Bethphel's Diary: Highsun

Wolves see the world in black and white. My blood was black, and salty like tears. I was at the shack, licking my wounds, when Quayle with Alora showed up. Unlikely help... How did they know where to find me? And why would they even be looking?! "As my many travels taught me... Always stick with friends, even if you're the only friend left." Poor, naive wizard, he doesn't know his curse for what it is. Sweet Alora, how long till she forgets to smile?

The wolven paws are fleet with purpose. The shortlings won't be able to catch up. Let 'em crawl up to the Ulgoth's Beard, where Quayle believes he could ferret out something about the Tower, and Alora can talk all she wants about some crappy map she picked from Eldoth just before the lout ran away. The lock of nymph hair, Abela's parting gift, I gave into her care. I don't expect to get it back. I shall be at the Durlag's door long before them. But I have a homage to pay first, long overdue.

It won't be long now. No stars yet in the darkening sky above the treetops, but the forest is already awash with the myriads of tiny lights dancing around me. For a lonely wolf, the space of night is woven of smells. And I'll trace her down, the sister of black skin and white hair. Together, we shall dream the fireflies again...

A lithe shadow rises from the ground, wading through the sea of lights, and a wolf leaps to meet it halfway. Faldorn knows where to find Edwin with Viconia, together they were clearing the forest from the Iron Throne minions. She also knows well to stay away from me. The human and the wolf are dancing on the edge of my sight, clouded with something sharp and bitter. I'd think 'twas tears, only the wolves can't weep.

I was running through the dreamy forest. On all fours, but I didn't feel the speed. The trees were dancing before my eyes. A trunk speeding into view, only to be replaced by a fallen log the next moment, and a sudden jump across a brook hidden by the undergrowth... A jerky play of black and white, in a strange, surreal silence. Like in a dream... Only one thing remained constant, only one thing real. The icy cold rushing through my veins like blood. "Is it yet time to kill?" Varscona's words between my lips. Varscona's blade held in my fangs, the only thing I took along. The Cloak of the Wolf become my skin.

Just how much did I leave behind? This time, the forest was different. Silent. The stinging blades of grass, and the same fearful tracks of a mouse. But no flowers, no sweetness in the air. Gone... because I could not remember.

"Sister! Are we running together?"

"With you, brother!" The silence was complete, but I heard and responded, without a sound. Out of my sight, I could feel their presence. A long howl brushed the treetops, reaching upward. Three pairs of yellow eyes were alight in the darkness. I knew they were close.

"You lead," Faldorn's voice repeated the call within my head, and the dread wolf agreed. He must've smiled, a powerful shapeshifter druid and her lover in life. He died defending Faldorn in his wolven form. In his wolven form he's choosing now to come back at her call. Who'd better know than him? The smell of love and friendship is the sharpest of all, second only to the stench of hate. They guided me to Viconia's last camping place. But they're not here, and now 'tis my turn to lead.

What am I going to tell her when our eyes meet? I used to be blind before, but the wolven eyes don't fail. The world is black and white now. Wolves do not care for the two-legged's devious plots, for their hearts are straight and listening. They understand.

I'm running, my claws tearing angrily at the dirt beneath my feet. With these very claws shall I tear Eldoth's heart out! What did it feel when he sent Safana to set me up for his enjoyment? Did that lump of black coal know I'd do whatever he wanted as long as she desired the opposite? There was a blind reader in the library of Candlekeep. He could read by heart. But if the heart is blind... Was that how I lost my only friends I ever held dear? And how I was rushed into his filthy embrace? Only to be betrayed, discarded when no longer useful!

With my fangs shall I rip Eldoth's throat! Oh, how sweet shall be his voice, with my blade working upon his tender flesh. I'll carve his manhood out and make him weep the salty tears of blood. And I'll do it, too! Shar-Teel would be very pleased... Woe to the tongue that lied to know the Song! The heart that only knew the arts of manipulation shall fully learn the arts of pain.

Author's Note: If you think Bethphel's threats are a bit over the top, please let me know, so that I could consider reworking this bit.

Back at the abandoned camp, I caught a strange new smell. I knew there was another two-legged joining Viconia and Edwin, but there was more to it. We found them at last, but I can still feel it hanging around the drow. I already knew the smells of love and hate. No, that was something different.

Of course, love was there as well. There can be no doubt about it. Passionate and longing, like the call of the loon, and can be just as harsh and heart-wrenching. A bitter-sweet love. How can they stand it?! They wake up together in the morning, and by the evening they're cursing each other to the hell and beyond. And never stop, would they, day or night. Yet the time comes when they embrace again, till death does them part... Could Faldorn be right, and the truth be in the balance? The best antidote is the poison itself, in steady trickles. I was dreaming of a sweet love, and now I'm to set up the score straight. In large, bitter gulps.

So, it was Coran who took them out on a trip through the night! On a wyvern hunt... I am so amused. Last time I saw him, I thought he wouldn't survive crossing paths again with the drow. Now, I'm surprised he survived crossing paths with me, instead! Promise to Brielbara or no promise, I wasn't up to letting the traitor live. But he's got an unlikely savior this time... Viconia trained him well. What to do, and what to say. When to jump and run at her beck and call. A master petting her faithful dog for a pair of wyvern heads, as if saying, "Good job... Good puppy..."

Should I first give Eldoth into her hands for punishment? The sweeter the revenge! Viconia has changed much... He who has never seen a drow priestess adorned with severed giant spider limbs and crowned with a tiara of sword spider blades has never seen the true face of terror. When we leave this forest by the morning, she'll have left behind more than the slain spiders. Something that she slew within herself...

This time, the High Hedge didn't greet us with fragrant fields of flowers. Its skeletons were walking the scorched earth, withered by the relentless heat of the high sun. The shadows of former life for the souls burnt out with hate.

Shar-Teel was there, hacking effortlessly through the thin air. Effortlessly, then why the sheen of sweat upon her face? What were her eyes seeing, when fighting invisible foes of her own? Occasionally, a randomly wandering skeleton would enter the circle of death described by her two-handed blade, obediently crumbling to the ground in a heap of bones.

A simple stare, a simple voice. "I told you you'll yet be hunting for him." The words of vengeance, that she understands. I didn't have to ask her twice...

Enough of delays! Thalantyr, the wimp, knows nothing about any secret wards and passages in the Durlag's Tower. Nothing but his words of caution. Enough! Not when a raging fury is boiling in my heart. The sweet hour is near. We leave with the dark.

Far to the north, from the woods, a wolf howled. "Farewell, sister! And godspeed!" A dread wolf was howling at the high sun...

'Twas barely dawning when we reached Beregost, and who'd you think would be waiting for us if not the uncle Quayle? Rather, Alora was on alert, the gnome snoring away right in the middle of the road. Of course, when she kicked him up, he was all bow and flourish. "I trust your voyage was well? This gnome's head has much to share."

Yeah sure, that was a brilliant idea to pitch tent at the head of the Coast Way leading south from the city, to make sure no one passes by without identifying themselves. No, Eldoth was not among them. But somehow I fell into the trap. Whatever shall I do?! The gnome keeps finding himself for me when I think he's lost.

I was more interested in what he brought from the Ulgoth's Beard. Some enterprising fellow named Ike is organizing tours of the Durlag's Tower for the adventuring kind, and the gnome was quick to sign up. Our "tour guide" is supposed to wait for us at the gates by tomorrow morning, but whether he knows anything of the secret halls or not, he ain't telling. Most likely, for the lack of anything to say, but Quayle thinks 'tis 'cause no one offered him high enough. Yeah, right! If he had been to the old dwarf's treasure, he'd been rich already.

Where did our gnome get all that sudden wealth, actually? Lurking by the road, they were ready to greet us in their bestest and greatest. All those archmage robes, the Shadow Thieves attire, where did all that come from?! Last time I heard, Eldoth took off with nearly all of our money. And now not only did Quayle with Alora were able to purchase ponies to get here in time. They also managed to haul all of our equipment, left over at the Elfsong Tavern, and then some. Shar-Teel now sports Dabron's crossbow of accuracy, and Viconia's countenance is graced with the fabled Shield of Fallen Stars. Even the nymph lock is coming back, a thing of the past, woven into a cloak by the caring halfling hands. Alas, I have no use for it anymore...

The city of Baldur's Gate is now abuzz with rumors about the mad wizard that burned quite a bit of the slums. The Flaming Fist is still searching for him, and many suspect Zhentarim influence. But the most important find, of course, our gnome barely remembered to mention. For a "mere" five hundred in gold, a dwarven merchant at the Beard emptied his entire stock at the Quayle's feet. All kinds of dwarven memorabilia, including wardstones, some of which he even confessed of having forged himself. But the others might be genuine.

We'll find that out soon enough. No, I don't care to wait for the cartloads of exquisite provisions ordered by Quayle to reach the town by tomorrow. We have tarried long enough! I don't intend to give Eldoth another day of playing with his new toy. An hour's gotta be more than enough to get rested. Now, to see Coran off, and we'll be gone too. Viconia has impressed well upon him whom he's gotta visit in Baldur's Gate. He'd be more in danger there than in the Durlag's lair itself!

The leagues of wilderness stretched into hours, and ogreish faces into a single distorted mask of hate. Hours? A minute would've been far too long to bear!

The Durlag's Tower was looming like a solitary stump of stone in the dark. A single, monolithic mass, with no shades, nor contours. A citadel of betrayal, what was its color in the world of black and white? I ran forward, and the stars were swallowed as its shadow consumed the sky. That's how I knew it was there. And the smell, the odor of betrayal I knew I'd find and follow.

It was coming strong with the wind blowing into my face. Closer and closer, the wind was gathering speed. Go, go, run! There were sounds, faint, whispering at first, blended into the streams of air running past my ears. The frame of the dilapidated outer gate was speeding into my face, the darkness behind it beckoning... Eldoth, I'm coming for you! NOW!!

The moment I dove in, the night erupted with a cacophony of howling, cackling, hideous rage. The empty sockets of the Tower suddenly filled with the eyes of its monster guardians. Every manner of beast, undead or alive, was bellowing, leering, cheering me on. Daring to come. There must've been mind flayers and dopplegangers amongst them still, of the stock that took over the Tower in Durlag's absence many years past, laying a trap for the dwarf by impersonating the servants he could trust. The warrior of legend, he fought them off alone, and those he didn't slay he bound within the tower, doomed to languished for eternity. No longer could they leave, the dwarven clan keep turning into an eerie, ghostly prison.

I have no quarrel with them, nor with the undead spirits of the dwarven warriors entrusted to guard the Durlag's resting place. Why was I then brutally stopped with the flash of a burning sword? More and more rays of blinding light ignited in the night, until I stood within their ring of fire. A cornered wolf, alone.

The stench of smoldering fur stuffed my nostrils, but I burst out. Up the winding stairs... and into the eager embrace of skeletal arms atop the wall. The doom guards and battle horrors were approaching, brutally indifferent in their black dwarven armor and the swords of white. The color returned with the sudden outbursts of light, the sound of incantations, and the clash of steel on steel. The battle was joined, both on the wall and far below.

Later I was chided by Quayle, still out of breath, for rushing forth alone ahead of everyone. Ike warned him not to even approach the Tower at night. Perhaps, he knows a thing or two. But it felt so right to see, from atop the Durlag's wall, the bones of slain warriors rise at Viconia's bidding. Let the dead fight themselves! I'm only concerned with someone still living.

I have high hopes for the coming morning. May the sun dawn red with vengeance!

Author's Note: Many of the quotes in this chapter are taken directly from the game, with minor modifications. But not all of them, of course.

The sun was up and gone, but I didn't notice its passing. And stars were shining in vain for my hardened eyes of stone. They were blind to their glitter, for I was looking inside myself. That's what you do when you're flesh no more, and time stops, an entire day is but a blink in the eye of eternity. When the only way to be moved is by looking inside. I was, and I did not like what I saw...

The morning was bright. Without a cloud in the sky, and none upon Ike Cascadion Vendar's face when he met us at the Tower's gates. I shall remember his name in full, for the fool didn't live long enough to leave much more memory than that. He thought the tower's vestibule a safer place, the only one in fact that he could show to his tour clients. His lips parted in a smile, but it was not his voice that spoke.

"Hello, mortals. Death welcomes you. Here is now the property of I, and all others shall fall or flee. The tour is over and the tower is closed! All who enter will perish. All who enter will suffer pain. So speak I, and listen well you will. The tour is over!"

A demon in knight's shining armor. If a darkness can shine, but shine it did. And reek of betrayal... It came suddenly, in a blink, and the light was consumed. The darkness was shining, and the terrible voice laughed! The demonknight was up and gone, but poor Ike didn't notice his passing. He didn't realize the Tower was more than a lone skeleton transfixed forever before a magical tapestry of beauty long gone, a trap as old as the victim naive. Our guide's skull is now sharing the same toothy smile, scorched by the inferno of fire that peeled away the lips and cast an eternal cloud upon that face. We have survived by running up, towards the sun.

