Tanya Steel: Portrait of a Shattered Soul

[Emerald Snow]

[Emerald Snow]

In the beginning . . .

I recall the journey to Cormyr . . .

A stuffy old wagon in a slow-moving caravan. It seemed to take forever, and my patience and gold were both wearing quite thin. I had left Waterdeep with specific orders . . . I was to hunt down one of our own. I knew better than to ask questions. I had been trained that much, at least. Apparently, she had failed in her task tremendously, making a grand spectacle so profoundly over-done that news of the whole affair only took a tenday to reach us in Waterdeep. She was assigned to assassinate a man . . . I believe his name was . . . 'Thraden?' Hmmm. No matter. She failed so badly that her guild . . . 'my' guild . . . was concerned that she may be apprehended and questioned. She had become a liability.
They sent one dozen of us to Cormyr and the surrounding countries to seek her out and silence her. I was sent directly to Cormyr while the others were sent to various border towns to head her off, should she elect to flee. That seems so long ago now . . .
I never found her. She fled. Disappeared. Perhaps she 'did' botch her mission, but her exit was seamless. I never even heard rumors of her existence from the locals once I had arrived and settled in as an 'adventurer' (Cormyr seems to attract all sorts among this social class, so it was a perfect cover).
After half a year had passed, not only did I lose contact with the other operatives, but the guild I had belonged to as well. Later, I received word that the guild was no more. The reasons for this are not known, nor shall they ever be, I suppose. It is of little consequence, as I was left on my own for the first time in my life . . . free to choose my own path and shape my own destiny. Upon hearing that news, I had actually become what I was pretending to be . . . an adventurer . . .

[Emerald Snow]

In the village of Isinhold . . .

During my first few moons in Cormyr, as I was working behind-the-scenes to find my target, I assumed the life of an adventurer to some degree. Most of what I learned about being an adventurer in those early months was learned by listening to others talk amongst themselves in the adventure-based town of Isinhold. This little hamlet was certainly nothing spectacular to behold, yet it was, oh I would say . . . 'charming' . . . yes. Charming in its simplicity and design. I spent much time that first winter sitting on a bench just outside a bustling inn known as the 'Regal Griffon,' watching adventurers go to and fro, stopping to wait for a 'party' to form and go explore, or just to socialize . . . Isinhold was indeed a hotspot of information freely slung about like gold in a sultan's vault.
At first, I attempted to reduce any trepidation my presence might invoke . . . for I knew not the customs and ways of this place . . . by wearing the purest of white silk robes and fine ropes that I had seen used by those with favorable faiths among the people of the roadways on my journey to Cormyr. It worked fairly well, except for one.
One adventurer saw something that did not set well in her mind when she would lay eyes upon me. To this day, I do not know for sure how she could 'feel' my soul . . . but I have a theory. Her name was 'Mithika' and she was, as it turned out later, a Dragon-blood. She even sprouted wings at a later time. That, however is another tale for another time.
I grow weary and my inkwell runs shallow.
I shall write again on the morrow.

[Emerald Snow]

Blood of a pure heart . . .

I remained silent. Always there, listening to the others, never saying a word. Sitting on that bench, taking in all the talk, all the banter and gossip, sifting through it, discarding the chaff in hopes of finding the grain of information I sought. Although this information was never attained, I did discover much useful information about other things . . . other people. I always remained disconnected from the 'adventurers' . . . I would never go adventuring with any of them, for several reasons.
First and foremost, I did not wish to be known among them. My techniques in dispatching my quarry are a closely guarded secret. one of ours had already failed and made public her methods, and I surely did not want to make a similar error. The other reason is the same reason I had insisted on never wearing my hood back . . . it was always up . . . always hiding me. My eyes. I know not why they are the way that they are, though I have suspicions. My eyes are purest black . . . like wet onyx orbs set into an otherwise normal visage. They allow me to see in pure darkness quite well, and I cannot imagine not being able to do that. Fear of being singled out and possibly hunted as some kind of 'monster' because of this was enough reason beyond my secrecy to ensure my solitude.

