun ever revealed anywhere?
A drunken Khelben accused Bran of having cooties. Bran, an exceedingly humorless person, did not take it well.  
In all seriousness, I assumed it had something to do with the elfgate and the fact that the separation of sword and stone kept Bran from his family. |
Candlekeep Forums Moderator
Candlekeep - The Library of Forgotten Realms Lore
http://www.candlekeep.com -- Candlekeep Forum Code of Conduct
I am the Giant Space Hamster of Ill Omen! |
Edited by - Wooly Rupert on 11 Aug 2010 00:17:16 |
|
|
|
Ergdusch
Master of Realmslore
Germany
1720 Posts |
Posted - 11 Aug 2010 : 09:47:32
|
Thank you for sharing this with us, Elaine.
I very much enjoyed the read!
Ergdusch |
"Das Gras weht im Wind, wenn der Wind weht." |
|
|
|
The Red Walker
Great Reader
USA
3567 Posts |
Posted - 11 Aug 2010 : 14:39:53
|
quote:
Originally posted by Wooly Rupert
quote:
Originally posted by The Red Walker
Reading this brings up a question I had in the past....
Was the cause of Bran Skorlson's personal grudge against Khelben Arunsun ever revealed anywhere?
A drunken Khelben accused Bran of having cooties. Bran, an exceedingly humorless person, did not take it well.
In all seriousness, I assumed it had something to do with the elfgate and the fact that the separation of sword and stone kept Bran from his family.
So it was Khelben's decisionm to close or hide/move the elfgate or just misplaced blame by a ticked off Bran? |
A little nonsense now and then, relished by the wisest men - Willy Wonka
"We need men who can dream of things that never were." -
John F. Kennedy, speech in Dublin, Ireland, June 28, 1963
|
|
|
|
Wooly Rupert
Master of Mischief
USA
36963 Posts |
Posted - 12 Aug 2010 : 00:15:08
|
quote:
Originally posted by The Red Walker
quote:
Originally posted by Wooly Rupert
quote:
Originally posted by The Red Walker
Reading this brings up a question I had in the past....
Was the cause of Bran Skorlson's personal grudge against Khelben Arunsun ever revealed anywhere?
A drunken Khelben accused Bran of having cooties. Bran, an exceedingly humorless person, did not take it well.
In all seriousness, I assumed it had something to do with the elfgate and the fact that the separation of sword and stone kept Bran from his family.
So it was Khelben's decisionm to close or hide/move the elfgate or just misplaced blame by a ticked off Bran?
Again, this is all assumptions... But I'm guessing that Khelben was part of the group that decided to move the elfgate and prevent its reopening by separating sword and stone. The only real evidence for this is the fact that in Elfshadow, Khelben mentions he had pledged never to cast the spell relocating the elfgate -- which indicates to me that he was part of the original effort.
Keep in mind, though, that the decision to separate sword and stone meant Bran couldn't be with the woman he loved or with their daughter. That kind of thing would tweak off most anyone.
I could be way off-base here, though. It's possible that the two had a falling out over some entirely unrelated matter. |
Candlekeep Forums Moderator
Candlekeep - The Library of Forgotten Realms Lore
http://www.candlekeep.com -- Candlekeep Forum Code of Conduct
I am the Giant Space Hamster of Ill Omen! |
Edited by - Wooly Rupert on 12 Aug 2010 00:17:22 |
|
|
| |
Topic |
|
|
|
Amlaruil
