Sitting in front of the large, tightly locked gates, the young elf finished off another piece of the light faerie bread. On her way to the infamous elfgate which led straight to the mainland, she had seen one of the elder elves, a woman she had often conversed with. She was more than happy to suggest the city of Waterdeep when asked of the Twilight Ravens, warning of the trolls so near to the east once the gate was entered. She had continued to babble of the elves she knew well who were in the organization, but Caecara had been in a hurry and said her goodbyes.
So there she was, waiting outside the northern gates of the great city. She had found it well enough, but the people were not as welcoming as it was in her city. Two hours now, waiting, but still nothing. She could hear the guards on the other side, but none seemed to pay any attention to her requests for entry. She even tried possible words that might help give way, but none seemed to work.
The sun had begun to rise not long ago, and the sounds within with it, baby cries, venders opening early, people saying ‘good mornings.’ Caecara sighed impatiently as she continued to sit, her legs crossed in a common fashion under herself. She listened to her slow, steady breathing, looking down at her arms which were resting on her knees. Her blue eyes glanced over them, following a long scar that ran down her right forearm.
It had been a normal day when she had gone into her family’s training room. Her father’s sword rested in its place. She had only been thirty-two years, a mere elf-child that day when she wrapped her small fingers around the elvish-made hilt. She had removed it from its place, holding it up, her eyes wide in awe. She had never seen it up close until that day, though she had heard many tales. A stream of sunlight had caught on the runed blade, blinding her young eyes, making her lose her grip. The sword clattered to the ground, slicing into her arm as it fell.
Her only brother at the time, Haenamur, eldest of the house of Kaletasere by one hundred and fifty-seven years, found her a little while later, standing, staring down at the fallen weapon. He saw the blood on her arm and quickly moved to clean it up, wrapping the wound in cloths. She didn’t cry, just watched, as though she didn’t even notice she had been hurt. The day Haenamur left for the mainland, her father gave him that sword, with a prayer to Shevarash.
Her eyes began to water and she hurriedly wiped them away when she heard another shout come from inside the gates of Waterdeep, signaling the city to be opened.
The rough creaking of the gates sounded as they started to open, and she pushed herself off the ground and passed easily through. She was first met by a group of guards, much taller and bulkier than those in Leuthilspar. Bowing respectfully, she noted the weaponry and the scowls marking some of their faces.
“Get a move on if you want in, elf,” one remarked gruffly.
Others scanned her body, the glint in their eyes sending and uncomfortable shiver up her spine. Caecara swiftly moved into the busy city. She had a barbarian to find.
The sun was beginning to set and she had been traveling through most of the city, questioning, searching for the Raven leader. Many claimed they had met the large man, could tell of the stories they had heard, or were a part of, but no one knew where he could be found that day.
She soon made her way back to the fountain at the heart of the city, the crowds she had seen were dismissing as it grew dark. The elf cupped her hands under the cool, flowing water and brought them to her lips.
“I hope Waterdeep has been treating you well, Caecara Kaletasere, though it’s much different from our home.”
The woman turned quickly, catching the warm, grey gaze of the speaker.
“It’s been a long time, I always seem to miss you when I visit, but I see your work often in the Elder Forest…the Glades…you and the other young fighters have done well.”
Caecara smiled at the words of the priestess. It felt good to see a familiar face. Her dark hair hung just as low as the warrior had remembered, displaying the small rosebud painted on the side of her face. She looked to be near in age to Caecara, but the woman knew the cleric’s years better than that.
“Lorgan was hoping you might come looking for him.”
“You know of the Twilight Ravens? Where can I find the barbarian?”
Osheara chuckled softly.
“I know them very well.”
Her voice quieted and her smiled faded.
“I’m sorry about Haenamur. I was the one who brought the news to your family. If only I was there, I might have been able to…”
Caecara nodded as the cleric grew quiet.
“We should go.”
She motioned for the warrior to follow as she began to head south, down the Street of Silks.
The elven priestess took her as far as the simple wooden door to the ‘office’ of the leader. Caecara entered, her eyes remaining focused on the tall, large-muscled man who stood facing the window.
“Lorgan Blackmane?” she asked, her voice not showing her nervousness.
He turned quickly, as though his mind had been distracted. His eyes still gave away a touch of his thoughts as an unexpected smile formed on his rugged face.
“I’m glad you came, Caecara. I’ve heard of your work on Evermeet.”
“I don’t know why I’ve come, really, but with Haenamur gone…I hadn’t thought about this much, and I don’t know where to go.”
Lorgan nodded and moved behind his desk, pulling out a bag. He handed it to the elf.
“I’ve saved his things for you. I’m sorry, I wish I had been able to do more.”
Caecara held the bag, staring down, simply listening to her quiet breathing in the suddenly silent room.
“We’re always looking for some good people. If you wanted a place, a purpose in your journey on the mainland, you’d be welcomed.”
She nodded in response, moving her eyes up to the so-called barbarian.
“Tell me, of the Ravens?”
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