I recall sitting and watching on one particular day . . . an elf most peculiar caught my attention. He was sitting in the grass in front of the local general store owned by Garrot. He said nothing, but demanded the attention of all in the town centre by his subtle actions. He sat there, placing empty bottles in a circle around himself. Some ridiculed him, others such as Mithika attempted to understand him. I was intrigued. For the first time since I had arrived several moons earlier, I stood and approached another person in public. I knelt down in front of him and pulled my hood back ever so slightly. He looked up and saw my eyes. He said only two words . . . though now I cannot recall what the words were. I returned his dialogue with another fragment. After a short time, I had enough of this elf's interest to begin manipulating him to my will. I wished to test my new marionette, so I gave up the basic blade I had used up to that point. I dropped the blade in front of him and whispered a location, followed by a name, followed by the words 'kill him.' I had become quite busy with developments on another matter in the tenday that followed, so I know not whether the Elf actually killed his target or not. It was of little concern at any rate.

The Elf had, over this span of time, become more vocal and able to interact with others. His memory of our first meeting stuck with him, and he spoke with me. Many times, we would exchange cryptic clues of each other's minds . . . many times, we would sit in the quiet blanket of the Isinhold evening and say nothing, simply being close-by. He began to develop an emotional bond to me . . . this I knew to be lethal in its eventuality. I attempted to give him warnings that he ought not get so close to one such as I . . . warnings that only served to set the hooks deeper. Much time passed, many times we happened upon one another, and many times we sat and puzzled over each other. Always my warnings lined our meetings . . . spoken in every different way I could think to speak them. Always he took the warnings and held them to their value. He knew. He did not seem to care. Then it happened. He saw my face completely, he heard my name completely. He knew me too well to be a safe companion any longer. It was time to lay him gently to sleep so that he would dream of other places.

I remember the woods . . . the leaves on the forest floor were damp with the previous night's rain and an overcast sky killed what contrasted shadows might have been. I remember following him into those woods, him and his walking companion . . . a woman. I do not remember her name. I followed them until they came to a stream and sat beneath a tree close to a sheer rock-wall. Here they talked idly for some time as I looked on in silence, keeping hidden. It was only a short time before she took to her feet and said a brief farewell to him. She walked back toward Isinhold (which by now had been reclaimed by Cormyr and renamed 'Greatgaunt' . . . I never did like that name), and the Elf sat there, watching the water of the stream gurgle and bubble on by. He seemed so at peace . . . so tranquil.

Thinking back on the whole affair, I'm sure he knew I was there. I'm sure he 'sent' her away, and knew what was coming. Perhaps he expected me to step forth and talk with him one last time . . . maybe he was hoping for a poetic end befitting of the life he had led . . . I do not know, for I am no bard. I have no mind or heart for poetic existence. I have no thought of closure or absolution in the minds and hearts of those who feel my kiss. How often does the snake console the mouse before striking, beyond lulling it into a trance? So entranced was he. Waiting . . . motionless. Yes. He knew.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder what his final thoughts were, as he lay on the soft, damp forest floor, looking up at me as his vision faded to oblivion. I covered my tracks and traces after tieing weight to his body and dropping him into a waterway that ran deep into a cavern populated by Gnolls. I left absolutely no trace . . . but I did leave a past. There was never enough evidence to even form a case of it, nobody could 'prove' anything. There were only suspicions.
The Elf was found. His body had not yet wasted away, and thus, he was raised. He had no recollection of what had happened, but he did have suspicions. Everyone had suspicions. All those who had come to know him, his self-appointed guardian, Mithika, those who he had come to know . . . yes, they all suspected.
Suspicions were great in number, but no-one 'knew.' Not Mithika, not the gathered gaggle of 'friends,' not the Elf himself.
An Elf that got too close to the snake, entranced by its beauty and mystery . . .

an Elf that dared to tread the path to eternal rest knowingly . . .
an Elf who suspected . . .
an Elf named Rimieh.

[Emerald Snow]

Of darkness and deceit . . .

