Ariendil Ar'dan Alennarianthas the Piercing Ray of Faith

Title History

Role

Chapter 3

Lady Telaryllanaellanasa,

thank the Light, the journey to the north has so far been an uneventful one. I
am grateful for your advice, I have been keeping to the trails you mentioned
and I have so far avoided all of Udgaard's patrols in the mountains. The
circumstances have given me ample opportunity to meditate, think and prepare
for the goal of this pilgrimage.

What is goodness?

The root of goodness is the Light. It is the quality of having a quality. It is
the action of selflessly doing something for the benefit of others and not
just doing things for the sake of having virtue. Good are the Light's gifts.
Can goodness exist in absence of Faith in the commandments of our God, the
will of the Light? Can mortals, unguided by divine wisdom ever pertain to
understand let alone reach for true goodness? It is a complex idea that merely
appears as simple. In a world that is full of corruption, temptations that would
feed the personal hubris of some into disregarding the wisdom of the Light, like
the drow, or the naked corruption of dark sorcery that would cleave souls from
the Light, like the orcs, attaining goodness seems like the most difficult
challenge of all. Even my own example is proof that not even the highborn
elves that are born under the Sun can instinctually live a life of goodness. It
is a thing that requires constant reflection and divine guidance. I pray to
Lord Einoh, hoping for guidance along that path.

The cold north wind brings me no further insight. Whatever I have learned,
whatever I have gleaned so far, I find it still lacking. The answer might seem
obvious to some, but to me still the question remains. What is goodness?

Role

Chapter 2

Nimfindrel opened the rift. I was to stabilize and anchor the opening, which I
did. Had we been less certain of ourselves we would have known that when one
shouts into the Abyss many ears can hear, many mouths can answer. And some
mouths are hungrier than others. Had we been less certain of ourselves, we would
have known that bard tales speak of tragedy and disaster in equal parts as they
speak of triumph. It was not an imp that answered our call, but a powerful demon
with an agenda of its own that had only been waiting for the weak and foolish
to call.

I would like to be able to say that I fought bravely, that I pushed at the beast
with all the might. But I didn't, Mother. I stood there. Frozen in terror as
Nimfindrel fought to contain it, shouting at me to lend a helping hand. How
defeating it is that this was the request I found myself unable to fulfil.
As fear flooded me, the demon seemed to feed on it and grow in power. What else
need be said? You know the rest. It broke free and strapped us both into iron
chains. "Morsels," it kept calling us as it dragged us around on its rampage of
murder and rape.

That is as far as my memory serves me. I thank the Light for not remembering
more. But try as I might to squelch the fool inside me, I still think she is
alive and I must find her. Whenever I close my eyes, all that I can see is her
silver hair blown by the wind.

Role

Chapter 1

Dear Mother,

the training goes well. Telaryllanaellanasa is proving faithful to her
promise, there is physical pain in the path of the monk to rival the pain I
fell in my soul. And just as she has promised, I receive no favor for your
friendship, and I do not complain, the exhaustion has brought back at least
some sleep back to my life.

I am told that I am to talk of my pain, but whenever I pray to Einoh I seem only
able to mumble for forgiveness. The retelling of my transgressions in prayer
seems an impossible task yet. So I write in the hopes that voicing the matter,
even on paper, might be curative and help to find reason, meaning and purpose
in all the suffering I've caused.

I can still vividly remember the starlit sky under which I met her, Mother.
I can even smell the wet earth and the ripe grapes mixing with her scent--a
wild nightshade flower. I can still hear her voice, taunting and urging me to
the most atrocious and exciting of things. Even now, still, she makes my heart
leap. I love her, Mother. And that is yet another central thing to my pain.

Nimfindrel was always quicker, always smarter than me. Keeping up with her was
like chasing after a young wild foal. Oh how I adored her, Mother. I would have
done anything just to hear her laugh. How lucky I felt that we shared a talent
for conjuration. Me and her, we would spend hours on end together, exploring
the arcane, teasing out knowledge from the old tomes just as we would tease each
other over our failures and rejoice together at our triumphs. I loved the time
we spent together, from conjuring tiny elementals and making them do silly
dances around the campfire, to pranking our friends with our familiars, to
loving one another under the Moon and the Sun. I loved her, Mother. And I was
powerless to deny her anything she wished for.

She always loved bard's tales. The more outrageous and daring the tale, the more
enjoyment she derived from it. How often do children imagine that they too can
play the part of the hero, Mother? How many hours do naive youths spend
imagining that it only takes wishful conviction and not a lifetime of
conditioning for one to be such a hero? But what did we know of hardship, having
spent our lives sheltered within the vineyards, to know the difference?

It was a simple idea. We would summon a lowly demon, an imp we had hoped, and
frighten our friends sufficiently so that when we would arrive and banish the
creature we ourselves would be hailed as the storied heroes. We practiced the
spells incessantly. We provided for all possible variations, we provisioned for
any possible outcome. But who could have forseen what actually happened? Perhaps
anyone less naive. Perhaps anyone less blinded by the need to facilitate the
foolish 'grand prank' of his lover.

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