Brell Serilis

[Arkaron]

The building is old, musty, and uncomfortable by normal standards. The humidity of Cabilis had made the air so thick an elf might drown breathing. Rain erodes the once grand statues even further, and washes the scene in a gray and brown palate.

An older Iksar female is organizing scrolls for sale; rolling them up and tying the parchment with different colored ribbons suggesting their rarity and strength. Aside from the small shop, there are few furnishings. Upstairs a mortician prepares his next cadaver, light from a lantern shining through his bones. He is undead, but none of the tenants find this unusual.

In the midst of all this sat a young Iksar in a robe much too bright for her tastes. She is surrounded by parchments and books covered in runes. Ink stained her scaled hands; she had been researching for hours. The house is quiet; the sound of rain accented by quill scratching paper, and finely made blades cutting flesh.

“What spell is that?” asked the young one.
“Diamondskin.” said the shopkeeper.
“When can I use it?”
“Soon.”
“Who are the Nihilists?”
“They guard the Tower.” The answers became more curt and impatient.
“What is beyond Kunark?” Long pause.
“Nothing, Arkaron. I’ve told you this before.” The older Iksar seemed weary. Arkaron just smiled, and continues her research. The shopkeeper finished organizing her wares and prepared a list.
“Go into the Field of Bone and visit Kurn’s Tower. We need bones for the other apprentices. The alchemists also need supplies.”

Arkaron stood up from the books and stretched, her body aching from lethargy. These new tasks—fetching chips, gathering plant life—were becoming more dangerous. She had never questioned them before, but now they were asking her to go farther from Cabilis. Arkaron snatched the list from her caretaker’s hands and left the city. Above her form, in the Tower of Death, Master Kyvix was debating with the Harbinger.

“You are disrupting my meditations. Why?”

“I will not continue to lie to my apprentice,” said Kyvix. “She needs to know of the world beyond ours, or she will never fulfill the prophecy.”

“Your ‘prophecy’ is little more than lore and legend to scare broodings,” said the leader of the Tower. “The abilities of which you speak are unprecedented—they are not within our memory.”

“But I have heard tales, of those like us, who have seen what I speak—“ Kyvix was cut short by a blow that threw him against the wall and held him there. The Harbinger stood to face the immobilized lizard.

“Are you suggesting,” asked the Harbinger “That we collaborate with those…infidels?” Anger and venom dripped from his voice, and with a wave of his hand threw Master Kyvix into the opposite wall. If he intended to frighten Kyvix, however, he had grossly underestimated this particular Iksar.

Kyvix regarded his master with almost serene calm. “Surely your meditations have shown you what I have seen.” At this statement, the Harbinger laughed softly and began to cast a spell. Kyvix felt the energy drain from his system, and watched blood trickle slowly over the Harbinger’s lips.

“Do not speak to Arkaron of Norrath,” said the master. The other necromancers glanced up upon hearing the almost foreign word—no one spoke of the Outside in the Tower. “Or next time you will not so easily recover.” He let Kyvix slide down the wall of the Tower to the ground. “Keep your dreams and visions to yourself, my old friend.”

Later that evening, Arkaron returned to the small house with a sack full of bone chips and herbs. Her caretaker’s eyes flew open at the sight of the young Iksar, whose robe was ripped and stained dark from blood. Arkaron walked over to the table, now clean and ready to bargain on and dumped the contents of her bag onto the surface. From what the older Iksar could tell, her charge must have destroyed every creature within Kurn’s Tower. Arkaron threw the bag into the corner and stood at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded, facing away from the astonished old woman.

The caretaker finally found words. “Arkaron, change into your drape so you can clean your robe.”

“No.” The voice was steady and calm. “It looks better this way,” she said. The old woman tried again, and was now grasping for any kind of response. “Are you not hungry? You injuries need to be tended to!”

“My wounds will heal in time, and it is not my body that needs food,” she responded. The caretaker threw her hands up at this, and left the house for Tink n' Babble, in desperate need of ale. Before she could get far, Arkaron called to her.

“Tell the Harbinger,” she said “That if he wishes to kill me, he will have to send me farther than Kurn’s to do so.” Arkaron smiled at her caretaker, who was practically running to the other side of the city. The young lizard climbed into bed, feeling the tears in her scales close even as she drifted to sleep.

For one whose profession is that of Death, it may seem surprising the Necromancers often have pleasant or unusual dreams. The sleeping Iksar was no exception. The only bothersome thing about them—to Arkaron in any event—was that it was the same dream. She dare not tell Kyvix about them, for fear of banishment.

Arkaron found herself on a wide, beautiful beach—for even Death can appreciate beauty. The sand shone white and the ocean was clear, sparkling blue. She walked along the shoreline, watching the sun sink into water. A dome of stars appears above her head, and Arkaron stares at the vault—not at the stars, but the darkness between them. Again, like the other dreams, a voice speaks deep inside her mind.

Find the place where the sky meets the sea.
_________________
Deathspeaker Arkaron Samekh
Juniper Tree
Poison Arrow!

[Athiyk Phor'Phalar]

Young Arkaron dreams. When Death sleeps, She dreams of Beauty.
_________________
Athiyk Dosoloth.

[Xar]

I miss Kunark