Filtmond

Filtmond -- Prologue

The town square was filled with the sound of the meaningless chatter of dwarfs, halflings, and even a few of the lesser races of Filtmond; humans and elves. Among them stood a silent shadow, moonlight hair spilling down slim shoulders and following the almost fragile looking back. Piercing red eyes gazed over the crowd with a calculating gaze, the color made brighter against the smooth ebony skin. A slender hand came up, tucking a strand of the shimmering hair behind a pointed ear. The Drow had a sort of solemn beauty around him, though it seemed to go almost unnoticed by those around. He leaned against the pillar behind him, watching as people were plucked from the crowd by a large man with bright red wings sprouting from his back. It was a common trait amongst disciples, who were the priests and record keepers in the capital.

There had been a call for all able-bodied men and women in the capital city, though no one was sure of what for. There were rumors going about that a coup was being staged, but the thought was a ridiculous one. The current queen, a half elf, had ruled well for the past hundred and eighty years. While there had been the occasional skirmish with the neighboring country of Wintrel, overall, peace had reigned within the country. As it was, the queen had issued an order for all men and women with knowledge of fighting or magical arts to gather in the town square.

The winged man passed by the Drow without even a glance, but stopped a few people down the line, turning back to look. In a few strides, he was in front of the small man, staring down his long, hooked nose. “Your name?” he asked, his tone chilled. Drow normally weren't welcomed in the capital, so it didn't come as much of a surprise.

“Rhyldaer Teken'ghym,” the Drow said, his voice soft.

The dragon disciple nodded, his expression remaining stony. “A suspicious house you come from,” he said, distrust creeping its way into his deliberately neutral voice. “Are you loyal to her majesty and the country she watches over? Or do your loyalties lie elsewhere?”

“I can assure you, my house is little more than a distant memory to me. Her majesty has and always will be my first and only true ruler. You have nothing to fear from me or the house I abandoned.” Rhyldaer bowed his head to the man before him, making no move for the short swords strapped to his hips. He stayed like that when his back and neck began to ache, and didn't make any move to stand straight when he could feel the cold green stare of the other man become less drilling.

“Very well. Go to the church. Someone will brief you on what's going on.” With that said, the disciple strode away, his blood red priest robe billowing out behind him. Only after he was nearly out of sight did Rhyldaer finally stand upright. He moved for the church that stood tall and foreboding at the back of the crowd.

Other than the watch tower on the southern side in the city, the church towered over all the other homes and buildings. Not even the palace was as large as the Goddess's house. The windows were over thirty feet tall and ten wide, all stained with images of the great Nerina defeating all the demons of the underworld. Huge gargoyles watched over the elaborate Gothic designs that climbed up the black and white marble walls, heavy cherry wood doors shielded the even more glorious interior from prying eyes and the forces of nature, and in the highest steeple rested a bell more than fifty feet in circumference. The bell sent its chilling chime over the capital city eight times every day -- once every three hours. Judging by the sun's position in the evening sky, Ryhldaer supposed that it wouldn't ring again for another two hours.

He entered the gargantuan building through a smaller side door, as the main entrance was locked at all times, excluding mass. The Drow always thought the concept was a bit silly, but anyone that stood against the church stood against Nerina, which meant the fool usually perished within a week of voicing any kind of complaint.

The inside of the church was so beautiful, words could not begin to describe it. Nearly everything was made out of rich white marble and the best possible cuts of oak and cherry made the doors and furniture that was placed aesthetically around the perfect circular rooms. Paintings that rivaled those of the royal palace lined the walls, encased in glass and gold. Huge chandeliers made of pure crystal hung from the high, domed ceilings, making the light of the candles within them sparkle and shimmer with all colors of the rainbow. All the rooms were the same, yet different at the same time. The same shape and theme, but different paintings and uses.

The most impressive room of all was – of course – where they held mass. Great wooden benches stretched for what seemed like forever in the long rectangular room, padded with plush black velvet. At the other end of the room stood a slightly raised stage, where a podium rested off to one side. Around the back and sides of the stage was where the choir sat in raised seats so there voices were better heard by Nerina. In the back center stood a statue of the great goddess in all her glory. She stood over sixty feet tall, holding her great stone hands out to her beloved followers below her. Her carved hair fell in frozen waves until it pooled around her bare feet in a mass of beautifully detailed marble. A long robe hugged her perfect figure in all the right places leaving just the right amount to the imagination.