Centuries after Durlag is gone, his citadel is again under attack by a new invader. Demon or knight, I won't let him take my vengeance away from me! The race is up, and if I am to die, at least not before I carve the smile away from Eldoth's face. Nor after his face itself is taken away by the demon in shining armor.

I must beat him to it, even on the doorstep of Hell! Yet up I ran at first, a crazy wolf earning to howl at the sun. What traps? They're for the weak and greedy of heart. To guard the treasure chests of gold and gems, the traps that turn friends into enemies or hold them still, enraptured with the vain glitter, while ghastly hulks of those like themselves are gnawing upon their bones... But I was wrong. It caught me in the open, the basilisk's gaze, up on the roof. With my eyes on the sun, and my howl halfway down my throat. It was the moon that finally heard my soul.

The sun was up and gone, but I didn't notice its passing. What have I known, peering inside my heart of stone? I have known the Tower for what it has become. A hell of its own. Home to the ghosts of the damned, the tormented souls who couldn't fight their friends' false faces when the dopplegangers took away their likeness. It was a mercy to put them out of their misery. But they were defending the tower this time. Their debt is repaid.

What hell is complete without a true demon of lust and seduction? Even my heart started running away before the raw pull of a succubus desperate to escape her eternal prison. How did Durlag even manage to entrap her here? Was he not a man?! Edwin was without himself trying to defend "his little Kirinhale" from my sword. Well, Viconia knew just the spell to bring him back to his senses.

The demon wanted to strike a bargain, somehow her black heart knew what I was after. Only... what does she know about love?! For better or for worse, for loving or for curse, but Eldoth's soul is mine! Has ever been since our eyes met, and the words of The Song were spoken... twisted, slandered. The vengeance is mine, I spelled that message clearly for Kirinhale... with my sword.

Cold mountains grow by looking inside themselves. Beneath my heart of stone, I found an unexpected warmth I did not know was there. Bidding its time... For the cold stone, a day is but a blink in the eye of eternity. I was looking inside myself, and I did not like what I saw...

Far below, beneath the ground,
in the Great Hall of Durlag, round and round,
the traps are guarding, beyond despair,
four riddles made spirit, for those who dare.

The Tower is more than it seems. The ancient dwarven wardstones opened a way underground, untouched for ages. Yet we are not the first souls to set foot within the crazy dwarf's guarded domain. Everywhere we go, we're following a faint trail of another group of adventurers, and we even met one of their numbers. "This place is death. It's in the air, it gets into your clothes. My friends, they say, 'by the gods, what is that stench?!' And I tell them... 'tis the stink of death." Bayard was on his way out, but his companions persisted. Eldoth, the fool! I'm only surprised how his Skie manages not to drop out in terror. An "adventurous spirit," indeed!

The stink of death is not the only odor that permeates the air. The wolven nose is well attuned to pride and curse, greed and fear. Above all, the stench of betrayal, the one I am most aware of. And yet another one, the smell that ebbs and flows, elusive and strangely sweet, intoxicating. Somehow familiar, though not the name.

I was running through the empty halls, on soft paws. The Tower doesn't like those who hurry. Traps were opening up beneath me, mustard jellies trying to slow me down, wraith spiders spreading their nets. Skeleton warriors were rising up in their terrible splendor to deny me passage... I was running on all fours. I don't care how often we had to be hastened magically. I don't care if we have grown old here. I have lost the track of time even before we descended into this cursed place. Where did I leave my youth? Up there on the roof, beneath the stars...

The four Warders were waiting. Empty suits of armor now, in life they used to stand guard on the four corners of a giant elevator platform to salute Durlag's arrival and departure back into the depths of his stronghold, a proud king upon his throne. And guard they stand in their unlife as well. The honors could now be mine, but high must be the price of passage!

       I am the warrior's fate.
I raise him above his brethren, I amplify his deeds.
He becomes scornful, where once he had respect.
He becomes a giant, where once he was a man.
       Yet I lack the proper honor --
       Raise me up in glory!

The first warder spoke, and turned away. But if the heavy silence is like stormy clouds, Shar-Teel's voice was a lightning. Durlag's Pride required nothing less to be raised in glory from upon its pedestal.

"It came to pass that the hero Durlag Trollkiller and his man-at-arms, Arlo Stoneblade, ventured into the bowels of the Great Ryft. They fought the hideous tanar'ri Aec'Letec, and with a single blow of his axe Durlag slew the demon's body and entrapped his soul in an enchanted dagger.

"You are PRIDE. You are the doom of this place."

       I am the warrior's curse.
I steal his future, I mar his past.
The more he has, the less it seems.
He becomes a slave of glittering things.
       Yet I hunger --
       Feed me that which glitters beyond all else.

Few things are more precious than silence, this answer being one of them. Edwin stepped forth, a gem of pure fire blazing out from his open hands. "Come and get it. For you are AVARICE. The curse of this place."

       I am the warrior's bane.
I live in the darkness of his soul.
I bring him to his knees, trembling and weeping.
Unable to lift a hand in his own defense.
       Yet still I sleep --
       Awaken me!

A clear sound of gong disturbed the sleeping silence. Viconia came running with a mallet in her hands. She was not looking back. "It feels like home here. This place is fear, spiders are breeding on its venom... You are FEAR. This is your home... and I hate that it feels like home."

       I am the warrior's madness.
I curse him with trust and respect.
I slow the battle in its course by stealing his passion for blood,
and offering a softer emotion in return.
       Yet I thirst for more --
       Give me the drink of sweet crimson.

Why is everyone suddenly staring at me? With my own hands did I press the wine from Durlag's grapes. Sweet and crimson, like the blood I've been treading ever since drinking from the waters of melting. What do I thirst most for, revenge or oblivion?

"I am LOVE. I must be murdered in this cursed place."

Love was very hard to kill. The restless dwarven spirits were fighting on their own turf, as if the floor stones and the walls were aiding the warders in their final battle. The air itself was filled with fury. Wherever I'd turn, I could hear it screaming into my face, with a pair of burning eyes staring at me from within an empty helmet.

We have survived. Each of us who spoke has had their share to kill. Edwin subdued Avarice, Shar-Teel slew Pride, and Viconia conquered Fear. And me... aye, Love was very hard to kill. But the same sweet odor is still lingering in the air. It gives me strength. What succubus? There is a power in madness. Aye, Love was very hard to kill.

Love, Avarice, Pride, and Fear... Why, having killed them, we remember them even more? Before the elevator platform touched the bottom, I heard the empty armor clanking back into place, ready for whoever comes next. What was it that we really slew today?

A simple question, but it can bite... with both edges. Come, oh unwelcome visitor, dwell on the final thoughts of the defenders of this Tower. "Who are we slaying?" or rather... "Who is slaying us?" Which one of the two? Toss the coin, and listen to its rattle. The eyes of the doppleganger on the floor tapestry are darting from left to right. One statue opens the door to the left and closes the door to the right, the other statue does the opposite to that. Whither shall you go, oh unwelcome visitor? Into the chambers of his wife Islanne, or to test your archery skill with his youngest son Fuernebol? Whatever you do, pay heed to what that Durlag's got to say. 'Tis not by chance the floors are littered with withered pieces of parchment...

Islanne, my wife, I love you still.
'Twas just your form they made me kill.

Beware the ghosts speaking with Durlag's voice. "Islanne, your hair is down, my love... The torches glitter and darkness falls. 'Tis time we slept, my sweetling..."

The bedroom was untouched, preserved over centuries by a strange, bittersweet magic. How could it have that warmth and welcome when a likeness of Durlag embraced his wife for the final time?! I wish beyond hope that her eyes were closed when it changed into a doppleganger. For I saw it, and I am thankful for a ball of fire mercifully bursting forth to engulf both of us. It burnt, the pain... the pain... "For in my likeness they killed Islanne."

When across the hall, oh unwelcome visitor, take your aim at the sparring dummy, and an image of Durlag shall appear again. "Ah, Fuernebol, my son. Trade your bow for a lute and play something mournful for your father, will ye?.. Why do you hesitate, my child? 'Tis your father's face beneath this beard." Wait till he stands next to the dummy, but do not lower your bow. "Augh! Fire upon your very father, would ye, dwarfling? Don't make me laugh!"

The iron portcullis fell with a clash behind me, and a cloud of stinking vapors assaulted my senses, trying to wring my conscience out of a weakening grip. Faintly, I heard the sound of hastened footsteps around the corridor, my friends were coming... Whatever you do, oh unwelcome visitor, remember not to lower your bow!

Too young to fight, except to fall.
Here died my son, young Fuernebol.

When entering the throne room, oh unwelcome visitor, bring everyone in with you, for you're in for a fight of your life. "Kiel, my firstborn, why so stern all the time? Come down from that throne and revel with your family for a spell... You and I have built a fortress here, son. The treasures lie safe, and the clan grows strong, so let your guard down for a moment, fool... Thsss, dwarfmeat, if you wish to fight, then let us fight and be done with it."

Stand ready, oh unwelcome visitor, for when you touch Kiel's helmet, suspended over the empty throne, not one but three apparitions will appear. His entire family, Durlag, Fuernebol, and Islanne, out to take his firstborn's life. All dopplegangers of strength, ushered in with the spells of killing clouds. Hold onto your breath, for ye shall wish to scream... one doesn't lift one's sword against one's love in silence.

Oh Kiel, Clan-Prince of this dark tower,
You made your death your finest hour.

Are we already dead or still alive? You can never be sure in this citadel of undeath. Right through the poisonous cloud was the false Durlag wading, under a shower of spells and bullets. And when the other two were felled, he made one final gasp and died. Within the cloud of his own poison, he couldn't hold himself from screaming... Only then did I realize that the dopplegangers were alive and real. Driven to madness themselves in this cursed place, replaying the same fights all over again. Killing and dying all over again. If I'm still alive, I must hold on...

Taste My Fear.

The legends did not say everything. Now I know in whose likeness the dopplegangers rose against Durlag. Not only his family had to fight their own false faces. He drank in full his goblet of fear. But it is never empty. There is enough for all of us.

Alora is kneeling now upon Kiel's grave, four dwarven warders silent as statues on both sides. Unmoved by hot tears streaming down her face. It must be raining outside...

Feel No Warmth.

We won't touch the warrior's tomb. He earned his peace. Pray that we find ours.

Descent to hell is an arduous affair. Even stairs are false here, there is nothing you can trust. Whichever way to take, it's leading down. Ours was but a trap. An elaborate illusion to deceive those already wary of deception. A faint click when your foot touches the first step, and a sweet green gas puts you to sleep... Like in a dream, I heard someone chanting. The voice was Quayle's, but the melody was the same one that Branwen used to sing, the same one I was so quick to forget. I woke up when I realized I did not even remember my mother's lullaby.

Dance With The Dead.

I woke up to the sounds of battle. I was in the center of a circle, skeleton warriors advancing on all sides. Shar-Teel's mighty blade was swinging but couldn't part the sickly cloud. Standing side by side, I could feel Viconia's presence in the ironclad safety of our armor touching, back to back, so I could look my enemy in the eye. In the low, deep-throated singing of the drow, born in the bowels of the Underdark yet screaming into a piercing height to banish the undead spirits back into their graves... Did it work this time, or did we simply stand up to the undead lords who could not be turned? 'Tis never simple, but we did.

The real staircase, of course, was barely different. There was another horde of skeletons awaiting us on the other side, with their arrows of ice and fire. The dead always shoot in silence. Still heavy on my ears, the bittersweet silence with an odor that has no name. Who said the dead have no fear? It rules all worlds, and the scared enemies are the easiest to destroy when they turn one on another.

Turn to your right, oh unwelcome visitor, and behold what is left of Durlag's once magnificent bestiary. The place where the bones of the great wyrm Mechezarin are still hanging in his original repose of death. The place where petrified statues of ancient heroes stand vigil over his wyvern kin that still remain.

Touch the cold stone with your face, oh unwelcome visitor, and whisper a secret word. They shall respond.

"Greetings, human. I am Meiala, sirine warrior and enchanter. I have no peer among my people, and I shall smite any enemy we might come across."
"I am Moorlock. Show me what monsters I might vanquish here."
"Me Hack! Me crush enemies! Show Hack enemies to turn into goo."
"I am Bullrush of the clan Blackmane. There is nothing that can escape my arrows. Show me your enemies so I may kill them and drink their blood."
"The name's Tarnor. Just show me what needs killin', and I'll get to work on them with my axe."

A sirine, a human warrior, an ogre, a hobgoblin lord, and a half-dwarf. An unlikely company to fight giant wyverns together, but fight they did. Only Meiala and Bullrush survived, but even they turned on each other when the ancient magic wore off. The sirine emerged victorious, yet we didn't stay behind waiting for her to turn on us as well. Never trust anyone here, not even your closest friend. Never mind that half-dwarf. I dread to face Kagain, should we ever meet again.

Come back the way you came, oh unwelcome visitor, and take the left turn this time. Step through a curtain of fire, and walk the peaceful paths in Durlag's garden. Aye, what a beauty, isn't it? The clansmen love it now as always. Its solemn silence is a music to the restless spirits of undead.

