Vanasar Ai'esti, The Pale Rider - Chapter One

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Vandic
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Vanasar Ai'esti, The Pale Rider - Chapter One

Postby Vandic » Thu Jun 02, 2005 12:18 am

A shrieking wind blew across the barren tundra from the north, carrying tiny crystals of snow that would have no hope of thaw for weeks to come. The late afternoon sky was a mute and unchanging shade of gray, stretching from one horizon to the other. Only two signs of life were visible through the whipping snow. One was a lone caribou who stood solemnly on a small hill, occasionally bending down to gnaw at the meager moss and grasses that poked through the dusting of snow that covered the ground. The other was a heavily armored knight, driving his warhorse northward along the ill-defined caravan trail towards a small stone wayhouse in the distance.

Though he had known his share of harsh winters during his travels, Vanasar had never known the brotherhood of the Ilmatari to send one of its knights-errant to the Icewind chapterhouse during the Month of Hammer. The monks in the far northern country, because of their locale and their isolation, rarely ventured outside the walls of the compound during the winter months. The courier who had arrived in Neverwinter the day before, however, had borne a letter indicating that the brothers there were in dire need of assistance. The abbot of the monastery had sent most of the other knights south to aid in a famine plaguing the regions near Waterdeep, and only Vanasar was available at the chapterhouse when the call for aid had come.

Vanasar, therefore, was obliged to answer the call.

The stone walls of the compound began to come into focus through the driving snow, stinging Vanasar’s eyes and frosting his hair. Were he to come across another traveler on this forsaken stretch of road, he might be mistaken for a spectre of a long dead warrior: a lithe man with pale white skin and pure white hair, riding atop a white horse. Born with albinism, he had long ago grown accustomed to awkward stares and furtive glances when he traveled the country roads. Orphaned by an orcish raid at the age of twelve, he had found himself living among the beggars and outcasts in southern Waterdeep for almost a year. Many nights during that unbearable year, Vanasar would dream only of an end to his suffering as he lay beneath a tattered wool cloak on the cobblestone streets.

It was in the autumn of his thirteenth year when Vanasar was delivered from his suffering, not by death, but by the caring hands of a middle-aged monk who took him to the chapterhouse of the Ilmatari. The monk nursed the emaciated Vanasar back to health, often foregoing his own meals so that the frail albino boy would recover more rapidly. As his strength returned, Vanasar began to study with the monks, learning of the possibility of virtue in suffering and sacrifice, and soon dedicated his life to the Crying God to repay the kindness of the priest who had rescued him from an early grave.

That priest was now the abbot of the Icewind chapterhouse, the one who had sent the letter begging for aid. The flowing, ornate script of his hand was unmistakable.

The wind and snow began to abate as the light grew dim and as Vanasar dismounted his steed before the heavy oak doors of the chapterhouse. With a mailed fist, he grasped the heavy iron ring on the door and pounded three times.

“Who goes there?” asked a timid voice from behind the door.

“One who seeks to bear your suffering that you might be delivered from it,” answered Vanasar, giving the reply prescribed in the abbot’s message.

Immediately the heavy bolts were disengaged and the doors swung inward. Behind them stood a portly monk dressed only in a simple gray robe and skullcap, seemingly oblivious to the cold.

“Thank you for your haste in coming, brother,” he said quickly to Vanasar. “The abbot is waiting for you in the scriptorium. I shall stable and feed your horse for you.”

Vanasar nodded curtly and handed the reins of his mount to the young monk, indifferent to the expression of curiosity on the young monk’s face. The Ilmatari were far more understanding of his affliction than most, but they were still human and still possessed the human’s tendency to be wary of the unusual.
Vandic wields a massive mithril axe of gazebo chopping.

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