A Chance Meeting

The drow's blade spun over the lumbering swing of the orc, tapping down lightly along the wooden shaft. The enchanted falchion's flat, runes visibly glowing, ignited the wood of the crude spear sending a wave of panic through the dim-witted orc. Its yellow, bloodshot eyes went wide at the sight of the flame on the weapon and it opened its mouth, a curse on its tongue. The only sound that escaped was a gurgle as the drow completed the circuit with the weapon, plunging it deep into the orc's chest. Icebane, forged in the Elemental Plane of Fire, easily sliced through the orc's crude leather armor, biting into its flesh and cauterizing the wound. The drow, Khalirius, had been given this extraordinary weapon over two hundred years ago and had mastered the many properties it had. The orc's reaction did not surprise the drow in the least, a grim smile on his face as the light of life left the eyes of his enemy.

A turn brought the agile dark elf around to face his next target, a greatsword-wielding half-orc. As expected, while the drow had been tied up with his companion, the orc had sought to charge and attack from behind. Khalirius continued the turn, bringing the blade down to his waist and pressing the back of the curved edge against his stomach. Continuing his turn, he dropped his left leg out behind him, bringing it around in a wide arc that the half-orc would see. No stranger to battle himself, the half-orc grinned as he leaped over the obvious sweep. He roared victoriously, thinking the end of the elf at hand. It was interrupted by the slashing blade, as Icebane flew out from Khalirius's body, the spin increasing the momentum of the swing and slicing through the thick forearms of the burly half-man and cleaving through his face.

His spin presented another opportunity for the wily drow as well. In mid-turn, he noted the two other orcs approaching as well. After he finished off the half-orc, he turned and noted that one of the orcs had halted his approach. The orc was fumbling with a wicked looking short bow as his partner continued his charge. The orc bearing down on his wielded a heavy mace with two hands and roared as he approached. The charging orc was in the back of the drow's mind; his main concern was the bowman. He parried a clumsy lunge from the orc and turned, placing the orc between him and the bow-wielder. He continued playing with the orc, baiting it into swinging the heavy weapon. The breaths of the orc started becoming more ragged and the swings were coming slower now.

He's tiring now, the drow thought, a grin spreading across his face. He parried another lumbering swing, batting it high and making the orc stumble forward. He changed step mid-stride, crossing left after pushing right, spinning as he went. The deceptively light blade of the falchion swept in behind the swing. The drow's spin slid the blade across the orc's throat, severing both main arteries. A geyser of blood erupted from the orc's gaping neck and he dropped down, gurgling curses as he slipped into death.

Khalirius turned as the orc brought the bow up, locking the barbed arrow in line with the drow. The drow threw his cloak wide, hoping to catch the arrow in the heavy folds. The arrow never came. Khalirius dropped the cloak and stared into the bewildered eyes of the orc. His hands held the bow and arrow still but the bowstring had been cut. He blinked twice, staring incredulously at the nearly seven foot drow. His yellowed eyes suddenly went wide and he opened his mouth in a silent scream as thin lines of blood formed on his throat, chest, and arms. The orc fell over, a dull thump in the ominously quiet fields of Amn.

Khalirius straightened, sheathing Icebane under his robes again. He walked cautiously, peering around as he approached the downed bowman. Twilight had fallen over the Amn as he approached, examining the fatal wounds of the orc. A fine blade, wielded by a skilled hand, had severed the orc's main arteries in his neck and the tendons in his lower arms. A quick examination of the chest revealed a stab directly to the heart. The orc would have not been able to fire the arrow even if the bowstring had not been cut. The realization of the assassin's presence hit as the keen ears of the drow began to detect the low refrain of a flute.

The black-cloaked flute player sat upon the corpse of the greatsword wielding half-orc, his legs crossed nonchalantly. The slim, delicate fingers of the assassin picked across the pale instrument as the slow melody of a dirge floated across the silent air. A shock of jet black hair peeked out from under the hood of the cloak, a stark contrast to the pale white of the drow's hair. The flute player stopped, his song completed.

"What is the meaning of your interference?" the drow asked, his hand hovering over the adamantine handle of the blade hidden under his robes.

The sing-song voice of an elf carried on the air to the drow's ears.

"A funny way of showing thanks, my dark-skinned friend." The elf said, rising to his feet.

Khalirius frowned. "I did not ask for your assistance," he said, his amber eyes narrowing, "and I do not appreciate so familiar a tone from someone I do not know."

The elf held up an outstretched hand, palm forward, as he spoke.

"No offense meant. As far as not knowing me," the elf said, pulling back his hood, "I am quite certain that you've heard of me. I am Ghost."

The pale, alabaster skin of the sun elf was offset by his black hair, giving the elf an unearthly beauty. Khalirius, however, was not concerned with the skin or hair of the six foot elf. His eyes were transfixed on the same amber sheen of the elf's eyes, a reflection of his own.

Khalirius's voice cracked as he spoke again. "I have lived for nearly three hundred years now on the surface and I have never met an elf with eyes quite like yours."

"Well that is an easy enough explanation," the elf said, smiling, "I acquired them from my father."

"I do not understand." Khalirius said, taking a step back from the elf, "I know of only one people that have that color eyes and those are of my bloodline."

"I amszarakai." The elf said. From his neck, he produced a small purse, easily identified by the drow, "I am your son, Khalian."

The elf produced an adamantine coin from the purse and expertly flipped it to the shocked drow. The coin, Khalirius knew upon a glance, was the same house coin carried by every member of his family, a long forgotten house of Menzoberranazan. The realization caused the drow to take another step back away from the albino drow, his long dead son.

Khalirius rolled the house coin over in his hand, feeling every feature he had carved into the unforgiving metal many centuries before. His own house coin hung forgotten around his neck, a relic of a long forgotten time.

"I thought you a stillborn," Khalirius said, looking up at his son.

"As you were supposed to," Khalian said, smiling and bowing to his father.

"Where do we go from here, my son?" The drow asked.

Khalian smiled. "This is only the beginning, father."