Peccable
I was born on the 16th of Kythorn in the Year of the Bright Blade, 1347 (Dalereckoning) in Harrowdale Town. Although my mother was brought up in typical rural Harran values, my father had received an education with an Ilmater Brotherhood, and thus had broken somewhat with his rural past. He never told me very much about his childhood, but I imagine now that his earlier entry into the brotherhood was probably out of desperation. While my father’s intentions were to take the vow of chastity, he met and fell in love with my mother and they were married soon after, and soon after that, having three children. My earliest memories are the sluggish, dreary winters contrasted with the bright summers with swift sunrises, flashes of a forest, and the dark intricate cramp of Harrowdale Town. As my father could write, he was soon writing letters for commonfolk and doing odd-jobs for the Church. Although we had the same house throughout the time I was in Harrowdale Town, my father’s work seemed to involve a lot of travel, particularly to the country, so I saw both the dark lofty steeples and shiny cobbles of the town and the green spaces of the country. My earliest memories even include my brother and sister, but they died by the time I was 6, so I do not remember them as well as the sorrow in my mother’s eyes. My father had taught me to write quite early in my life, and I recall writing some of his letters for him in the dim candlelight. This was in the small front room of the house, where there was always a draft from the street – my father said it kept him awake. By the time I was helping my father with his letters, we were close to leaving Harrowdale forever. The timing of my father’s pilgrimage was always something of an enigma to me, the only clue being that it coincided with the coronation of King Gareth of Demara, and the return of that land to relative peace after a decades long war with neighbouring Vaasa. Our destination was the Ilmatari Monastery of the Yellow Rose, which was to the north of this country in the Glacier of the White Worm. Demara was the only safe accessway. We sailed from the Dales around the bluffs of The Vast and up the rugged coast into the bright greens of Impiltur’s farmlands. I recall smelling the confined humanity and refuse of Lyrabar before I could see it. The city stretched nearly a mile up and down the coast, with many tall ships standing like winter thickets on its several jetties. Lyrabar was the biggest city I’d ever seen, with proud prominent buildings of grey and black. We passed up through Impiltur and into Damara rather quickly, and I remember being upset at the change from the quiet havens of well-tilled earth to the skeletons of buildings staggering on charred ground. Unlike many wars between nations, this one involved the wholesale sacking of entire towns and everywhere were battered fortresses, burned towns and hastily dug graveyards. The population were thrice decimated by plague, but even through this misery, there was a determination on people’s faces, as if recently rallied, as if hope alone was filling their bellies. My father said that this was a fit and proper place for a pilgrim. We approached the city of Heliogabalus – the seat of the monarch – late in the third day of entering Damara. The ancient capital held onto the majesty of the past with its city guards in bright adorned armour, displaying an ornate dragon in embossed metal on every breastplate. The stone walls rose to the centre of the city and its focus the palace built for the empire that Damara once was. We turned south Lake Icemelt after a night in Heliogalabus riding amongst gemcarts driven by hardy men with grim faces. As the day grew late, the other traffic dwindled away, and we found ourselves driving due west into the setting sun. I remember a feeling of unexplainable sadness, a sense of loss, and the weight of leaving all that was familiar to me bearing down. The feeling fell away somewhat as we stayed overnight in a small village at an Ilmater monastery. I remember the monks well for their sense of mirth and their ability to brighten my spirits with jokes and games. We turned due south after the village and toward the towering Earthspar Mountains, my mother told me that high on the jagged peaks to the west of these mountains was the Citadel of the White Worm and home of the Holy Seat – the Monastery of the Yellow Rose. After passing a hard road we expected to get there. We had climbed through narrow ravines on a bumpy road for some hours when that feeling of loss came back to me. It rose to a panic as bandits attacked our cart. Frustrated at not finding anything of great value they hewed my father down with a brutal axe and dragged my mother off. Amid her screams, I could feel the cart being overturned, and fire had taken hold. I tried so desperately to hand on to a rail, but I fell through the canvas of the cart and onto the hard road, before the cart fell onto my leg, shattering it. All I could see was fire, all I could feel was sickening pain, and all I could hear were my mother’s screams. I prayed and prayed and prayed in desperation, at my wits end, my thought going lucid, my sight blurred. I don’t know when I felt it but it was like a touch of death at first but the warmth that followed, was calm, not the alarm of fire, and then I saw him. I white light, rimmed with the gold of those sunrises of home, bending the cart