"Ah, we used to have a garden too, you know... cough, cough..." The word 'we' going hard on our gnome. "That is, when I still used to live with me folks. Not for long... cough, cough... They used to call me Queasy. Even that youngster Jansen who used to go stealing turnips from me garden."

Our Quayle is always silly when he's talking about home. Even his language changes, where is all his pretense and pomposity? He should've stayed.

"Why Queasy, you say? I'll tell you a story. Well now, cockatrice is a rather pernicious breed of chicken, and not one that takes lightly to being plucked. You know, half bird and half lizard, the kind that can turn you to stone when they touch yer skin? Of course, of course... but I knew to make a pretty decent glue out of a bit of spit and goblin droppings. So I was thinking..."

But he didn't finish. Jokes don't take up well in this forgotten garden, and the stillborn laughter quickly dies with an awakening stab in the back. Ashirukuru, the ancient tree spirits, are still guarding this place. Their beauty is invisible, but ye don't need to see it. It's all around you, oh unwelcome visitor, but to your presence the ashirukuru take no liking.

A smile slips away in the sorrow of this place.

Know No Refuge.

Everyone leaving the garden is greeted by a giant mask, a gamemaster's head rising from the floor. Heed its message, oh unwelcome visitor. It shall intone:

Down four tunnels lie four foes.
Kill all four, and the game begins.

Eldoth would've loved it. Master of all kinds of manipulations, he would've reveled in the exquisite terror of being the prime actor in this play. The statue's eyes of stone were dull, but the broken lips were curved in a half-concealed smile. Or was it a sneer?

Fire, ice, slime, and wind.
All must perish to continue.
She who fires flame must be killed
       before her bow is drawn.

From the freezing ice and into the tunnels of slime, battered by the rushing wind and thrown into a cauldron of fire. What does a blade see when its bite is being tempered? Varscona doesn't speak, but I remember... Viconia's hands touching me with a blessing against cold and fire alike. Quayle's soothing chant and Edwin's words of power. The freezing gaze of a giant bear, the winter's spirit. And unbending pride upon Shar-Teel's face as the turbulent air vortices were pounding her down to her knees. Like a storm wind, roaring and whooshing of invisible stalkers...

The words the mask whispered into my back, "The ooze only parts before blow and ashes, but evaporates in cleansing fire." They came back to me when the fission slime parted beneath my blade, two puddles where there was only one. On the doorsteps of hell, Quayle was wielding well a wand of heavens. The slime was cleansed with fire. And in the final tunnel, we found her that fires flame. Killed before her bow was drawn.

The Phoenix Guard exploded in a ball of fire, and our vision was transformed. If we didn't realize we were only pieces moving through someone else's game, it was made clear to us now. The vision became reality. We were standing on a giant chessboard, an ethereal voice recounting the rules by which to live and by which to die.

"Your King cannot move from his square, your Queen may move into any square. The black bishop must stay to the black squares, while the white bishop keeps to the white squares. The knights can travel anywhere, but always take the risk of pain. If you move into a restricted square, lightning shall be sent to punish your transgression.

"Remember, when one king falls, the game is over."

I was the King, Viconia my Queen. She raised us an army of pawns, the mindless skeletons to throw their own bones into the enemy's path. Edwin also showed his summoning skills, and soon the board was crawling with xvarts and gnolls. The air was cut and torn with lightning, heavy with the stench of burning flesh. I was grateful for Thalos' Gift, for I wasn't born to obey the rules.

Through the screen of smoke, I saw the enemy pawns coming closer. The Queen and bishops casting their magic. Unerring and methodically, dull and faceless, they were there for one purpose, and one purpose only. To kill, and be gone, their duty fulfilled.

Seek No Exit.

Hurray for Quayle and Alora, our knights without prejudice or fear! To see the gnome's mirror images gallivanting briskly amongst both friend and foe, you'd think he was everywhere at once. Promptly, he blinded both enemy's rooks, who were shooting arrows with an appalling speed. Soon, their entire force was slowed by his magic, and reeling from the malison laid out for them by our very own Red Wizard.

But Edwin's crown achievement was the globe of shimmering force with which he surrounded the King. Unable to move or indeed do anything at all, and yet invulnerable from outside, his was the share to watch the demise of his entire army. In isolation as complete as it was cruel. The fate I wouldn't wish to suffer myself. For when his time did come, he couldn't move. He died by the rules...

And Durlag was watching. And Durlag was weeping. True Durlag or a doppleganger? An enemy would've laughed, watching his people fight and perish. But who were his people in the game he was watching? For those who would survive, the ghost had the final test to pass. A final hope that his true clan would return. In spirit if not by the right of birth... To help him fight the new invader, we must be ready. A demonknight in shining armor.

"Am I... Durlag? You have cause to wonder... you have seen traps, and illusions, and phantoms... but the spirit of Durlag has long since passed... to whatever fate the dark veil holds... This place... this place is his fear... his anger... his torment... You wish to conquer this place? You shall have to understand what created it... remember well what you have already seen... Three paths lead away... all must be taken."

Aye, Eldoth would've loved it much. Born to be a king on stage, and fool in the eyes of those who have known madness. What would he feel before that single, endless stare of the ghost? What would he say in response to Durlag's words?

Has he even passed the same way I am going? Is there really another way? To go through, I must think and feel like Durlag.

Know My Madness.

We have come far and seen much. The silence in this place is measured, but time is not. What then keeps ticking here, with every step we make? An invisible clock measuring how far are we from death yet... and how far from life already. There is neither in Durlag's home. Everything is hanging in the middle.

How long yet? I asked the quiet ghost of Islanne. "You have come far and seen much... but not all would stay... Leaving is what I offer... Aggravate the spirit no more... leave this place and the madness it keeps... The world above is yours... the depths belong to the dead that will not let go..."

What holds the ghosts here still? We have come far and seen much. Yet I'm not ready to leave. The thirst for vengeance is what holds me here. "The light calls... you do not go... You are as stubborn as my Durlag... I shall send you when you wish... would that I could send away the weight from his shoulders thus..."

The bedroom was neat, almost homely. Guarded with a long carpet of magic runes, as beautifully woven as they're deadly. "Here is the secret for what comes. The bones shall walk where flesh cannot." Built for the dead, with the old place of love defiled. The wardstone of bone was strangely warm to the touch. But the real challenge was ahead, waiting for my head to touch Durlag's pillow...

Open your eyes, and behold a strange circular room with perfect, polished walls. Nothing for an eye to catch upon, save for the four stone statues. Faceless, all of them... until they spoke.

"My father roamed as I did, and saw much of the world in his time. Well respected he was, but he had no home. At his end, he died in some faraway land, with no dwarven kin by his side. I would not allow such to happen to me. I would not follow his steps that far. I would not be Durlag the Clanless!

"This was my fear. Trace its path, and show me you have learnt."

Viconia, Alora, and Shar-Teel. If the answer was a tapestry, each took a thread to weave in. Before I could respond, the other statues, one by one, revealed their contours. A doppleganger, a stout dwarf of Durlag's clan, and a tired craftsman called upon to fortify the tower. Three mute reminders, what could they tell? ...Suddenly, the drow spoke. I did not recognize her voice.

"We were the fear made flesssh. We came to the home that Durlag built, and we hid within the people that he forrrmed. With the Tentacled Ones to guide, we poisssoned the clan, and the nightmares of Durrrlag came true... Our masters said they could tassste his rage even in the air, but alwaysss there was a fear behind.

"We were the fear made flesssh, but it was already there."

* * *

"We followed Durlag. We were his people, his family. Durlag Trollkiller, son of Bolhur Thunderaxe the Clanless, built this place with the spoils of a lifetime of adventure. It was majestic in those times, and we took what we needed from the fortune around us. We grew strong and proud, and Durlag felt that he finally had a home. We were the future, his family. And if we were lost, then so was he. That was the fear that hid, that was beneath.

"We followed Durlag. We were his people."

* * *

"We entrenched this place against all that would come. We built retribution into the trip wires, and vengeance into the fireballs. We worked the hatred into every nook and cranny, just as he wished. But our actions were guided from elsewhere. The foundation was the fear that the same thing could happen again, and this was to be prevented at all costs. This was the mortar that held him together.

"We entrenched this place against all that would come. Friend and foe alike."

Viconia, Alora, and Shar-Teel. Each spoke their part, but it was the gnome who wove together the answer. With his own voice...

"I know this fear. When I left my home, I was all alone, with no friends, without a family. I wondered far and wide across Faerûn, all kinds of people did I meet. None bothered to stay and drink from my well of counsel and wisdom. And, to be honest, none did at my old home.

"You are my home now, my friends, my family. And I'm afraid to lose you, fearing every new enemy that might take you away from me. I know Tiax thought I was cursed to follow you, or maybe you were cursed with having me, but... I am brave out of fear.

"Listen, Durlag! Your fear began with you and your need for a home. It grew with your clan, as you feared losing them. It manifested in the invaders, but you feared their coming already. It became your home, where it keeps you safe."

Time to lift my head from the pillow. I came to know Durlag's fear.

"You have learned a little. You may yet survive."

That spider had a human head! Viconia shuddered and closed her eyes. The same kind of stupor that used to paralyze her when we first met was about to overtake her again. "Sing, drow sister, sing!" Within her shelter of closed eyes, a spell was born. Reaching far into our souls, uniting us again in the symphony of battle.

Our fight's a dance. Not what they call a dance in the rich palaces, nor was it the lonely fight of a novice soldier, who doesn't see anything but the enemy in front of him. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the entire battlefield at once. Feeling everything my partners were doing, aching with each stab of pain, rejoicing with every strike of victory. Dancing together, in a perfect defensive harmony.

Across the space of battle, I could feel Viconia's torment. "Don't give up, sister! You can do it!" There were several sword spiders, and more of their kin were coming. But the strange one of nightmares was hard to locate. It was phasing in and out, between this place and an ethereal plane of existence, to reappear in our back and strike, strike, strike again...

The drow fight better in the dark. When the battle is within, 'tis easier to wage it blindfolded. She fought it well, and when she opened her eyes, the astral phase spider was lying dead, a giant crumpled before Viconia's tiny frame. Only then did she start trembling.

Nightmare's hairy feelers, where did her spiders come from? The pit in the center of the hall that was darker than night. I dropped a pebble, and it kept falling endlessly... perhaps into the Abyss itself? I didn't hear it strike the bottom until I found myself in the same circular room, facing the same statues of stone. Only this time the question was different.

"With me it ended. Speak now of my troubles, to show you have learnt. From where did my pain come? Where did my pain stab home? Where did my pain take root? And where does my pain now reside? Speak and show that you understand."

Edwin, Viconia, and Quayle. The drow's eyes were closed, her lips whispering in pain, "...a drider? ...could not have been..." I knew when she was ready. The dwarven statue knew as well. From the depth of her private torment, the words that were to leave her lips would be speaking for the entire clan of Durlag as well. But the doppleganger lashed out first. Hissing, cold and relentless.

"It began with usss... and the mastersss... The Tentacled Ones directed, and we asssaulted quietly under cover of night. We took off the weaker first, hiding amidst the childrrren. None sssaw our arrival, none noticed the intruders, and none sssurvived the final rise. When Durlag realized the deception, it was too late! His own family sssought his life, and he ssslaughtered their falssse facesss.

"It began with usss... and the mastersss..."

* * *

"This is not my face. The invaders came and took it away. I was among the last, but not the very last, and I saw the horror to come. My child rose against me, though it was no longer my child. It wore her face, but I knew her to be dead. The dopplegangers came from within, and we could not fight ourselves. Better to die than to kill ourselves. What would be left of a man that has had to kill his family... and himself?

"I was among the last, but not the very last."

* * *

"We were hired after the battles were done. Durlag called upon us to make his visions true. We did our best, but those visions grew darker, and soon we couldn't see. We waded through his fallen, and we waded through his gold. Near the end we feared for our lives, though not as much as he did. I was never truly sure whether he wished to keep intruders out or himself in. Both, I'll wager.

"We were hired after the battles were done, and we did our best."

What would be left of a man that has had to kill his family... but not himself? The walls were crowding upon us, without missing a word, not a single whisper. Quayle spoke in a nearly impenetrable darkness, with the dark dreams of those who entrenched this place.

"Enough!" The shadows were shattered. And if the heavy silence was a desert, Shar-Teel's words were the raindrops falling where tears could not. "I know enough of pain, so listen. Listen to my heart, while you still can..."

"I do not cry often, but that one time I did, when my mother and father were killed in a bandit raid, with our entire village. I alone survived, a girl of twelve summers. A captain of the Flaming Fist took a pity on me, and brought into his home.

"The pity can be more painful than tears. Because it breaks hearts when it's over. I grew amongst his soldiers, strong and proud. But one day three of them waylaid me away from our camp. They raped my soul and brutalized my flesh on a whim of their animal passions.

"My vengeance gave me strength. With bare hands, I dug my way out of my grave of earth and stones. With bare hands I tore away their throats before the eyes of the entire garrison. I knew that if I was to be executed, it would've been my foster father's duty to give the final order. I ran away from that pain... but it could not have helped!

