Prayers of the People's Priestess

[starofthewest]

In the vaults and libraries of the High Temple of the Seldarine in Arvandor, it is said, there is a special book, in which all the prayers of Corellon's faithful can be found. Its pages are the purest gold, and its bindings threads of the finest silver. Within its covers can be found the prayers, spoken and unspoken, of Corellon's worshippers. Sometimes, when the mood takes him, the Father of the elves will peruse this ancient tome, older than the elven presence in the realms of Faerun, and gaze upon the hopes and fears, dreams, nightmares, and desires of those faithful to him, voices and names remembered by the deity from across the millenia in an instant. It is a tool for reflection, as much as record, for the Father of the Elves could recall the voices of his children as he wished, but the book is not really for him. It stands as a testament to the will of his People, and a very lucky few are granted the favor of a well worn bookmark or dog ear. Fewer still have pages of prayer stained by the tears of the deity, shed in pain or joy. As he flicks through the ancient volume, today, his eyes fall on one name, and he reads. "Vestele Laelithar, your servant, calls on your counsel and blessing, Father."

[starofthewest]

The village lay in ruins.

Broken and blackened shells were all that remained of the huts and dwellings of the tiny elven hamlet, pieces of timber and masonry still standing starkly contrasting with the devastation around them like mocking charcoal skeletons. The crackling of the last dying flames filled Tiriel's ears as her foot hovered above the wilting, dried grass a moment, finally descending to touch the ground ever so softly, barely breaking a blade.

She walked, delicately, carefully, through the wreckage, her face betraying a mix of sadness and anger at the devestation. She walked on, until she came to the centre of the town, by the burnt husk of what must once have been a magnificent and mighty oak, now little more than a hollow stump.

Slumped against the still smoldering remnants of the tree was an elven woman, her face and smile beautiful even despite her horrific injuries. She looked up as Tiriel approached, the tiniest of movements causing her to gasp in pain. Tiriel knelt at her side, took the hem of her shining white dress and gently mopped the elven womans bloodstained brow. After a time, as the woman's breathing grew more labored, she spoke.

"Your injuries are beyond the power granted to me, Priestess." Her voice, a harmony of joyous sound like a score of women singing in perfect unison, quavered.

"I know Tiriel. That is not why I bid you attend me." The elven woman's voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper, and she winced with every word, her throat burning with the effort of drawing breath and speech. Tiriel nodded, knowing that an interruption might delay the dying woman beyond her dwindling span on the prime.

"See that... my daughter... is safe. Watch... watch over her, Tiriel. For all the love you ever bore me..." at that last, her voice broke into coughing. Tiriel drew her shattered form close, drawing her wings around her as the priestess drew her last breath.

Her eyes filled with tears, unbidden, as she took in the carnage anew; she let them come and flow freely, the grass rising a moment in life where her tears fell silently before succumbing again to the death around them. She stood there for what felt like an eternity, until even the flames had breathed their last, weeping inwardly long after her tears ceased.

The silence of the dead village was broken by the piercing sound of a baby's hungry wail, and Tiriel followed the noise to the edge of the clearing. She lifted a fallen log, and found the small, squalling bundle of cloth safely secreted away, warded with more powerful magic than Tiriel had ever seen. As she waited for the warding spells to fade, Tiriel realized that the priestess she had served and come to know over the past few centuries had spent most of her blessings to keep the child safe. She took the child in her arms, the sun beginning to set behind the canopy of the High Forest, and child and deva alike were born aloft by feathered angel wings into the fading orange sky as day became night.

[starofthewest]

Aloran Laelithar, Head Librarian of the Halls of Knowledge in Evereska, scanned the musty pages of tomes older than the city itself, salvaged from fallen Myeritar... a rare cache indeed, that survived the purging of that nation, leaving behind only the windswept High Moor. His brow furrowed in concentration as he struggled to read the runes, and he thought, for a moment, he had almost discerned their meaning...

