Fjorlar

A Story by Simoiran

D&D Backstory

Wisps of steam rose from the blood splattering on the snow, only to be scattered by the howling winds of the mountain. The woman constantly stumbled, barely keeping the bundle in her arms. She lost feeling in her feet and hands long before this point, desperation spurring her on to find somewhere safe. Eventually, her legs gave out and she crawled her way up the mountain. Suddenly, three figures strode out of the grey and over to her. She barely saw them, only knowing they appeared to be Dwarves. She drew all the strength she had left and handed her bundle to the leader, giving it a weak smile as she slipped into the Void.

The leader unwound some of the cloth covering the bundle and gasped in shock, a newborn Half-Elf opened his eyes to look at him. "Vastrag what is it?" one of his companions asked.

"A baby, a baby Half-Elf." Vastrag answered.

"You don't mean to keep the b*****d, do you?" His other companion asked.

"I do. You both know what happened to my son, this is a blessing from Onatar." he said. Then he looked to the sky and solemnly swore, "I, Vastrag Lightningsmith, swear in the eyes of the Gods and peoples of this land that I will raise this child as my own blood." He then wrapped the child back up and quickly carried him back to the Hold. After he made sure the baby was safely with his wife, he went back outside and brought the woman's body inside. With great respect and caring, he prepared the woman for burial with the help of a cleric he was friends with.

When dawn broke the next day, Vastrag took the body and gently placed in on a sled to see if he could find where she came from. He pulled her down the mountain, carefully following the trail she left until he arrived at a small camp tucked into a cave. He walked over to the entrance to find a haggard group huddled around a fire, their hands going to simple weapons that showed signs of needing maintenance.

"I found this woman on the mountain last night, was she one of yours?" He asked the group.

"That w***e is not one of ours" said a man who looked like he had spent the night deep in his cups "the b***h will sleep with anything."

"If I leave the body with you, are you going to give her the proper Rites?"

"I'd sooner piss on it."

With that, Vastrag turned and left, he grabbed the ropes on the front of the sled and pulled her back up the mountain. Determined to give her the respect she was due. She was cremated and her ashes spread to the winds, as was the custom for those of unknown religion.

Time marched on unrelenting and the child, given the name Fjorlar Lightningsmith, grew up in a world where he was always different. His adopted father taught him the basics of engineering and gunsmithing. With his more nimble and dexterous fingers, Fjorlar was able to bring designs to life that Vastrag could only dream of. Eventually, the Lightningsmith family became a very respected and integral part of their Clan. Fjorlar spent his days tinkering, he was always moving or thinking his way through a problem with restless energy.

On his 18th nameday, Vastrag sat him down and explained where he came from and what happened the night his mother died. Fjorlar knew he wasn't a Dwarf, but he never could imagine the words that were coming for Vastrag's mouth. He laid awake long into the night, something calling him and preventing his sleep. With a deep sigh, he got out of bed and got dressed. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he left the Hold and climbed up to his favorite vantage point overlooking the mountains and valleys. He sat looking up at the moon and stars, which always gave him a strange comfort. As he sat there, a shadowy figure walked over and sat next to him.

"Who are you?" he asked, putting a hand on his dagger.

"I'm a friend" she said gently as she removed her hood, her hair spilling down like liquid moonlight "my name is Eilistraee and I have been calling out to you for some time. You are destined for greater things than you can accomplish here at your Hold. A great evil comes and you are needed to fight it. A group of people from across this world are being gathered, I want you to be my champion in this group. In exchange, I will help you as much as I am able. The Gate prevents me from being able to directly do anything, but I can aid you."

"And what do you want from me?" he asked skeptically.

"Only your promise to find these people and fight against the evil, the fate of your world depends on it."

Fjorlar looked to the moon and thought for a few moments. "Will you help me find where I came from?"

"I will."

"Then I swear I will help these people you spoke of, where can I find them?"

"Your Skyship will guide you."

"I... don't have a skyship."

She waved her arm, dark as the night sky, and a ship materialized. It was dark as the night sky with a subtle, swirling pattern reminiscent of the stars in the Great Rift. "Now you do, and my power is spent for now. Leave in the morning, nothing will happen to your ship." with that, she pulled her hood back up and walked the way she came.

Fjorlar went over and boarded his new ship, strangely familiar with its workings and layout. Down in his quarters, he saw a book open on the desk. On the page was 'The ship's log of the Skyship ________'. He sat down at the table and grabbed the pen sitting there. Thinking for a moment, he wrote 'The Black' on the line and filled out the first entry. Closing the logbook, he saw a smaller book titled "Lady Silverhair". On the cover was a full moon with a black b*****d sword on it. He put the book in his pocket and headed back into his Hold to sleep the rest of the night.

In the morning, he gathered his things, said good bye to his adopted parents, boarded his ship, and sailed off into the morning light.

"Time to find the answers. Blessed be the Lady Silverhair."