"I thought it was coming from the outside, but it's within. It's there and it hurts, because one always remembers. I built retribution into my strength, and hatred is worked into every nook and cranny of my soul. Yet I was never truly sure whether I've been keeping intruders in... or myself out. Both, I'll wager.

"This is my story, Durlag, and listen to me you will! Your pain was brought by the intruders, but it came from within. With the death of your family it stabbed home. It took root in your tower, as you were digging deeper and deeper to defend it against any possible assault to come. But what does it matter? For even within its dark confines, guarded by the myriads of traps, within your heart it resides still."

The pebble struck the bottom. The sound was far away but strangely loud. I came to know Durlag's pain.

"You now know a little more of me. You may yet live."

There is a secret door out of Durlag's chambers. It leads into a place forgotten, made of a greenish slime and darkness. I would call it alive, only it is not... it is undead, and it hates you intensely. Even the slime bites whenever you step upon its green. Reaching out of the walls whenever you brush against them, eating through the skin and armor alike. Neither with poison, nor with acid, but with a bitter touch of undeath. That's what hurts most, for it bites right through the soul.

This place is etched in solid rock, creating crooked passages where the ghouls walk and the hatred sleeps. Stronger ghouls than the others of their kind, fast and hardy. As if an entire army of mighty warriors once perished here.

Walking through this labyrinth is like searching through memory. Many a forgotten thing is rotting in its refuse. We have lost the track of time, but found a door into a part of the Tower where no one set foot before. It appeared to be Durlag's treasury, but the traps were few, the wardstone found with a simple ghoul. Well, not a simple ghoul, for he had a name. Durlag forgot about his own treasury, but there were many more things here crying to be remembered.

"My name was Grael! GRAEL!!" In the time that now seems long ago, I had learnt that ghouls too could speak when driven by madness. I heard a bitterness that was stronger than life... or maybe I just imagined it? Maybe I'm going mad myself?

"Last words I spoke when my body died. I like to think there was much lamenting when Grael fell, but it was but a sideshow. Durlag entrapped the beast, and his was the blow of legend that won. Ours were the souls that lost. Together we fought! A great evil, but not even that fight is remembered within this tower.

"Durlag's was the victory blow, and my reward is undeath?! My reward is the curse of this place and the madness that claimed it. Beware the gaze that is not a gaze but a look into your soul!"

The ghouls speak when they want to die. To die, but not to be forgotten. Grael was his name, I spoke it out loud into his dying eyes. Remembered by the pain he gave us, he died a warrior, with a sword in his hand. I hope his final fight was more glorious than whichever one he was talking about. I dread to imagine what it could have been like. All these ghouls... do they share the same fate?

Was there the fourth path, Durlag?!

"You have found what I have forgotten. You may yet remember."

We could be richer than kings if we could carry out all of this gold. Eldoth wanted it so badly, but was he ready to face what Durlag could see from upon his throne? The same circular room, the same stone statues. The final question...

"This is the end of all things. Here I stood and struck them down as they came. My family and my clan, with their false faces. They dropped all pretense and drew their weapons against me. I fought them to the last, killing the shapechangers that had taken their forms. I cursed them for destroying the dream, but they were not the real evil. The real evil could not save my people before this deception. The real evil hid from life in the face of this tragedy. The real evil deserves the blame.

"This is the end of all things. Answer where blame has fallen."

I had to answer this myself. I wanted to complete the circle. Had I the strength? Three witnesses to testify, the dead without anything to hide. 'Tis but the living who cannot always hear what they've got to say. The living pay a price for looking into their hearts of stone...

"We came to kill, but not without reasonsss. We were here before, as were the Tentaclesss. Their underground dwellingsss were near, and the tower intruded on their expansionsss. As well, the bait was far too great to passs. The dwarves did not hide their wealthhh; did not stop the rumors of waissst-deep gold! Invaders came and ssstill keep coming, but not without invite.

"We came to kill, but not without reasonsss."

* * *

"There was no warning, but it would not have helped. There was no need to prepare for hard times, because hard times would never come. So we were assured, and so we believed. The great Trollkiller was our provider, and he would protect us. We put down our swords to live the life he always wanted. We lived as family. Suspicions were for outsiders; guards and weapons were for the time of war.

"There was no warning, but it would not have helped."

* * *

"We crafted as we were told. We built this place to prevent all from entering. We trapped every inch of every step, and made sure that to enter meant death. We have killed many over time, though it was not our will. It was all to protect against a repeat of the past, but the challenges ensured it would repeat. A mountain to climb, a river to cross. Because it is there, they will come.

"We crafted as we were told."

The circle was complete, and I was looking into Durlag's eyes again. Drunk with the sweet stench of madness, the tempting bliss of no name! What was he hoping for? Only cold mountains grow by looking inside themselves. Durlag was listening. Waiting for the answers from those he came to share his place with. Six troubled souls, and only one to feel at home in his dark tower. She didn't like what she had to say...

"One doesn't leave the Underdark behind. It's always there, beneath the skin. In love and hate, I feel at home. There is nothing in the middle for the place where only the strongest one survives. I didn't want to leave. But my destiny was stronger...

"A priestess of Lloth must be strong and proud. Why then, when the time came for me to sacrifice a child, I could not do it? I hesitated, I refused, and they... they threw him to the spiders.

"I do not blame my clan. I was to be punished, or the house DeVir would suffer the full wrath of Lloth. Nor do I blame my brother for saving me... at the price of his own life. For even if he's still alive, he didn't wish it at the time of our parting.

"I remember his face, so beautiful and smiling... I wouldn't bear seeing it atop a drider's bloated body. The body I came to hate. The body he must be hating beyond anything else. Half man, and half spider. Such is the Lloth's punishment for those who transgress her will.

"If I were to meet Valas again, it would be his true face he'd ask me to slay. For all of what I did not do, I blame myself."

Somewhere from behind the veil of stone, I heard Durlag's spirit rise before the final judgment.

"The blame begins with the invaders, but they attacked with supposed good reason. It could be on your people, but they were in the shelter of your confidence. The craftsmen only did their job. In your eyes, Durlag, you are the one to blame for all that has happened."

I left the throne of judgment behind, and didn't look back. I came to know Durlag's blame.

"You have understood. You may yet survive what I could not."

We may yet survive. I was lead by the stench of betrayal, thinking it was Eldoth. Now I met it face to face, but it is not him. Betrayal in the flesh, a demon in knight's shining armor. Its very essence is in betraying its own nature. What higher prize, so that the darkness could shine?

How did that creature slipped into the Tower? Durlag himself didn't know the answer, but I might. I have learnt much along the way, fighting demons of my own. The essence of our darkest feelings, our darkest emotions. With a life of their own on the outer planes of existence, where time flows from our intentions, and distance is measured in thoughts. Where an angel and a demon can stare into each other's eyes, within the space of a single dream. Where a thought can kill...

What kind of intense hatred could bring them in the flesh into our world? The highest degree of betrayal is in betraying himself. Madness was but Durlag's own choice, a tempting refuge from his fear, pain, from facing judgment. Madness only remembers what it likes, corrupting everything it seeks to forget. But was it really forgotten? Was it not fear that fortified this place? Not pain is being screamed by every stone?! What if not blame was to be guarded here from ever being disturbed?

This place reeks of betrayal. Abomination of everything it was meant to be. Mistrust instead of family, death instead of life, and curse instead of future... "They're all born of betrayal. It seeped through the cracks of Durlag's soul, he could contain it no more. I am the soul of this place!" The Demonknight was laughing. "The pitiful dwarf's ghost is now a stranger here. A betrayer only waiting to be betrayed. All flesh betrays itself in the end. Come and look at your reflection in my mirror!"

How does one slay a demon? You don't, unless you have a place within your heart to support yourself when you'll need both hands for your weapon to burn. A safe haven, with roots going deep, so they won't budge. For when a demon's gaze is upon you, how can you not avert your eyes?

I didn't look away. A pair of wings were reaching out to embrace me, in their warmth I found strength. "Mother?!" I didn't look away, but I didn't see the terrible mirror of the demon's face smashed right through with my blade. No, for I had another face to behold... My mother is so beautiful! An angel and a demon within the space of a single dream, for but a moment it was real! Varscona screamed, her opposition was a sword of flame. The opposition of betrayal? It kept me warm where nothing else could. It slew the demon, and then we had to face ourselves...

Each of us today had a special enemy to slay. Their dark sibling spawned by the demon's hideous gaze. Lost in time and far away from the Iron Throne and Baldur's Gate, I didn't expect to find Sarevok's burning eyes again. He recognized me... for what?! For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw another demon rise to stand up beside my mother's dream. Alone he stood within the depth of Sarevok's eyes. "Surprised?! Rebellious child, 'tis me you both share..." Begone! Shar-Teel's sword broke the spell, and the shadows shattered together with the false Sarevok's eyes. But the dopplegangers of my heart are not all slain yet, it appears. They'll keep coming.

I came here looking for Eldoth. Did I not know already he wasn't here? Right before the Demonknight's chamber, we met Clair De'Lain. Hers was the group of adventurers we saw passing ahead of us. All of them perishing along the way, but Eldoth was not among their numbers. The fucking bastard could not have passed through what we have had to endure. Could not have understood what we have learnt. Could not have hoped to slay what we have slain.

The demon's gone, and only a tiny dagger clattered to the floor where it stood. A lone gem upon its hilt is radiating malice. That luminous blackness... it calls, and whither shall I go? My hunt is not over. The Tower has blunted its urge, yet my vengeance is not sated. Eldoth has cheated me again into coming here, but I might yet survive. The Tower has taught me patience. May the vermin rot in their own fear! Soon, oh soon enough shall they learn that I'm still breathing! Only now I have a lot of time on my hands...

Whatever price, one thing I've known to be true. One doesn't enter the Durlag's Tower and leave it the same man as before. Nor the same woman.

Author's Note: Many of the quotes in this chapter are taken directly from the game, with minor modifications. But not all of them, of course.

The Durlag's torment is behind us now. For the first time I saw a smile on Islanne's face. But the ghost of Durlag wasn't there to greet us, or to bid farewell. "...Would that I could send away the weight from his shoulders thus..." I took her hand, and the gloom vanished. I stood outside, a fresh breeze playing with my hair. Would Durlag ever choose to leave his tower? But I wasn't in a hurry. I needed this, another night on the roof, beneath the stars.

The heart of stone grows by looking inside itself... I tried to remember what I saw on that other night before the descent, and couldn't. My living heart was afraid. Deathly afraid to reach too deep and open the sluices of strange, evil voices. Voices? One voice only, the one I heard again in the demonknight's chamber, looking into Sarevok's eyes, my own false reflection.

"Do not be afraid." What was that?! "Different, isn't it?" Indeed, it was, a voice from the outside, a voice without a sound. The demonknight's dagger was in my hand, its dark gem glowing with the voice. "I am not him, nor shall I betray you. But I know the voice of your nightmares... Ask me, and ye shall know too. Free me, and we shall grow strong together!"

I wish to know much. I wish to know what Nalin meant, and why his words alone could stop the voices from taking over my dreams. "What is your name?" I asked, and silence stretched. I let the silent dagger slide back into its sheath. The path is long and arduous, we have a lot of time ahead.

The voice inside the dagger didn't agree. Pulling to go, tugging on my mind to leave this place. The silence stretched... and when it broke, I suddenly felt Shar-Teel's eyes burrowing into my skull. She, too, must've heard the answer.

I couldn't sleep tonight. Someone, something was watching me. Listening to my breath, stealing on my thoughts. I knew it wasn't Shar-Teel, though her eyes weren't closed. Nor could it be Viconia, for such is not the manner of a storm contained in a tight place. Edwin was dead awake, but the drow was not at his side. The gnome was quietly snoring in his sleep, and Alora was smiling. The only one smiling through this night of dark whispers. The moon was waning, barely visible in the sky, and the wind was soughing in the trees. The dagger was glowing...

"Taste the air. Does it smell of death?" Indeed, it does. What's in it for you? "Must breathe death... Will make us stronger... both of us." The wind was blowing from Nashkel. Wasn't it life that Nalin preached? "Tell me what he said, and we'll feed on it." The priest said three things. Very simple, all of them. But I don't understand, perhaps that's why I still remember? "Start from the beginning."

Seek life. Even in death. Do not despair.

"A most delicious treat. Your priest was wise..." Was? "Doesn't the wind smell of death?" I am too late! "You wanted to see him again? You needn't bother. I'll tell you this and more... oh, so much more. You must be ready!"

A strong gust smashed into my face, and I almost choked from its filthy stench. For a moment, I could hear nothing but insane laughter inside my head. Everything around me was screaming in the wind. Trees struggling to hold onto their roots, branches tossing and lashing about at the faces painted with horror...

It stopped as abruptly as it started. "Seek life. For when you take it, you'll grow stronger. It's in the nature of such as you and me. In death, we grow stronger..." What do you even know about me?! "I know the one life you're seeking more than any other. You shall gain much by taking it for yourself."