As Rhyldaer admired the unmistakable beauty that Nerina possessed, his ruby eyes were pulled down to where a figure sat on the edge of the raised stage. With a slow but confident stride, he made his way over to the hooded figure. As he approached, deep ultramarine eyes glanced up at him through the darkness the hood cast upon the apparently young face. The eyes seemed to have their own light source, almost glowing from underneath the dark shadow.

“Welcome, Rhyldaer of the Teken'ghym clan. You have been chosen to serve Nerina as a bringer of divine justice,” said a deep male voice. It echoed around the huge room, making the softly spoken statement seem louder than the crowd outside had been.

Rhyldaer went down on one knee before the man, recognizing the feeling of a powerful magic. The man that sat before him was undoubtedly high in rank and station, not to mention awe inspiring with the level of power he held at his command. “Please, tell me what I must do to serve the goddess Nerina in her ultimate plan,” Rhyldaer said softly, glad that his voice didn't echo as much as the other man's had. Though he himself did not believe in the country's goddess, it hadn't taken long to realize that the church held more power than anyone else in the country. He was willing to pretend for the sake of staying alive.

The strange, blue eyes seemed to narrow, but the Drow couldn't tell if it was due to suspicion or the smirk that crossed over the sage's face.

“You are many things, Rhyldaer Teken'ghym,” the man said, standing to his full height. If he had been standing as well, Rhyldaer would have fallen just an inch or two short from being eye-level with the man. That such a small man could harbor such power was truly amazing. “You are skilled in various areas, though not the best by any means. However, your range might yet prove useful to our cause. We must act swiftly and silently against the demons of the desert. Despite our efforts, the people of Wintrel cling to life by the thinnest of threads that connect us to this plain.” The deep voice was nearly emotionless, forcing Rhyldaer to hold back the shiver it made want to run down his spine.

“Do you wish for me to infiltrate them, sir?” the Drow asked, watching as the man paced before him. Red and black velvet robes flowed around the man's small frame, looking as though they had been caught in a constant wind. It was only at that moment that Rhyldaer noticed that the other was not actually walking on the pristine floor, but on a thin layer of shimmering blue mist reminiscent of the glowing eyes shadowed by the large hood. The mist flowed out from beneath the robes, extending only a few inches before dissipating into the air.

The man paused in his pacing, slowly looking down at the elf kneeling before him. “You make it sound so easy, Drow,” he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “I can assure you, it will not be that simple. You must start small, working your way up the ladder of command. There will be others, of course, so this task will not fall entirely on your shoulders. Keep in mind, the one that reaches and disposes of their royal line first will be fully compensated by the church for as long as you decide to be a disciple of our beloved goddess.” He broke off, twisting his right hand so that his thumb, index finger, and ring finger connected at tips, his middle and little finger tucked against his palm. He placed the painful looking hand sign below his heart before touching his forehead and raising his hand up as though offering his heart and mind to the great goddess. He turned back to Rhyldaer, ultramarine clashing with ruby as their eyes met. “Will you accept this task, son of Nerina?”

The Drow thought it over for a moment. He had no doubt in his mind that he could easily take care of anyone that stood in his way. Though, perhaps that's what the leaders of Filtmond were hoping for? To find the strongest of the strong to serve Nerina in her holy war? If that was the case, Rhyldaer wanted none of it. He was about to refuse, not really caring what would become of him for doing so, when he thought of the opportunity.

When he fled his clan, the Drow had fully expected living a rough life on the surface working as whatever he could. It was better than the death he would have suffered at the hands of the rival house his family had been fighting. Whether anyone from his family had survived was a mystery to him, but he couldn't find the will to care. To be paid for life by the only people guaranteed never to run out of money was like a dream come true for anyone like him.

“I accept this task that has been bestowed upon me,” he said, bowing his head to the sage.

A smirk grew on the man's face as he reached out a hand, touching the top of Rhyldaer's head with the very tips of his pale fingers. “I will seek you out when the time is right, my friend,” he said as his fingertips began to glow a blue-white.

Suddenly, Rhyldaer felt as though he were falling endlessly. He couldn't see, nor control his body. There was only the sound of wind and the smell of wildflowers, and then, nothing.