As I slowly became more acclimatized with the social workings of the newly renamed 'Greatgaunt' and the adventurers that frequented there, I began to meet people that I could interact with on one level or another. One such person was a man who was tolerated by some and ignored by the rest. He seemed to have some experience in matters of the hidden life, so naturally I saw him as a resource to be tapped. I got to know this man to a small degree while he talked about himself and all he had accomplished, all he was currently involved with . . . as with most men, he only needed an open ear in which to pour his secrets. He was caretaker of a small shrine in Redmist, which had recently been renamed 'Valkur's Roar' . . . which perplexes me to no end. Valkur is a sea-farer's god, and Redmist is hardly the most noteworthy of port towns in Cormyr.

He went by the all-too-cliche alias of 'Nails' some time before my arrival in Cormyr. Apparently, he was gone for some time, because he 'announced' his return with stupidly obvious clues, then pined over the fact that people knew he was around again. He knew much, and withheld little. This man was ripe for the picking, and pick I did. He showed me many things, many places . . . shared with me many secrets because I was his only confidant who would not betray him or shun him. His tender heart was weighed down only by the thickness of his skin. He was incredibly stubborn, even for an old man.

The old man had a recurring habit of causing animosity toward himself from quite a few people, and I knew I had to distance myself from him; he attracted far too much attention. So after I had absorbed the greater part of what he had to offer me, I slowly dissociated with him. I thought my dealings with this man were done . . . I was incorrect.

Another man, who will remain unnamed (save that he will tell you that he is the greatest swordsman in all of Cormyr, that should narrow it down to only a couple hundred), was one of the several that wished old man Nails ill. From what I understand, it was over some things that Nails had said. On more than one occasion, I remember hearing this person or that say 'his tongue will dig his grave' in reference to the old man. Their words would become a prophecy fulfilled. The swordsman knew me. He also knew what I do as a profession. It was a short matter of time and a great amount of gold later that the contract was drafted . . . I had my first contractual obligation since I had arrived in Cormyr.

I recall telling the swordsman that the sun shall not rise again until he had the old man's ear in his hand. I stay true to my word. I rode back to Greatgaunt with haste upon my steed, Nightmane. There I found him, spilling forth his arrogance once again on one of his 'girls.' The only thing that disgusted me more than the old man were these trollops. Young and naive, with no sense of self-esteem or worth whatsoever. They felt 'protected' under his aged wing. Sickening.

I waited there, and soon enough he was on his own. Old man Nails and I went for a short walk . . . just east of Greatgaunt. There, we found a nice, quiet alcove to talk of things. An alcove that was close to a bear's den . . . maybe it was too close. The old man did not survive. It was such a tragedy, how he got 'mauled to death' by that bear . . . which I dispatched immediately afterward. Of course, his broken frame was too mangled to see any other type of wounds on his body . . . if there was a small pierce-wound between his ribs, it would never be found. I understand later that he was found partially under that bear . . . it must have been an extraordinary battle.

I returned to the swordsman that same night with a gift in a small cedar box.
The only remaining bit of nostalgia he had left of his dear old friend, Sarduk Kane.

[Emerald Snow]

The hunter and the hunted . . .

Around the same time I was sapping Sarduk of his knowledge, I met a very interesting woman by the name of Alexial. There was something about her that struck a chord with me . . . my instinct urged me once again to establish a connection. I was somewhat wary of approaching her at first, until I had asked around a bit and gathered some information on her. She was a Thayan bounty hunter who had been assigned to the enclave near Proskur, along Cormyr's southern border. After learning this much, I immediately saw the potential benefits of establishing contact with her.

I will not go into great detail, but suffice it to say that this was the first time since my arrival I actually 'teamed up' with anyone. I followed her into crypt and cavern, over field and plain, through forest and swamp . . . watching, learning, improving my own combat techniques. What I saw her do in combat had set in motion an obsession of mine that I would carry further than even she did. That, however, is another story for yet another time.

Her biggest assignment (and by extension, mine as well) came upon us in the form of one of two Thayan brothers. The brother in question had murdered his own sibling to prove himself worthy to his Red Wizard superiors. I do not know what happened after that, or if it was this act or another that led to the assignment; again, I do not ask unless I 'must' know. Alexial and I were tasked with his capture, alive preferably, dead . . . just as well.