and all other reality away. All I could remember was being carried and hearing a soft song in my ears. I woke up some time later in a bed within stone walls adorned with lattices and engraved with sacred writings. The stone of the windows filled between panes of glass that admitted an icy light, that shone onto my bed, and before me was the kind face of a priest in robes. He said “welcome home, dear Peccable.” The name was my own in a new sense, I only much later realised that this was not my name before, but was named so by the angel that saved me. My reflection, when I finally saw it, was also familiar, but with an echo of a former life. I had visions of dark hair and green eyes but somehow these were not my eyes, for my eyes were silver and my hair the white of the waxing moon. I became the charge of the Monastery, one of very few in this circumstance, in a manner that was right and proper, as if by destiny. A favoured pupil, I was made the disciple of St Sollars – the Twice Martyred – a highly respected cleric of many adventures. I was taught the ways of discipline defence, the clergy and the scriptures, and before my fifteenth year I was enduring trials of my own in the mountains that forged my substance. My leg never healed properly and this challenged me in some ways, beyond that of other pupils, particularly in fighting, where I had to compensate greatly, using my staff for support and combat at the same time. To this day, I walk with a pronounced limp and cannot run. I had taken personal, informal vows of abstinence, poverty, & chastity when I was 15 on formalised the Sacred Vow of Poverty in my 21st year. I had forsworn all material possessions in a holy ritual, and soon after, I bid the Monastery of the Yellow rose a fond farewell to spread the teachings of Ilmater and to perform good deeds for the peoples of Faerun. I went south, over the Earthspar Mountains into the vacant lands of the north part of The Vast, and into the dangerous lands of the very south of Moonsea. I had met with some trouble being waylaid by brigands and slave traders, before entering my home of the Dalelands. The forest that was formerly known as The Elven Court had grown darker than my memory, and we were told of the many stories of the drow that had settled there from their infernal pits below. As a child I had entered the forest with my father, who was on, as I later realise, a mission of importance, its musty scents, dark secrets, and eleven inhabitants, quickly spirited me to another world. I realise now, that this was the temple of Ilmater, the secret temple, it existed in the minds of those of elf blood and allies that would see the drow driven out. I had made no secret of my identity as a Cleric of Ilmater, though many might’ve mistaken me for a cloister monk of the same order, In any case, I was sought out in the town of Velarsburg by a man of some elven blood, who recognised me as a follower of Ilmater. I had made reservations at an inn, at which I was destined to never redeem, for I was brought to a safe-house in the town and questioned by a hopeful, yet wary host of ranger-folk. It was some time before they were satisfied and two Ilmater clerics joined the gathering from a door that I hadn’t seen before. They had established that I was intending to journey to Harrowdale Town and try to seek the friends of my father, while I had established that these were probably the people I had sought. Ilmater’s sense of humour had landed me in the thick of things from the moment I entered my previous lands, and there was no time for rest. Within months, I was regularly journeying between Harrowdale Town and Velarsburg, and I had become a central figure in the plots and plannings of the Temple of Ilmater. Within the tall steeples, vaults and attics of Harrowdale Town, these followers had not been idle. They exploited links with various noble families that had been made by the elven-kind, diverting resources from mercenary battles with Sembian traders to skirmishes with the two drow forces that had come to occupy the area: The Followers of Eilistraee in the northern timbers of Velarswood, and the Vhaeraunian Drow of House Jaelre in The Elven Court. Money was drawn off, in all sorts of ways that challenged my understanding, to the poor of Harrowdale Town and of Velarsburg. The followers of Ilmater were a faction of a broad alliance that was formed by wood elves of the High Forest, who were intent on re-establishing the ancient elven kingdom of Eaerlann. Through their manoeuvrings and the help of a large contingent of Harrowdale humans and half-elves, the alliance knew things of the drow plans that mercantile Dales were largely unaware or uninterested in. The nobles of the Dales were also largely uninterested in the teachings of Ilmater, and the other temples in Harrowdale Town were quick to get a law passed, banning additional temples, that were not of thier kind. Nonethelss these other Churches were compelled to assist the poor, possibly by the actions of Ilamater or his faithful. They had been giving alms to the poor in an overt capacity for more than 50 years, and were now shaming the other Churches into doing the same thing. There was, however, a second benefit, which was not immediately realised by the Ilmater followers – that nearly the entire underclass would become both devoted followers of the Secret Church, and be its best spies. Through direct alms to