Shar-Teel's glance was apprehensive, and Viconia... she was grieving alone. Faces were flashing through my memory, but only one of them made my heart race and hand tighten around the dagger. Driving the dark gem into my flesh. Eldoth! "I know where you can find him." We shall talk...

Shar-Teel was speaking to me in the old Tranzig's room, and the shadows were gathering. "I know the demon's name. Aec'Letec, entrapped by Durlag within an enchanted dagger. You're holding the Soultaker. Do you remember?" I was standing in the room where innocent blood was spilt, and I remembered. The only thing I could not remember was the unlucky guy's name. Back then, he didn't have time to speak it up.

What did Viconia tell me today, when the sun was high? She's always at her weakest at such time, her voice was trembling with effort. "I was even weaker in the hour of my disgrace. I should have sacrificed that child. Lloth would have grown stronger, and so would've I amongst my people. The drow have always been sacrificing every third male born to us, why couldn't I do it?!"

Her eyes were upon the dagger, as if listening to something... Why am I holding it unsheathed even now? "Remember, he's a nabassu. Nabassu! A demon of death! They feed on it, with every kill growing stronger." Where did Quayle learn so much? "Devouring the very life's essence of those they slay..."

"...and anything that reeks of life. 'Cause only life can be turned to death, never the other way around." What about the fat man's eyes when the first blood started to gather at his lips? "Asking for a kiss of death." Montaron... he died smiling. "The last blood is always sweet." I would have drunk it now... "Feed me more of Nalin's wisdom."

Trust your heart. It shall guide you.

"Your heart is not much different from mine. It craves fresh blood, and it knows where to look for it." Trust my heart, and open the window. "It shall guide you. Smell the wind." The western wind, the salt from the sea. "This is where the pirate's heart belongs. Yearning to be free. Shall you let him?"

Where is Alora? She must have those sea charts still, along with the funny glowing arrow within a round case. Persistently pointing somewhere, no matter what. But the charts... yes, they're copies, and the originals... he has to have them still!

Spin the arrow, watch it glow.
Where it turns, there we go!

Damn, must she always be so cheerful? "Smile more often, Beth, it looks good on you!" A forgotten song has found its window. Garrick only wanted to see me smile... "There, you'll find what you're looking for. Do not despair."

The sky started to weep when the sun was gone. Its tears landing on my forehead, flowing down to wet my lips. Yet the Soultaker's naked steel was left untouched. It doesn't know how to cry.

Why am I here? I had been here before. This is where poor Garrick died. But it wasn't Kagain's crossbow bolt that dyed his rose red. I should've known it when I met Eldoth. Two bards, two roses. Red and white. Guess which one was the false color?

I'll never find love again. "Don't even go looking." What... why did the dagger speak with Shar-Teel's voice? "Because she's right. Do you think that drow and the mage really love each other?" They've been both quiet tonight... I'll take Viconia's hand, and lead her to the place only I remember. Where Garrick's pyre burned to ashes; her brother wasn't so lucky. Between Edwin and Valas, which one is of the false color?

"The Red Wizard. Why's he here?" He came to take a life. "Why did he let it leave a scar?" Dynaheir died fighting. "Why did he stay?" I used to think... but I don't know anymore. The witch was looking for a prophesy. "Then did he find it instead?" No, but I did. The Waters of Melting, we escaped them to the north. In an abandoned shrine of a long forgotten faith, the death itself was alive. And I was happy! Why? "That was your question. Did Nalin give an answer?"

Lifegiver shall be spared the share of dead gods.

"That was his last one?" Yes, but I don't understand. "Come, we have much to talk about. Bring me to Ulgoth's Beard, and the prophesy shall be fulfilled."

Ulgoth's Beard. Back at the camp, everyone suddenly was talking about it. Everyone but Alora. "Just trust your heart, OK? It'll guide you."

Tears quickly give way to anger. Long whips of torrential rain were hastening us through the night when an invisible chord broke high above, and a lightning tore the horizon... toward the sea. The sky was enraged, for it could see far. In the relative safety of the shack I was looking at the sea charts that Eldoth tried to procure so hard. Caught in the crosshairs of a storm, a tiny ship was fighting for survival. Not yet, not yet! He mustn't escape me so easily. Tenya, the girl priestess that used to live here... I wish I had her powers. "Umberlee is my mother now," she used to say. Born after the Time of Trouble, was she not?

"You are much too perceptive even for a true child of god." What in the hell are you talking about? "Something in the hell, indeed... Or should I say, someone?" I was looking up, and yet not up, into another plane of existence, where a demon and an angel can stare each other eye to eye within the space of a single thought. In my dream, I was not alone. I shared it with love and warmth, hate and anguish, all together.

Side by side with my mother, within the quiet shelter of her wings. Eye to eye with a dark, brooding hole, emptiness beyond belief. Could it ever hope to be filled? Light itself was dying in its depths, emptiness beyond the point of return. "'Cause only life can be turned to death, never the other way around." Out of the death incarnate, a man stepped out. Impossible! I recognized his eyes...

"Such people like you and me are born to kill, sister." Sarevok's gaze did not waver. "Such creatures like you and me grow stronger by taking lives," the dagger intoned in my hand. The river of my life! How did you turn into a stream of blood, from the very source of melting waters? "It had always been there, only frozen. You were born to kill."

The voice of my nightmares, it was right. I gave up, and the dark surface of nightmares started rippling with a vision, responding to my thoughts. A stream of faces, those who died by my hand, and those who died by my guilt, their desperate hands touching strings of my soul in passing. Garrick's sweet song and Kagain's heavy silence, Dynaheir's cold resolve and Montaron's insane laughter. Noober, Unshey, Branwen's chant... and my mother's lullaby. All vanishing, flickering out. To the unsung sounds of my mother's lullaby...

"You have worked hard, my child. Made your father proud." NO!! Leave my mother alone, take me instead! Within the emptiness a dark turbulence stirred, and a black sword issued forth, darker even than the Soultaker's steel. Sarevok screamed, with the Blade of Chaos burning like a dark fire in his hands. "This is my gift. You know what to do with it, children."

What is stronger, the wings of love or the chaos of death? Is there a home warmer than the mother's womb? Somewhere above me, I could hear a heart racing. A loving, worried heartbeat. My mother was struggling against death, and a river of blood was flowing into my veins. Hot, sweet and steamy, my mother's blood. Hurry up, mother, hurry up! The sword of chaos burst through the walls, and I saw the light.

"Seek life. Even in death..." I knew I was conceived in the rain. And I was born to live.

We were expected in Ulgoth's Beard. Some strange men overtook us just outside the village. We barely exchanged names, everything was cold and efficient. I wasn't capable of anything more, anyway. Nor did I care. And that's how we ended up in this underground temple of sorts. For all I know, it could be a cellar in the middle of the village. For we were led here blindfolded.

I didn't care. I had a new father, but I wasn't sure I wanted one anymore. The demon in the dagger was telling me about someone in the village who'd get me across the sea. I wasn't listening. How could I? I was only trying to listen to myself. To find again the sounds of my mother's lullaby, Nalin's kind words to sustain my heart. Are they gone forever? The nabassu feed on thoughts too, on words of life. Replacing them with their words of death.

I only remember their angst, and a terrible name they call me now. "Behold yourself, daughter of Bhaal!" Daughter of Murder, that's how Tiax called me too. And Sarevok is my half-brother. HOW?! Gorion never told me that. Only the monks used to sing... The song of my childhood I've grown to fear.

The Lord of Murder shall perish.
But in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny.
Chaos shall be sown in their passage.
So sayeth the wise Alaundo.

The black-robed priests are deathly silent. What do they want from me? I'm sowing chaos, all right. It seems the Time of Troubles never ended with my father's death on the prime material plane, and the real troubles are still ahead. What more would they want from me? To take his place? They're deathly silent...

Waiting for the demon to take charge? Soon enough, Aec'Letec is to be released from his prison. Tracea Carol, the cult's leader, told me the ceremony is to take place at midnight. The demon is to be released, and he shall teach me all the ways of death. Only I have one question yet he didn't answer. The last thing that Nalin told me, his parting gift. If only I could remember!

The ceremony is about to start, yet Alora with Quayle are nowhere to be found. The priests are looking worried, but the ritual should go ahead as planned. Everyone seems to know their place, everyone but me. Alora, I don't remember Nalin's words, but I remember your smile. I'll trust my heart, so it shall guide me.

That's it. It happened. The dagger was broken, and the sickly clouds of the holding spell coalesced into the hideous form of a tanar'ri. The true demon was walking the prime again. It looked me in the eyes, with words like ice to still the soul. "Tonight is the hour of my freedom! Stand with me now, Daughter of Murder, and rule in chaos! Kill the fruit of love within yourself."

What is my love? I've never had one! For Kagain's love was silent, and I never talked back. And now... the stone doesn't speak, it's just as silent. Garrick was weaving songs of love for me, but did I recognize the only Song I wished to hear? I betrayed it, and was betrayed in turn. I thought I was singing it with Eldoth, but that love of mine I'm now hating most of all. What is the love I am to kill now? Aren't they all dead already?

"You know not what ye talk about, woman..." The silence stretched in the crosshairs of many eyes. The black-robed priests, the demon's dark glowing coals staring back through their empty sockets. Shar-Teel and Edwin in disbelief, Alora and Quayle with waning hope. Indeed, everyone was there, even the suddenly appeared dwarves they brought to stop it all from happening. Too late, for the demon was out!

"The child was mine," Viconia whispered behind my back, and I remembered.

Lifegiver shall be spared the share of dead gods.

Answer me this one now, demon! What prophesy is to be fulfilled? Bet you don't know the answer... As if through a bloody haze, I saw dwarven axes strike Aec'Letec and pass clean through the demon's otherwordly substance. "Puny mortals! You need more than steel to strike me down!" May the time stop! A dwarf wavered under Aec'Letec's gaze. A warrior of truth now, an undead servant the next moment.

Beware the gaze that is not a gaze but a look into your soul!

Grael the ghoul, you shall be remembered! So, that is how Durlag's warriors turned into abominations of themselves. "What are you waiting for? Strike them down!" I stood alone in the midst of the battle, and I looked into myself. Finding an unexpected warmth inside. Love and courage, weapons to fight the demon.

I made my choice. Tonight, I saw the demon bleed. With the dawn, I saw him die. Those who are afraid of death can't touch the beast. But what does the Daughter of Murder have to fear more than herself? Who is seeking death in battle better than Shar-Teel? And who has suffered enough already if not the drow?

More than once did Aec'Letec die tonight. Each time coming back out of the bodies of dark-robed priests, until all were slain, the fools willing to be possessed. Three times did Aec'Letec die, by my hand and then by Shar-Teel's blade. I met the demon's gaze and lived. Viconia's was the final strike, banishing the demon back into hell. "The child was mine!" she mouthed, and I understood.

My real father did not want me to live. My mother proved to be stronger. She poured her own soul into me, and thus was life born out of death. Loved from the womb... You did not sacrifice your child. My mother.

I shall remember her when we bury our dead. I shall remember when the dawn breaks again upon the world. There is but one question left to be answered.

Lifegiver shall be spared the share of dead gods.

The dwarves didn't tarry to bury their dead. Hurgan Stoneblade deserved that much, to be buried with honor, as a man and not a ghoul. With a peaceful smile upon his face. Just as his grandfather Arlo Stoneblade, he stood in the demon's path. Both times, success was bought with the price of life. Only this time, the hero was laid to rest by his own children.

In one thing, at least, Aec'Letec was right. He could help me find revenge. Doesn't matter, I'll do just fine without him. Mendas is a strange fellow, with little love lost between him and the villagers. But he knows where Eldoth's sea charts are pointing to, and that's what's really important. He talks queer, pretending his broken language hails from the refined city of Waterdeep. But he recognized Eldoth's description.

Indeed, such a man did depart with one of his ships. Where? Shhh... all that talk about Balduran's treasures stocked out on a faraway island could inflame even a less adventurous soul. But guess what? The stories are true! Amazing are the paths of fate in the Trackless Sea. Not long ago, a storm brought a battered ship into the plain view of an island, a small isle not marked on any map. Fearful of rocks to smash their ship, the sailor were looking out well, indeed. Through the stinging wind and the haze of rain, they made out contours of an old wrecked ship unlike any other. Could that be Balduran's resting place was finally found? Along with all the treasures his ship was supposed to carry. Need we say the sailors fought thrice as hard to get back home alive?

The Merchant League in Baldur's Gate had been working on equipping an expedition to the island when Eldoth received the task from Mendas to steal the sea charts away. So, that's what the bastard was doing back in the city! And I thought he was happy to see me...

I don't care how the old bugger got the wind of the island. The important thing is that he's got a ship ready to depart, and he's willing to send me after Eldoth, for but a mere sum in gold and a couple of magic trinkets from Balduran's hoard. The Durlag's Tower made us rich enough not to care. The last few days made me strong enough not to care about many other things, indeed. But the fires of vengeance they failed to quench. I might be a Daughter of Murder, but I'm also a wolf at heart. And that wolf still wants to howl.