We set out as a twosome of swift and silent death across the lands in search of our quarry, though it 'did' take us a great length of time to finally corner him. By the time we had him dead to rights between us, it had been just over a tenday and we had received word that his bounty had been rescinded. Nonetheless, there we stood just outside a Cormyrean city's walls, well out of sight of the guards . . .
I was faced with a choice that day. I could finish the job I had been sent to do and dispatch the quarry, ensuring my own satisfaction that I take no task without completing it, or I could sheathe my sword and follow the letter of the assignment to its fullest as it had developed into something else. My next action would define the kind of person I had become, and who I was to be in the years to follow. It was a pivotal moment.

I sheathed my blade. I am no murderer. I am a professional.

The man called Aris, the Thayan exile who would later become the scourge of Greatgaunt, walked free.

In the days to come, I began to disconnect myself from Alexial and the Thayans, feeling I had learned as much from them as I was likely to learn. Alexial and I parted ways on good terms, and should the day come that we hunt together once more, it will be a thrilling endeavor. Should the day ever come that one of us hunt the other . . .

Well now, that would be worth a bard's song . . . save for the likelihood that no bard, nor guard, nor traveler in company would ever see it happen.

[Emerald Snow]

A lesson in the occult . . .

Another long and weary night, devoid of sleep and empty of company. I realized not long ago that I had taken to muttering to the flame of the table lantern as though it could hear my words. How long I have been doing this, I do not know . . . I only just realized it recently. Maybe it 'can' hear me. Stranger things have happened, and I 'have' seen fire get up and walk, even fight. This is not about weariness or fire that can hear one's mumblings, so I will digress no further.

On to the subject . . .

As I have begun to write these papers, documenting my experiences, I have noticed that they are more about those around me than they are about me. This is very fitting, since I am nothing. This night's writings will not differ. Tonight, I write of another traveling companion . . . the second of only two that I have ever considered a full associate.

I recall it well . . . it was a quiet Greatgaunt night with people standing about the town center idly chit-chatting. One woman stood by the wooden fence that girths the Regal Griffon Inn, conversing with those around her about her profession. She was a self-proclaimed vampire hunter. She certainly had the look - the images painted by authors of those that hunt these creatures stood in the flesh right there for all to see. Long trenchcoat lined on the inside with wooden stakes, a crossbow slung over her back, and a hat to compliment the look. She was either a genuine vampire hunter, or a very convincing performer. I intended to find out which one she was.

I introduced myself, and offered to assist her with any locks or traps she might find. While I am certainly no trapspringer or locksmith, I have enough practice at it to at least get by some of the simpler obstacles. It was enough to secure her interest. We adventured together into musty old crypts, hunting down the undead and taking what things of worth we could find along the way.

It was during my association with this hunter of vampires that my involvement with the Inquisitors of Valkur's Roar began, which I will write about another time. The reason I bring this point into the current tale is that it was my prying into matters within Valkur's Roar that led me to the discovery of two very old, very powerful vampires. The names of these creatures (the names they chose to share for use by mortals) are Jeric and Diane. I have only 'heard' of Jeric, but I have seen Diane with my own eyes, and have conversed with her in the past on one occasion. This was an extremely powerful element of information, and I used it to secure the hunter's interest.

The payout . . . the reason I did all this was quite straightforward. In my profession, I have only ever become proficient with dealing death to those that still draw breath. Fighting against rotting flesh and vaporous apparitions was something I had no experience with that could amount to any kind of skill. It was a weakness. I learned from this hunter how to better deal with the undead should the need ever arise.

The hunter's name was Elizabeth Gallows. She, like Alexial, became a regular associate, and even went so far as to call me 'friend.' Such a noble heart, this one had. It did not take many forays into the dank sepulchers to learn what I needed to learn from her. I am still no undead hunter, to be sure . . . but I know enough at least to know when to stand and fight, and when to turn and flee.

Like Alexial, she and I eventually parted ways on good terms. Last I heard, she was investigating some sort of 'Necropolis' as she called it, close to Arabel. I never heard from her after that. I often wonder if she is there still . . . possibly guarding those she once hunted . . .

[Emerald Snow]

To escape the noose . . .