the poor and indirect funding from the other churches a substantial cache formed to both fight the drow – the largest threat to the poor in the Dales – and to establish trade and communications between the three Dales that were really on the front line. By my 24th year, I had fought in battles with drow, fended off Zhent raiding parties, assisted in the protection of Hillspar and Elventree, and had gone as deep into the forest as Myth Drannor. The affairs of the Alliance were complex and involved many notable persons of the Dales, particularly those from Harrowdale Town, Ashabenford, and Essembra. An important element to this was the maintenance of land trade between the three embattled Dales and Cormyr, which became a constant preoccupation of the Riders of Misledale. This was deemed preferable to the Sea Route, which was plagued with pirates. Although the pirates never really get away with much in currency (as this was always transferred in the form of Bills of Exchange), they did disrupt the movement of goods, which hurt both economies. New subcontractors could move goods over land, but more importantly subcontractors firmly part of the alliance, representing another means for siphoning money from the rich to the poor. I was often sent to Tilverton and Suzail to impress upon the nobles the importance of wood from the dales, at least to neighbouring rival Sembria, and their immanent cutting-off by the drow. This was a mission of constant upkeep as the Cormyrian attention often wavered to matters of Sembria and the Sea of Fallen Stars. Their lack of attention to the north, I feel are going to be their undoing. Nonetheless, I was able to convince them of the necessity of sending patrols up and down the Moonsea Ride from time to time. I think the arrival of the exalted cohort, the lantern archon Chauvalette in Elasius 1371 coincided with a change of purpose within myself. Ilmater urged me to be a traveller and use my wits to plant his seeds in as many places of influence as possible. I found it difficult to perceive the reasons for such urgency, but my heart began to desire travel, all of it’s own, and I looked to the boarders of the Dales. Immediately to the south was the Plutocracy of Sembia, a land of merchants, ready to take Scardale as a stepping stone to Harrowdale. To the north were the Zhents – travel there was not to be advised without a division of battle-hardened soldiers. To the south-west was the Kingdom of Cormyr – a wealthy state with freindly people, not unlike those of the Dales. I studied more intently Cormyrian life, its social organisation and the noble families. I decided that I would start an Ilmater Church there, which could communicate and trade with the Alliance. This could also make the Cormyrians aware of the movement of the drow – and make us feel less alone. During this time, Chauvalette had become my best friend and confidante, helping to guide me in my life and travels. it was on her inspiration that I finally decided to take a sabbatical to the City of Suzail – the capital of Cormyr. Stepping out of the Alliance was a tangly affair, and I think there were many that were not very happy with my decision. Even some of those from within our own faction; followers of Ilmater themselves. It took several months longer and a few more missions, before I finally found the strength to leave one morning. Even so, getting out of the Dales was extremely difficult, as there were those contacts along the way, that always had a compelling argument to make for my helping them on this occasion. I felt it best to avoid the road going south, as the first settlement to happen on that road was Scardale Town. It wasn’t the lingering nightmare of the Shaking Plague, nor the city’s fall into anarchy and factionalism that had my step falter in that direction, it was the fact that Zhentarim agents were one of the five factions that ran the city, and they would not have forgotten me. No, Scardale Town would have to wait a little more for Ilmater – perhaps even after Sembia itself. We instead struck west to skirt around the Cold Fields. This is a popular road for the Wainriders of Harrowdale Town in the summer, but with winter approaching, they instead either not ride at all, or risk the southern road and take a good measure of mercenaries. The road, I took was, in fact, the first leg of the land-link to Cormyr: it would take me first to the village of Hap, which lay in the shadow of Haptooth Hill. I had been here many times before, arguing with locals, about the likelihoods of the drow retaking the wizard’s tower, before collapsing in a billet house’s bed. I was known to most of the locals including the guard, and I looked to a long-standing friend to offer me shelter upon our arrival. He owned, or rather occupied one of the 12 permanent dwellings in the town, four of which were commercial. Most of the wood from the Sawyer’s mill went south into Sembia along Rauthauvyr’s Road. We were taking the northern route to Essembra, deep in the forests of Cormanthor, and a bit of an Alliance stronghold. We found ourselves in the outskirts of Essembra by prime. This is little more than a dotting of houses either side of Rauthauvyr’s Road, so it was not until we entered the town proper before I was recognised by Hath Herisee – an organiser for the Alliance, and a man often recruiting me for various “missions of importance”. Even after several hours of earnest