Fire that is molten sky is spilled over the horizon. "She always knew it would be back." Why did I remember it now, looking across the river at the city bathing in the golden light? In the days so far away, yet so close... like Candlekeep, those words would steal upon my solitude with a soft whisper, and a cautious hand upon my shoulder.

My father's hand. My father's words... My father?! He didn't make it a secret that I wasn't his daughter by birth. Yet did he truly know? Gorion was ever a taciturn man, and slow of walk. Even in earlier days, he was easy to run away from. Yet that evening he found me at the top of the tallest tower of Candlekeep. We were looking at the molten sky together, until the words were spoken... until his hand touched my shoulder.

Did he feel the same jolt? I'll never know, for I didn't look back into his face before darting away. On the night before we left Candlekeep forever. For even if I do return, we won't come back together. And it shall never be the same. Like those days not so far away, yet no longer close.

Fire that is molten sky is spilled over the horizon. Back then, it was truly open, with only the sea to burn in an even, distant line. Tonight, it is the city's turn, and it is so close. Rich mansions and pauper's slums, the bustle of the docks and the solemn silence of the temple towers, even the Balduran's gate from upon which I was watching the birds fly... All melting, fusing into the same cast of burning bronze. Slowly darkening, until it is too late, and the fire dies.

Are they not afraid, the tiny people across the river? Not afraid of the moment when the sun goes numb, and the fire turns dark purple, the color of dying blood? There is a fear in pain that goes away with the final breath of light. It was singing to me atop the tallest tower of Candlekeep. Until my father found me, and I ran away.

"She always knew it would be back." Am I running away again? I was. A she-wolf lying in this very shack, licking my wounds, and the girl inside me remembered the sky of vengeance, and the lightning born of the sun. Yet the wolf only knew the scorching flames that seared her hide. Nay, it must be Eldoth I'm running after. So simple, to follow a trail of blood... then why do I still remember that cautious hand upon my shoulder?

In the night, the wind is strong. The docks are growing quiet. Somewhere out there, across the river, is the ship that Mendas hired for us to sail away. With the first morning light. But do we know when we come back? And if we do...

When the sea is rough, they take the hint.
They listen, listen to the wind.
Learning the words of their final song.
       The pirates of Ruathym.

Does it really matter? I'm here again. Back to the cries of seagulls; only they cease by the nightfall. Back to the same wreck of human ambition. The old broken ship is still clinging to the skeletal shape of its backbone, and the wind is shaping ghostly sounds through its gaping holes. They must still remember how it had been...

Is that how the Balduran's ship must be now, too? I entered what remained of the hull, and made my way up to the deck. Inside, the rot and decay assailed my senses, but the wind at the deck was fresh and new. Up there, you can stand up straight... if you don't fall into the ghost-shaped darkness.

Why should I care about some stuffy old shipwreck, far away in the Trackless Sea, be it to the brim with treasure? May Eldoth choke on it! I am already rich, and Durlag's Tower has taught me to remember...

"I want to be rich," said a little girl. And a man by the fire nodded. "Why?"

"When I'm rich, I'm going to find my mother and make her live again. Isn't that right, father? The priest of Oghma says it costs a lot of money, though."

The man by the fire lifted his eyes. He did not speak at once, only the flames crackling in the fireplace. Drying away their sudden wetness.

"Look into the fire, Beth. When it's alive, it's hot and loud. But would the spent ashes wish to burn again? There might be magic to make them, only there would be no warmth to that fire."

"What of the phoenix bird, father?"

"It is never born the same again. It only lives by... through its children."

Was it a sudden fear or hope I saw in his eyes, by the fire? I can't be sure anymore. The demon in the dagger only revealed the question. I'm yet to find my own answer. That must be why I'm sailing away. Mendas... I remember him looking back at me with eyes of envy. Not born of greed, either. Inside, I heard a wolf howl...

For a lone wolf, the space of night is woven of smells. The slow growth of grass, and the fearful tracks of a mouse. The lingering stench of old blood, and a faint trace of sorrow. That's how the night knows where a man died.

Only if vengeance is the answer, why are my dreams no longer of blood? But of a warm fire that burns without a sound.

I thought I would feel safe without the seagulls crying. Shrill, piercing calls. The song of my childhood, a lonely lullaby for a child who never new her mother. They didn't follow me deep into the sea. One of the birds was not about to give up, even after the shore long since sunk behind the horizon. Yet even she finally had to turn away, and I waited long enough to remember her by a tiny speck against the rising sun.

I thought I would feel safe without them. And now... We have gone too far away, and the sea knows it. Heaving restlessly beneath us. "You think the earth is steady?" I turn to the dark whisper, and the ship lurches again. In a sudden flight, I'm of the same height with the drow. "That's how I was always feeling here, in this surface world."

The Sea of Swords is stretching endlessly in all directions, and this new feeling is stabbing sharp into my heart. The sun is setting now, yet there is no speck against its burning fire, no relief for the eyes. I'll have to live with it now.

"But look! The sea... so blue, so sunny. Isn't it sunny, uncle Quayle?"

When did the old gnome become Alora's uncle? By the look on his face, one would think he's always been dreaming of becoming one. Back at his home that he left, he must have left cartloads of nieces, and nephews too. Ready to point out at just as blue sky, or a green meadow. A bunny hiding in the bushes, or perhaps, an especially ripe and amazing turnip he was after. Calling out happily, with the same innocent smile.

Only his home is with us now. And we're braving the Trackless Sea, no less. For days, the sea was brooding, heavy dark waves against the leaden sky. Their crests boiling with angry foam. And the roar, the low rumbling beneath the deck and the whipping, swooshing sounds of the wind. Rising triumphantly to swallow the ship, beating the sails to turn us away, back whence we came from. Hissing their warning.

Too late now. One morning, when the air was young with salt, the last whiff of dying wind brought to me the scent of the sailors' fear, and my own sharp pain went away. How does one tell one sea from another? By the song of the wind, and the neverending dance of waves. The Sea of Swords is behind us now, and the Trackless Sea is quiet and comforting as a child's blanket. But it does not remember to point us the way we came from. It doesn't care to give a warning now. Why? We weren't listening before.

What a bitter irony! Whoever gave this ship her name didn't know she'd have to brave the Trackless Sea. Or perhaps, he knew she'd need it. The Windhunter... There hasn't been much game these days. The surface of the sea is smooth, with barely a ripple. The wind is gone... No, one doesn't get lost when one can still see the sun setting and rising, and the night sky turning around its axis, full of stars. We know where to sail, only we cannot.

Day after day is passing, and I'm starting to miss the sharp reminders of the Sea of Swords. The fierceness of the wind, and the swaying ground beneath my feet. Alora was the first to take to the rigging. It might be shaky enough. Only what good is that? There are no seagulls here, like at the top of Candlekeep. No cautious hand upon my shoulder. No wind... only this liquid air.

The funny little arrow is glowing quietly within its round case. Pointing persistently to the north. Why are you trying so hard? This ain't where we need to go. Nor whither we're going. Invisible currents are carrying us away. Toward the setting sun... The scary thing is that's just where we wanted to go.

Isn't that how our world moves through time? A thick, liquid time, appearing always to be the same. Unchanging, and the priests teach you truths supposed to be eternal. The prisoners of time, as we're prisoners of the sea. Why, 'tis but the silence before a storm. As the other priests shall teach you later.

Which currents brought about the Time of Troubles? We might never know, perhaps there is a greater power behind it all. For how else could the immortal powers have come down to walk the earth, and breathe and die, and sire children? How could the Lord of Murder have known he would be slain himself? How could he have given life instead of taking?

The Lord of Murder shall perish.
But in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny.
Chaos shall be sown in their passage.
So sayeth the wise Alaundo.

And the people are so tiny, looking from above. Are they supposed to be that way? The scared little, little sailors, talking about krakens and giant, island-size turtles swallowing ships whole. Do they really know their monsters? Poor tiny people, do they even dream of what I am to sow?

Fire that is molten sky is spilled over the horizon. Fire burning within my mother's soul had been spilled on the ground like blood. And I shall never embrace it, never gather it again to cup within my hands. It'll never burn me... Why are you pointing to the north, the silly little arrow? There is no warmth there. Only the dead, icy silence.

The sea is quiet, but my dreams are not. In the dreams, the stars are gone, and the strings of pale lights are flickering on the masts and in the rigging. Before the lightning strikes... Like a flash of sword in the darkness, and the wolf can only watch in pain. Like Gorion's angry stride, still alive in my memory, breaking the game of knucklebones we were playing with Imoen. Wasn't it the same game of knucklebones that Bhaal played with Bane and Myrkul to divide Jergal's divine portfolio? Sometimes it must be well to lose, and choose last. For death can destroy the kingdom of a tyrant by murdering his subjects, and starve the kingdom of the dead by staying its hand.

The knucklebones are rattling... But in the end, one little child is crying, and the wolf flies away into the woods. Gorion's dead. I cannot stop the rain of tears... A lightning strikes, and the window in a high tower is flung open. I now know I have been conceived in a storm.

Before the lightning strikes, I want to howl, for I'm a wolf.

"Not a wolf! Not a wolf!" Pale shadows across my thoughts.

"Who's talking to me? Who's out there?" ...in the dark.

"Behind you! Ha-ha! Now, to the right! Won't catch us!" The sea around me. And they're swimming.

"Come, frolic! Join us, little sister!" The moonshine's narrow across the waters. "Can you jump?"

"I'm not a seal."

"And not a wolf. Wolf bad. Sink ships, steal people. Kill selkies."

Selkies! Seals tonight, tomorrow people. "How do you know I'm not as bad?" Wrapped in the Cloak of Wolf, with fangs bared. Yet strangely, I no longer want to howl.

"Not a wolf! Not a wolf!" Stubbornly racing through the night. "The heart! The heart!" Only it's silent.

Silly selkies. What do they know of what is to come?

"Beware the wolf! Beware the storm!"

The sea stirs, and the sharp smell of rain fills the air. The strings of pale lights are dancing in the rigging. Before the lightning strikes...

That night was furious. Slapping me in the face with the stinging salt of the sea, lashing out with the biting wind. And nowhere to run, no place to hide. Like back then, years ago, a rebellious child stretched out on a bench. I no longer remember the crime, only the tears. The few strikes of the whip didn't hurt as much as your absence. For you, my father, ran away.

I wasn't bound this time. Things were skidding down the listing deck, and sent up flying by a sudden jerk of the sea beneath it. Washed out into the darkness, and then they would cry out if they had a soul. The whip of the storm was far stronger this time.

The night sky ruptured with a crack. A flash of sword in the darkness. "Hand over your ward, and no one will be hurt. If you resist, it shall be a waste of your life." Run, you fool! Run! Why did you let me be hurt again?

There were voices in the storm. As if someone chanting from far away, bidding the wind and the sea, drawing the ship closer. A hideous whisper... a hungry howl. Beware the wolf! Beware the storm! Through the haze of stinging rain, I felt the shield of my mother's wings weaken over my eyes. The only seagull ever following me was giving up, and then the entire world turned into a tiny speck against the field of darkness... But when I woke up, the sun was rising.

I found myself in a clean bed, with a little curious girl at my side. Wrapped up in blankets as if I was caught up with fever. No longer, but I felt... funny.

"Hello, you... you smell funny. You swim in?"

Yes child, I must have swum in, though I remember it not. Yes, the fishies are mean and the cliffs hurt "ship-homes."

"Still smell funny, though. Maybe, you stay and belong?"

For a few days, at least. The village is small but peaceful. The green and sunny island goes contrary to the wild experience of that stormy night. It sure smells different here... And what does it mean, to belong?

This is a strange island. And the storm was strange. I was unconscious for more than a day, I was told. But when I awoke, I found all my companions alive, and the ship battered but still seaworthy. The seas abated shortly after the ship came into view of the island, and the crew had little choice but to call port and drop the anchor.

As if we were willed here by someone who has the power to call storms and command the weather! As if we were expected here. The villagers might look peaceful, but I don't trust them one little bit. I told as much to Kaishas Gan, their leader. She knows not anyone called Mendas. But in the bottom of her eyes, I saw the same hungry, urgent sparkle.

Refusing to accept the summer's end, the sun is still warm, and the first colors of the fall are burning bright. In the evening, the air is abuzz with cicadas. An occasional bumblebee is lazily picking up at the flowers during the day. And the people fish and spin, till their fields and raise children.

Yet behind the placid facade, there is a constant fight for survival. These people are made not of soft dough, but of storm-tempered steel. Stronger than the high wall, shutting them out from the forest. There are strange and fell beasts out there, half men and half wolves. Ravaging the crops, murdering the villagers on sight. Tearing a nursing babe from his mother's hands, or leaving children bereft of motherly love. Yet with each tale of loss and sorrow, I hear the familiar ring of vengeance in their voices. These people are made of steel. These people don't forget, and forgive nothing.

"Yet we're all but pups in the greater sight," says Durlyle. He might be right. "Our people are young..."