I came to the realization some time ago that plying my trade would eventually have . . . shall we say, legal repercussions. I needed some way to practice my profession without fear of being executed for it. My first attempt at this was with the Red Ravens in Greatgaunt. One day as I was walking by their field office, I decided to stop in and at least take a look around.

Within the office I noticed several 'wanted' posters upon the wall. I studied them and then asked the younger of the two gentlemen that were present about them . . . "oh, those have been up for a very long time. We have yet to see these criminals be brought in." was his reply. A half grin played across my face as I turned back and looked once more at the wanted posters. I could do what I do without hiding it, for a change. Yes, this could be just what I needed.

"We don't need your kind of help." I heard the voice from behind me as I studied the wanted posters. I turned to look and discovered that the statement was issued by an elderly man dressed in robes of red. His declaration had taken me by surprise . . . the sheer audacity of being judged by a man who had never before that day even so much as laid eyes upon me! "Oh? And what kind of help do you need then?" I responded. His only reply before turning and walking away was "not yours."

The outrage! The insult! Oh, how I fought against myself at that moment. I wanted nothing more than to tear his throat out! I could, too . . . only one other man in the room . . . I could have dispatched them both in the blink of an eye. Before I realized it consciously, I felt my hand upon my blade, pulling gently on the handle . . .

I sheathed my blade. I am no murderer. I am a professional.

I walked out of the Red Ravens field office completely disillusioned and frustrated. Perhaps there was no path for one such as me within the law . . . but only within my own strict code of ethics and conduct.

The Red Ravens. Pfah! To this very day I hold nothing short of the blackest of contempt for the impotent worms! One of the largest bounty-hunting organizations in this part of the continent and they cannot even track down simple thugs! When I went to work for the Inquisitors, I brought in 'four' criminals at large in the first tenday! I alone am tenfold the worth of the entirety of that pitiful farce called Red Ravens!

My blood boils . . . I need to go for a . . . 'walk.'
Perhaps I shall write of the Inquisitors upon my return.

[Emerald Snow]

Pro Tem . . .

Not even a tenday had passed since my rejection at the hands of the Red Ravens (a curse upon them all) when word of trouble in Valkur's Roar had reached the ears of those who would but listen. A call for hunters was issued by Assistant Inquisitor Pro Tem, Monte Phellon; to aid in the investigation of a murder. I wasted no time getting to Valkur's Roar and arranging to speak with this 'Inquisitor.' We met and discussed the case briefly. Apparently someone had murdered a prostitute and they wanted leads on who could have done it. The prostitute's name was 'Charity Snogswell.'

I inquired about compensation for the retrieval of the guilty persons, and I was informed that the Inquisitors were seeking information first, so they could deduce exactly who they should be going after. I was told, however, that there 'would' be generous compensation, should the fugitive be apprehended and returned to face trial and conviction. That was enough for me. I was perfectly willing to work with these 'Inquisitors' after being rejected by the Red Ravens.

I immediately began chasing down lead after lead in the city of Valkur's Roar. Most were dead ends, but I did get a good lead that saw me on my way to the nation's capital city, Suzail. In Suzail, I followed the trail of evidence until it led me to a dive of a bar called the 'Obscene Ogre.' I got the names I was looking for there after some coercion. That took me about three days, all in all. I returned to the Great Hall in Valkur's Roar and presented my evidence and suspect to Inquisitor Phellon. Upon receipt of this, he saw me as an asset and immediately drafted a legal paper entitling me as 'Privateer Inquisitor' which carried with it the authority to act on this case in the interest of the Great Hall. Now I could begin the hunt.

After a few more days of rigorous investigations, interrogations, and bribes, I found the first of the fugitives. A man named Russell had fled to a nearby island to hide himself from the hunt. He should have never stopped running. I deputized the aid of an adventurer by the name of Garum to bring him in. We went to the island and found him holed up in an old inn. Somehow, he knew we were coming. Scant steps within the door, we were accosted by several armed men. We dispatched them in a bloody mess of a melee, then turned to face Russell. I had no chance to offer to take him in, he bolted straight for us like a madman, swinging his blade. I had no choice but to conduct an immediate field execution. We searched the place well and found another lead, much to my surprise. This was not the end of the case.