conversation, I was unable to convince him of my intent to leave the Dales and the Alliance behind. Instead we opened a new round of agreements based on the stocking of salt peter in Harrowdale and Essembra for some alchemical purpose, of which I chose not to fathom. I remained in Essembra for three further days, resting up for what was going to be a difficult road: Mistledale lay ahead. Most of the stories from Misledale tell of a happy place, where luck has always run with the people. In more recent times, particularly the last four years, the Drow of Jaelre in Cormanthor have been raiding the Ashabenford surrounds on a regular basis, and I rather expected to find ruins. The picture was both better and worse than I’d imagined. The town itself remained more or less intact, but many of the outlying villages and homesteads were nothing but burnt out shells, children stared at us blankly as we passed. Thousands of shattered lives lay in the wake of these wretched interlopers. We took lodgings at the White Hart Inn, mainly because its proprietor Holfast Hapenshield was known to me and my various causes over the previous four years. It was probably more proper for me to stay at the Temple of Tyr, but the High Priest, a man known as Nerval Watchwill, is often tiresome company. He is well principled, learned, compassionate, and loyal to his friends, but he is so sanctimonious and prescriptive, that I usually feel the need to excuse myself of him within minutes. He is also of a mind to lecture me on the failings of my activities, and how this must surely displease Ilmater. Remarkable: and I thought that I ought to have been the judge of that! Nonetheless, I met him, and found him to be more appreciative of my presence this time. It seemed as if the prevalence of the Drow had lightened his attitude toward adventurers (of which group, he had me firmly placed), and, was anxious to have me stay a few days and garner him with all the information I could offer on the forest drow. We were, however to have more uses than that, for near midnight on the second night of my stay, the alarms were sounded. Holfast once again brought himself out of retirement by picking up his sword and knives, while I spent time praying for the will of Ilmater. We set out out down the road along which my Guide and I came into town to see the Mistledale Riders mustered. I then saw that some of them were fighting, and then a line of dark figures broke through the horses and ran at full pace toward us. While I was confused by their motives, I was clear about their intended actions and I sought the leader of the rushing pack and struck her down with searing holy light. This scattered the other drow into the nearby dwellings, and moments later I could hear the screams of startled dalespeople – one hideously cut short. There were too many to give chase, so I rushed in the direction of that last scream. This brought me into the yards of Braunstar Wheelwright, near Horsewater Pool. I hopped fences (always a very ginger move for me), dodged the lately more prevalent guard dogs (or more correctly, placated them with salted meats), and finally trapped a drow in a blade barrier and matched another in close combat. By the time I was done with this, the Mistledale riders had driven off the other drow, and a lieutenant came to have a closer look at my prisoners. I’ll not go into the further dealings between the prisoners the Temple of Tyr and the Mistledale riders, suffice it to say that there were many and it was a further four full days before I was able to resume my journey down the Moonsea Ride. I passed through the deep crevasse of Tilver’s Gap amid the Thunder Peaks on the third day, amid foul weather, and I arrived in Tilverton bearing a musty scent. Tilverton has only just been formally inducted into the Kingdom of Cormyr, by the Regent Princess, and is presided over by a noble family of suddenly increased loyalty to the Obarskyr line of Kings (something of an exception in Cormyr these days). We remained in Tilverton for a few weeks while I looked into salt peter and phosphorous resources, and negotiated for the formation of a trade guard to assist and meet with the Mistledale Riders on the Moonsea Ride. After this, I journeyed south to Suzail to make further enquiries and to acquaint myself with the balance of forces between the nobles sympathetic to the Obarskyr line, those to Sembria, and those just for themselves. It seemed as if resources was the keyword in Suzail at the current time with Cormyr having too much to protect and too little money, wood, metal, etcetera to protect it with. It seemed moreover that Cormyr was ready to fall, but, strangely, as I looked over the bright battlements of Suzail, banners flying in the sea breeze, I couldn’t imagine Cormyr’s fate being tied to a single Purple Dragon, as it is said in the legends. It was seeming less and less likely that Cormyr could come to the rescue of the Dales, so we decided to look further afield to learn of opportunities. Following diverse lines of enquiry finally led us to consider Westgate as a destination. Firstly, there was already a small temple of Ilmater there, and secondly, it seemed like a larger version of Harrowdale Town, with its oligarchical administration and lax civil legalities. I bought passage on the three-masted, sloop-rigged trade ship, Capitol, and we set sail across the seas and into the Dragon Coast.