A single, high pitched note rang out in his head, breaking his concentration, and he cursed in elven. One of the wards on the outer balconies had been breached, the various spell webs he had meticulously woven to protect his beloved library triggering the silent warning he alone could hear. He snarled under his breath the almost instinctive words of command, his staff flying to his hand from where it had hung over the mantle. The gem at its head sparkled ever faster with glittering motes of light, now blue, then darkening to purple, as though the staff could sense its master's mood. Rings and contingency magic flared about him, rising in a tide of Art that wreathed him with cold blue flame and made his eyes glow... he closed them, spoke another word, and suddenly he stood before the doors out onto the balcony of the fourth floor. Removing a wand from his belt, the Archmage threw open the doors, and scanned the balcony.

Nothing.

Silence.

Whatever had been, had gone. And then, a sound that had never been heard in the vastness of Evereska's great Library... a baby's crying. Aloran's eyes narrowed as he glanced down at the screaming child, his eyes looking about once more, before widening slightly... as a single white feather, light and soft, floated gently down from the rapidly darkening night sky. He watched it fall, continuing its eddying spiralling dance down until it came to rest on the child's face... the baby ceased its crying, blinked, and sneezed, looking up at Aloran with an expression of wonder.

He smiled, despite himself, and set his staff aside leaving it to hover in the air beside him. Somewhat awkwardly, he picked the child up, unsure of how to hold it properly. He walked back to the balcony doors, the staff following obediently behind, and as he turned one last time to look up at the darkening night sky, he could have sworn somebody was watching, and pleased. He closed the balcony doors behind him. He looked down at the baby now sleeping contentedly in his arms, and saw the daughter he never had.

"Vestele. I will call you Vestele."

[starofthewest]

“Father! Father!” Vestele ran down the corridor, her twin braids flying about behind her head wildly as she skidded to a halt on the rug in front of the desk in his office. She had grown over the past twenty years under the care of the Library staff, who had each collectively adopted her nearly as much as Aloran himself had. She showed all the signs that she would one day grow into a beautiful young woman, but for now her eyes and face were filled with the naivete and playful joy of youth.

“Father! Come look!”

He looked up from his study, his eyes flashing a moment with annoyance that would once have had him employ his scathing tongue against whoever had interrupted him, before he realized who it was. He allowed her the briefest of indulgent smiles, a rarity indeed to those who knew him, before his face once more became severe and emotionless.

“Yes, child? This had best be important.” She nodded vigorously, trying to keep her face emotionless, mimicking her father. Try as she might, though, a playful grin eventually broke through her childish mask, though she was getting better at hiding it. This was a game they played often.

“Oh, it is Father. I promise.” He sighed, and closed his journal, standing and outstretching a hand, somewhat helplessly. She took it, and tugged him out of his office, and back down the hall the way she had come.

[starofthewest]

Aloran wore a fond, slightly bemused smile as Vestele led him by the hand through the twisting labyrinth of bookshelves and passageways that formed the Halls of Knowledge, the greatest collection of elven lore left on mainland Faerun. Today, though, he could see her focus was not on one of the many thick dusty tomes she was usually engrossed in - she passed all of them by with the single-minded, stubborn determination that he knew he had partly instilled.

"You have to close your eyes. It's not a surprise if you're looking." He was jolted from his thoughts by her voice, and she gave him an admonishing glance beyond her years, making him think of the formidable woman he had little doubt she would one day become. Grinning despite himself, he responded playfully.

"Vestele, child, how can I see where I am going if my eyes are closed?" She stopped for a moment, turned to him rolling her eyes, and gave him a look as though he had said something profoundly stupid.

"Because I'm guiding you silly. You don't need to see the path if I can!" She put her hands on her hips, and he laughed, shaking his head.

"True enough, I suppose. Fine, fine, I cede the victory to you, my daughter. Lead on."

The two continued, and once the other library staff who tended to the halls were sure they had passed, they allowed themselves smiles of their own at the pair, and Aloran's rare display of affection.