"We came to this place long ago on a ship-home, from father west than the sun sets. The explorer chartered with us, and we set to the seas. The elders speak of a great storm, though some say the storm came from within. We that belong were to be cast aside, and fought the explorers we did. Much was lost, but this island was won. We live alone and are plagued by the beasts, but slaves to none and live as free."

From father west than the sun sets? Could they have come along with Balduran? His broken ship can still be found in the only other natural harbor on the island, it its northern part. That's where the leader of the wolf-creatures has made his lair. That is where Kaishas Gan has sent us to fetch his head, our ship a hostage in her hands... Would that it were Eldoth! Alas, ours was the only ship the villagers have seen for ages. The bastard must've perished in the seas; but why is it that I don't care?

Edwin might be arrogant, but no fool. He knew the bitch could not be trusted. I was a fool, though. For I told as much to Kaishas Gan herself. Now we'll have to spend the night in the forest, among the beasts beyond the wall, instead of the warm beds in the village.

Wild ferns are swaying in the breeze. The tangy smell of forest wildflowers is at odds with the growing sense of danger. The night shadows are gathering around us. Whispering, looking back with yellow, wolven eyes. But if I am a wolf myself, why do I feel so strange? Why does it smell so funny?

For a lonely wolf, the space of night is woven of smells... That was a good try. Only they're not easily deceived, these spirits of the forest. We're strangers here, on this strange, strange island. Only one set of eyes looks back at me with warmth. Only one face comes up in my memory with a smile.

"We're all but pups in the greater sight." I must be mad, for I want to trust him alone.

This is a treacherous island. Those in the village didn't build that wall for nothing. There is an unspeakable hatred in the beyond. In the sudden gushes of the wind, howling with wolven voices, when you choose to face the dark. In the still silence, as the branches are stretching hungrily to grasp you from behind, when you would rather turn your back. This forest is at war with the humans. And the howling is wild, the menace silent.

Perhaps, 'tis no surprise if a man is glad to find a kindred soul on the morrow. Someone just as glad to have survived the night, someone just as much in the need of help... Someone in search of meat easy to be fooled. How many times do I have to tell Alora not to trust anyone here? So much for Quayle's vaunted wisdom!

"Treachery is the weapon of the weak. The strong shall always triumph." Shar-Teel is standing over the slain bodies of wolf-like creatures that were pretending to be friends. It's sure good to renew our trust in spell and steel...

"Treachery is the game of the wise. You'll always fall if you do not learn to see it through." Viconia's eyes are on a crude rag doll, no doubt taken by the werebeast from one of its former trusting victims. "Welcome to my world, rivvin. We, the drow, are just as devious and cruel. We're strong, and show no pity." Only... do they also know how to hide a treacherous tear clouding the eye? Do they know how to swallow words when the lips combine to whisper, "Why couldn't I sacrifice that child?!"

The woods are silent. The nature itself had been deceived. On the island's western shore, along the narrow promontory of sand jutting out into the sea, a sirine queen is washing off another's blood with tears. Her song must've been beautiful, but her love was spent in vain. These creatures of the sea must mate with humans. Only the fisherman she lured away from the village was not. His blood, thick with a wolven taint. It won't wash off easily... A werewolf inside the village? The people ain't that safe behind their walls as they might think. As the moon rose, I thought I heard the sounds of battle from the south.

If I were a wolf, I'd howl at the moon. I wouldn't be alone... The surf is rising, only it won't cover the long, urgent calls from the forest. I join my voice, and they all die away. They don't respond, they won't be fooled by a cloaked stranger.

If only I were a wolf, I wouldn't have been so alone...

I remember my father sitting by the fire. The small braziers couldn't warm up the entire hall, fending off the winter cold, for he was alone. I walked barefoot on the cold stone, and didn't feel it. He didn't hear me either, like I wasn't there. In his waking dreams, he could have had all eternity to himself...

That was how we found Dradeel. He didn't notice us at first, mumbling something to himself, as he was working by his odd-shaped stove.

Corn flour,
The eggs of a seabird,
A spoon of the whitecap fungus,
A juicy fruit for sweetening...
One small measure of the belladonna root.

We came upon him after a failed attempt to penetrate the remains of Balduran's ship. Reeling from our wounds, and desperately in need of shelter to heal and rest. Just then, Quayle suddenly screamed and disappeared into the ground. Soon after, a voice came out. Feeble and scared at first, but soon taken over with curiosity, "There is a hole here! And a door! Look... it's enchanted!"

Enchanted against the werewolves, it appears. "Against the seawolves, too," added the mage himself in answer to our more persistent questions. Descendants of the infected sailors from Balduran's failed expedition, now the members of the foul lycanthrope species? Still holding on to the skeleton of their former ship-home, yet no longer able to sail off. Why? They can swim freely underwater in their seal form, hunting selkies. And stalk the land as wolves, hungry for a human or a werewolf alike.

"Lycanthropy is the name of the disease. Lycanthropy," insists the old elf, as if that mattered. He used to be Balduran's guide through the elven seas, and even across the hundreds of years past, still remembered the events that led to their downfall. "The Cursed Lord's power haunts me still. Those monstrosities out there are the product of our travails in Anchoromé. 'Twas a bitter wind that carried us homeward, and we reveled not in our newfound wealth."

His was a sad tale. They came upon this island quite by accident and stopped to renew their dwindling supplies. Dradeel led the landing party, while Balduran set the remaining crew to repair the sails. His party was hardly out of earshot of the ship when the curse struck...

What did they feel when the curse took the better of them? I kept wondering, as Dradeel was describing the awful transformation. I have seen it here before. A smiling man, calling himself Palin, his pallid flesh erupting before my own eyes to reveal the hoarse fur and bulging muscles. Kryla, a desperate woman extending her hand in a plea for help... and raking Alora with her claws the next moment, each leaving a wide, burning wound across the halfling's soul.

"Galan died first, his throat torn open by one of the changelings. I couldn't tell who killed him, of course, since they were unrecognizable in their changed forms."

Unrecognizable... What did they see through the blood of their former selves flowing over their eyes? What animal rage could blind them so, to turn against their one-time friends? They're no wolves, they're slayers. And the others are just meat. Unrecognizable... For how can one see when one can no longer recognize oneself?

Something even more terrible must've happened aboard the ship as well. For when Dradeel managed to escape and crawl back to the beach, he saw the Wandering Eye half-sunk in the surf, a huge hole in her side, as if a giant had blasted through her in a rage. There was a smoldering fire on the deck, and in that sickly light he saw the bodies of the ship's crew, gutted and hung away in the rigging, like so much meat. Sickened and in despair, he crawled back into the woods.

This cavern that he found by chance saved his life. The elven lifespan is long and tedious. And the years followed, long years beyond memory as he was learning to fend off the monsters and provide for himself. "Selune has been my beacon. Through the long, lonely nights, Hers was the only light I was following." Why not return to the human village? But he only smiles enigmatically, shaking his head. He doesn't believe me. He's been alone for too long.

"He likes a juicy fruit for sweetening, Golodon the Unmanned. The eggs of a seabird, for the Gibbering Twelve. One small measure of the belladonna root, to take care of the wolven bite. One small measure... for the wolven bite..."

Years go by, and the same old mage is as lonely as ever. Talking to figments of his imagination, or the memories from the past, he doesn't notice me leave. He's had all the eternity to himself... The cold stone was burning beneath my bare feet. For then I knew who my father was talking to in his dreams.

Last time, we barely managed to peek inside the bowels of Balduran's ship. Now, with Dradeel's help, his werebane amulets and my flaming sword, we made it all the way up to the deck. Would that I could have had my father's help as well! To sit down and reason together, the way it never came to be. To straighten things out and know what to do. For I wasn't ready for what I was to find here...

The shipwreck was little different from the one we left at the Sword Coast. The same gaping holes , and the memories shaped by the howling wind. Only here, they were wild and fierce. And when a shape of fur and flesh would arise at their bidding, we had to fight. To the death.

"Mind is like a burning candle," Gorion used to say, "but the folly sweeps up fast as a wind. Compose yourself, and be steady. Look inside, until you find your inner flame." Have I ever tried? I would always turn and run away, fast as a wind. And now, my inner flame has blown into a raging firestorm, burning both friend and foe alike.

What stopped me now, on the windswept deck beneath the blue sky? Karoug, the elder seawolf, didn't want to fight. He was awaiting me, with his mate and a nursing babe in her arms. With an old, dusty book in his hands. Time has not been kind to Balduran's logbook, but parts of it are still readable. "You read... and you understand..." Do I?

• This is the logbook of the good ship Wandering Eye, under the command of the mos......orthy Balduran.
• ...will return once we have again seen far off shores. The men are restless, but the promise of wealth rivaling our last voyage shall keep them well in line...
• ...weather is clear, and we shall make Anchoromé in good time, of that I have no doubt...
• ...arrived in Anchoromé, and I am remembered by a goodly number of people, not all fondly...
• ...but "His Grace" has deemed me worthy to proceed through his lands. I am quite sure the two hundred strong complement of the Wandering Eye aided in the decision. Still, we were received in good humour, and I will not request tribute...
• ...adventure it has been! Such wealth as this... only in the deepest ruins of home...
• ...attacked and barely made it to the ship in time. Dradeel did warn of such, but who is to trust a word from his mouth! I do swear, his senses seem addled at the best of times...
• ...the crew, but a larger share for the remaining will keep them well and truly happy. I shall conscript replacements from the local populace this night, and we shall set our sails at dawn...
• ...delays, but with one hundred and fifty new hands, one must expect the going to be slow at the start. They seem quite calm and orderly, not at all as I expected...
• ...should have searched! We cast him out, but his words......eady inflamed the crew. I know not what was worse, the shaman's constant ... or the reaction of the crew when he was committed to the sea. Their eyes are... are resigned. I dislike a crew with no fire in their bellies, but I do suppose it is better than a fire in the hold...
• ...weather unseasonable, and the mood does worsen. As well, beetles have beset the food stores, and we shall surely be hungry long before reaching the coast of home...
• ...set aground to forage. It is a small isle, but will yield what we need. Perhaps I shall ... on my own, while the crew ... time on land will do them good...
• ...original men seem quite shallow in the face, quite different from the pallor of the new recruits, but all are most definitely ill...

There were other, darker passages. Disturbing shapes and disturbing words, the fruits of an inflamed mind. Whoever was that Cursed Lord, he didn't leave Balduran untouched. The sailors turned seawolves in earnest...

And the other people? The natives that Balduran forced into service? "We did not want to belong," says Karoug, but they have always been werewolves in disguise. Ever since before their unwilling voyage. Now I know why Dradeel didn't believe me about a human village. All because there is none.

"They bring the storm. They call the winds. They take your ship to go home," repeats Daese, Karoug's bitch. How funny! Kaishas Gan was saying just the same thing, only about them. Whom am I to believe now? Werewolf or seawolf, on each other's throat. Then why is the seawolf bitch baring her teeth, ready to die but defend the werewolf babe they had stolen? I thought I was a wolf inside... then where do I belong? The voices in my head, mocking, "Between the anvil and the hammer." Father, come and assuage my doubts!

The sea is calm now, its waves licking quietly on the gaping wound in the ship's belly. As if a giant had blasted through her in a rage. I look at it, and now I know. Fire doesn't have to be steady to burn bright and clear. Even in a rage one can recognize oneself. Balduran has made his choice. He didn't turn into a slayer in spirit. In his final hour, he was a giant.

In vain did hearth, mortar and stone,
    awaited his return.
And maidens mourn.
    But sailors sing
that, sailing the eternal seas,
or sleeping deep beneath the foam,
he's in his dream.
    He's there.
        He's home.

Getting dark again, at last. The stars are returning to the tired sky. All through the last night, it was bloody red. Long tongues of flame were licking it hungrily, and the stars turned away. Many, many were not to see them ever again.

I made a poor choice, father. Will you forgive a Daughter of Murder?

Deceitful werewolf or ravenous seawolf, what's the difference? They all wanted the same thing. To escape each other. Last night, our ship was ready to sail without us. Last night, the Karoug's pack made their final, desperate assault on the village. Only there was no victor. There couldn't have been...

I was by myself in the heat of battle. The Cloak of the Wolf might make me howl, but it won't change my heart. "The heart! The heart!" Deep inside, it still remembers I was human. Those creatures... they did not. In the heat of battle, they all turned into monsters. Seawolf or werewolf, unrecognizable. Because they didn't remember themselves.

To slay, and to be slain. I might have sown death, but the seed came from within them. I wasn't the best champion of murder last night. True wolves... they do not kill each other. But these were monsters, tearing themselves apart. Kaishas Gan, and Karoug. All perished by my sword, but they left me no choice. I'll never learn who called the storm that brought me here. Perhaps, both? Perhaps, myself?

"You do not belong, and you would not wish to. I know this. You must know it, too."

Aye, Durlyle, Durlyle! I have grown fond of you, and I won't forget you soon. I shall remember you standing erect, your hair limned by the golden rays of the rising sun. In the ashes of the ruined village. "I wouldn't have wished to leave, anyway," you said, "Now I know what to do..."

Lycanthropy, a curse or a blessing? A bouquet of flowers in your hands, a new cloak upon my shoulders. "The flowers for me, and the cloak for you. A symbol of our past... We have not always been such."

The fragrance of belladonna flowers is elusive. It smells forgiveness. "'Tis time for change." A new cloak upon my shoulders. A Cloak of Humanity. Blending into my skin to reverse the spell, and the fur is falling out. I feel human again. But have I ever been a wolf?

My sun is setting in the east tonight. "She always knew it would be back." The last torch of flame is still licking the eastern sky. The ship that brought us here is burning down. Come, Viconia! And come, Shar-Teel! Edwin, Quayle, and Alora. Let's join Dradeel, we've got a lot of time on our hands now. Invite the memories of your past. They'll want to know how the Daughter of Murder was left stranded on a forsaken island.

Perhaps, 'tis only for the best?

That stubborn little arrow! I forgot all about it, caught in a wave of revelry and false hope. Not a day past, we stood in a circle around Dradeel, with baited breath waiting for a miracle to happen. The old elven mage was finally able to rescue his old spellbook from the ruins of Balduran's ship. His eyes were afire. After centuries of solitude, he finally had the spell, a powerful teleportation spell, to carry all of us across the ocean.

In the dark of night, cold fire was dancing. We stood in a circle, afraid to miss a heartbeat. The old mage was chanting... But the stubborn little arrow, it was pointing north.

It no longer cares. Turn that strange little device around, and the arrow will swing whichever way. I forgot all about it back then. Cold fire was dancing, entering me and coursing through my blood. In its magical light, I could feel the invisible cord binding me down to that place. I knew its strength, I knew my fear. For when it snaps, anything can happen in the blink of an eye. For when I opened my eyes, it was no longer the world I knew. The only way from here is south.

At the top of the world, the winter is strong. Up there, the solid packs of ice are holding the island fast in their frozen embrace. But down here is a respite from the stinging wind, a shelter from the cold freezing to the bone. Edwin would've killed the hapless elf in retribution if we didn't restrain him. But would Dradeel have come along if he wanted to send us here? He cannot escape this new prison himself, however hard he'd try.

Perhaps, the old mage simply forgot how the real world looks and feels? The centuries of solitude having frozen his memory? Nay, there must be others who'd fallen into this trap before. Someone must've dug all these twisting tunnels through a series of underground caverns that we've only started to explore. Someone must've filled them with a strange, sickly kind of warmth that won't let you die from cold, but won't warm you up either.

Nay, it is not the old man's memory that feels like ice. It is my heart... Say, does it feel like home, Viconia? "Yes. Only... it is worse."

Worse than the drow...

Would that I had more paper to write upon, but much was burned in haste for warmth. Little there is to document anyway, and so I leave this small writ for any that might find my corpse, for that is the only way it shall part from me. Know that Andris does curse you for your life, and that should I return in some fell form I will hunt you for the sheer spite of you seeing my decimated body. The business of that aside, I hope that you who read this have suffered the same fate as I. The indignity of this condition! With all the power at mine fingers I must huddle around a dung-fire eating seal fat! The forces behind this place have no respect for my stature, my power! I have slain beasts thrice my size with a glance, and traveled as a bird over oceans! Here my magic is sucked to the earth and I am held, as others are. Some have escaped, and I swear I shall hunt them and take the power they must have. To do what I cannot they must be great indeed. I curse them for leaving, I curse this place, and I curse that I have not the might to follow.

Andris of Iriaebor

"Dung!" The one who wrote it must be getting cold now, with Viconia's spittle freezing upon his glassy eyes. "The life in Underdark is harsher than at the surface. But even if we kill each other sometimes, the drow stand by each other in battle." Here, this meager underground refuge offers the only warmth and a chance of survival. Yet these creatures... Andris was not without a company, but you should've seen those mages watching against each other more than against us, their enemies. He must've been saving his best spell for the grand finale. Good luck impressing Kelemvor now!

What's wrong with these people? This place seems to be a magnet of sorts, a teleportation trap. If you're powerful enough to transport without an error across an ocean, you are apparently of sufficient power to be caught and dragged here. This place... ensnares magical energy. Leaving the island by magical means must be all but impossible.

And yet, they plot and scheme, or go mad. Anywhere you turn, you step into one of these sleazy wizards. Andris had a theory that should he amass as many magical trinkets as he could, he might be able to overpower the pull of this place. Well, he did leave it, in a sense.

In such fate, he was not alone. They should've thanked us with their dying breath. Once mighty wizards with inflated egos, unable or unwilling even to combine their efforts! Who knows, maybe if Cuchol and Tellan would've tried together, they might have succeeded where the others failed before? Alas... Cuchol, the "Scourge of Lachom" and the "Ravisher of Surkh" one moment, and "poor Cuchol" the next, took to begging for his life, only to strike you from behind the moment you turn your back on him. Tellan must've learnt such lessons well enough, for when he offered to join, he was only willing to use his darts. But not his magic, no... saving it for the time we weren't looking.

This place stinks, and tonight I wanted to go up. To return to the frozen shore, to see the sky again. Alone...

Tonight? There is no day, and no night, here. Only the endless sunset. Hovering low above the horizon. And beneath, the mounds of broken ice are rising as sharp needles toward the bloody-red sun. Time itself is frozen here, at the top of the world. Blood no longer flows from the heart of ice. Only stinging my eyes, the blinding sparkles, the color of the eversetting sun.

Author's Note: Andris' journal was taken from the game.

Neverending sunset at the surface, and the constant murk down below. How does one tell when the night starts? But the time still comes when the people are drawn toward each other, and the cold becomes too hard to bear alone. That's when we all huddle together, and share our warmth. Who cares if somewhere else people are only getting up, and a rooster welcomes the sun! Up here, at the top of the world, 'tis the time when we have our dreams...

We have a lot of time on our hands. Gnome or halfling, Red Wizard or drow, there is room enough for everyone in our dreams. There is room enough for everyone beneath a layer of rough seal skins we have fashioned for our common blanket. Right next to me, I can feel the intense heat of Viconia's skin. Do you really love Edwin?

I know she is not asleep. But she is silent. On another night like this, we became sisters to each other. I promised to share Candlekeep with her one day, even if she could never show me the underground splendor of her home city.

"Not much to miss back there," comes her voice, and a strand of her hair falls upon my locks, scattered in the darkness. The white upon the raven black. "We, drow, sacrifice our children, remember?"

On her other side, Edwin turns in his sleep. Surprising how such a gruesome man can make soft, suckling sounds, like a child.

"You think I do not love him? Well, you're right. I'm using him. For pleasure. The way it is done in the Underdark..." The drow smiles with her eyes, in a luminous blue framed with black. "Oh yes, he loves that way very much! But he only cares about himself. Staying with us for lust and pleasure."

If only everything were so simple! Then I could've been happy here and now... Why did Garrick have to fall after me, and to his death? Why did Imoen's heart have to break? We could've been happy together, in simple lust and pleasure. All of us, even. If only it were so simple...

"...he wouldn't have survived a month that way." I wake up to the sound of Viconia's whisper. "I'd have to rescue him after every silly magic cantrip on an ego trip. He's so much like... like Valas. He used to suck his lips in his sleep, like a child."

I swallow hard as I remember Eldoth. Hard as I try, I cannot bring back the anger. Only tears. Let him save himself if he can. Perhaps, the sea didn't take him, and another woman might still bear his child...

"I couldn't sacrifice our child. Mine... and Valas'."

Was it already day, or still night, when we found another lost soul. A pair of eyes shining madly from within a mane of matted hair. This one stopped plotting long ago, the only one of those we met that wanted to stay in this accursed place and make it home. I let him speak...

"What is this place, you ask me? Many things. Today, a dueling pit. Tomorrow, a graveyard. Yesterday... what?! I cannot say. But does it really matter?

"Cursed be these walls of ice! Cursed be their builders! But if this place draws magical energy, and I am here at the center, then it draws the energy to me by default. In time, I shall learn to harness it. In time..."

Another unwilling guest from the magical realm of Halruaa, he knew Shandalar quite well.

"We were here together. Oh, yes... Fool, he left. Left his cloak with me, and left himself. Ha-ha-ha... Shed everything, he did. And I picked it up. Mine, mine... all mine now!"

He wouldn't want to leave his treasury himself, nor would he allow anyone to leave. We had to defend ourselves, but what can a lone madman do against many? His home turned into a graveyard. His "treasures" were worthless. He only left... a scribble.

Scribble, scribble, scribble, as every mage must do.
These walls will hold your power fast, unless I walk right through.
A boat I made from birch and bark, but burn I did at morn.
Rather I stay in this held spot, than suffer another dawn.

Fools this place has, and many more to come. I will greet and take what will, and in the end will I have all? Oh, I think so. I mock your prison, AO, as though you would care to listen. Are you even behind the walls? I see your symbols in the sky, but others too. Mystra, goddess of magic, my magical maiden, why do you treat your children so? Do you give the sparkle of magic only so it cannot be used? A lesson in humility for those on the verge of true power? Drop your robes and wands and staves, or forever be trapped with your self-importance and pride? Perhaps, but I will not shed what I have earned just to walk the skies again. I shall profit from this; I will play outside your rules. This place will bring it all to me in time, though I can't take it elsewhere. No, you can't take it with you, but you can stay with it, and hold it tight. Perhaps with outside help? Bah! None but those who have learned can find this place again, and they will not interrupt the teaching. I will not bend; I will snap and strike back in time. Humility is so...humiliating, and I will not suffer more. Power impotent is still preferable to power lost.

I'm reading this, and voices around me are waking up. Angry or seductive, pleading or haughty, but insane, all of them. Talking all at once, as if reading from the same piece of paper scribbled many times all over.

Of course, perhaps the walls do not listen to such musings, and my writing is pointless. No matter, for tomorrow I shall wipe this clean and write anew. My verse gets better. One must have hobbies.

I'd better stop listening. I have voices of my own to silence...

Author's Note: Dezkiel's scroll was taken from the game.

Gorion came to me in my dream last night. Alone in a vast hall, with his face to the fire. He must've heard me, for he turned. Turned around, looked me in the face. And then I saw. Deep lacerations, wide and swollen, running across his face, his neck, his chest. Running with tears. Father, what have I done?!

You only smiled at me and said, "I'm sorry, Beth. I won't ever run away."

A lightning struck, tearing the sky asunder. A flash of sword in the darkness. "Hand over your ward, and no one will be hurt. If you resist, it shall be a waste of your life."

"Run, Bethphel! Run!"

Darker yet against the stormy sky, a shape of terror was approaching, the Sword of Chaos in his hands. The towering bulk of black armor, and the horned helm hiding his face. It didn't hide the eyes, but there was no malice there. Only a cold, calculated need of blood. I recognized them in an instant. Sarevok! Following the wrong trail I've been, it seems, but now I know whom to hunt.

Still in the dream, I fell upon my father's chest. Unexpected warmth pouring into my soul, the kind I never knew he had to share... why did I never let him in? So good, standing here in the open, back on the frozen shore. The freezing air to breathe in deeply, yet not to let it stay within my heart... Sometimes 'tis hard to tell a difference between burning heat and burning cold. This time, my heart was warm, and peaceful quiet.

I shall take everyone here, to leave the dunk prison of selfish souls and sing together again. To let the warm fire that I found dance between us in a circle, hand in hand together. To let Dradeel try again, and help him too. In a circle, all together... Strange how I came to care whether Alora would still smile in the gloom. And Edwin... was it only for lust and pleasure that he disobeyed his superiors at the Wood of Sharp Teeth?

"Mind is like a burning candle," Gorion used to say, "but the folly sweeps up fast as a wind. Compose yourself, and be steady. Look inside, until you find your inner flame." I'm nothing but steady, father, yet I have found it. A warm fire that burns without a sound.

It had to be Ulgoth's Beard, of course. Anyone who is setting on the path of vengeance has to taste it on their own skin first. For when we made it back, we were awaited by Mendas and his handymen. Handywolves, I should say. Werewolves, all of them. And Mendas... no one else but Selaad Gan, the clan chief and husband to the late Kaishas. Braving the seas and the seawolven wrath, he managed to get across the ocean, and started preparing the ground for his tribe.

Alas, it was not to be. I pity him. He managed the impossible, but his own deceit and that of his kind killed the dream in the end, even if it was my hand that slew so many of his people. And now I had to kill him as well. I had to choice, for such is the law and taste of vengeance.

We made it back. One didn't need to have "the might to follow." Only the warmth of heart, and the people to share it with. To warm ourselves by each other, instead of huddling around a dung-fire. Everyone would leave that place eventually. Those that are not there anymore, have found their own way out. Some better than the others.

And Shandalar... he said nothing when I was handing back his cloak. He knew where I came from. And he knew what it took me to leave, what I had to leave behind. When I looked him in the eyes, he must have seen that, much as himself, I too had to change...

Author's Note: If you look at the screenshot that opens Book Five: The Fading, or from the savegame, you will see that Bethphel's alignment is no longer Chaotic Evil, but it has changed to Chaotic Neutral.