The report of the field execution was filed, and I began looking into the new information that seemed to point to another participant. Once again, I began investigating. I came up with the name 'Vanessa' after some digging, and found that she had arranged to meet with Russell in an old warehouse in the Suzail docks district in only two days. It was out of the jurisdiction of the Inquisitors, so I immediately went to the authorities in Suzail, who referred me to Sir Cald Ashall of the Royal Corps. Given the evidence, Sir Ashall had the authority to make the arrest. We set up an ambush in the warehouse with a team of enforcers and waited . . .

The doors creaked open and Vanessa came in, in the company of a few thugs. A fight once again broke out, but this time the suspect surrendered in lue of being killed. I returned with Vanessa and she was taken to the Great Hall's dungeon. Once there, she was instrumental in the capture of yet another criminal who had been committing theft on an incredible scale. This thief, known as 'Moxy' was captured after a struggle in which she bested several of us, which increased her charges from burglary to murder.

The two were hanged publicly soon after that. I remember standing in the gray-clouded rain, watching from nearby as the ropes went taught.

Another small detail I ferreted out in the course of this investigation was the involvement of Inquisitor Phellon himself. This resulted in Phellon being overlooked for High Inquisitor when High Inquisitor Hillman retired. Instead, Vera Gudwerks became the High Inquisitor.

After a long dry spell, High Inquisitor Gudwerks finally drafted my commission papers and assigned me to investigate necromantic activities in and around Valkur's Roar. I did not put much into that assignment, but kept a vigilant presence for the Great Hall nonetheless.

Anyone who knows what I know about Valkur's Roar . . . and what 'she' knows about Valkur's Roar . . . would be vigilant as well . . . or frightened.

[Emerald Snow]

The curtain falls . . .

(From this point on, the handwriting differs just slightly from the previous entries . . .)

I have difficulty knowing where to begin. I'm not entirely sure where I did begin . . . or when. I have her memories to some degree . . . nothing like when we were together though. We grew up together, Marishka and I. She was always the weaker person. She tried to keep up, but most of the time, she just slowed us down. I think the best place to start would be what memories of hers I can still connect with.

Marishka Sinvraal was born in Waterdeep to a Waterdhavian mother and a Kara-Turian father. Her father left before she was born, and was never seen nor heard from again. She grew up in poverty, like so many other children born to single mothers. In the docks district of Waterdeep, she learned the hard way. Grew up in a tough neighborhood . . . if you can even call it a neighborhood. I don't remember if she had any siblings. So much was stripped away in the cataclysm. I do know that her mother passed away when she was in her teens. She turned to the streets to survive, and was taken in by another family. This family was a group of survivors who called themselves . . . (///the next three words are scribbled out)

It was the *scribble scribble* that taught her to use the blades her father had left for her mother to sell. Her mother never did sell them . . . they were all she had left of him. Marishka had a mean streak about her that this new family noticed and capitalized on right away. That's when she became aware of me. That is when our eyes went black as a beautiful night sky and we were able to see in the darkest of places. When she moved in for the kill, she couldn't handle it . . . so I would take her hand and make it happen. When she was in pain, she would recoil . . . so I would step to the fore and push us through. Sometimes we would agree, sometimes we would not. Most of the time, I would win if there was any kind of disagreement. Marishka never did like confrontation.

It was her idea to join up with the Inquisitors. I knew it would not be where we wanted to be. Sometimes you have to let children touch their own hot irons to learn, though.

We used to be so connected . . .

I remember that at one point, not long ago, Marishka had booked a caravan back to Waterdeep. Over the years, we had become somewhat practiced at keeping things from each other, so I had no idea why we were going back. I saw no harm or danger in it, so I permitted it. I was not there when she traded my precious blades for passage. I was not there for most of the journey. I remember the journey 'to' Cormyr. I did not care to experience it again, so I slept. I awakened again in Waterdeep . . . but not under conditions that I approve of.

Marishka had betrayed me!

When I came out of my dream, I was tied to a table, unable to budge even the slightest bit. I looked all around, but the black cloth covering my eyes prevented me from seeing . . . I could only hear. What I heard was so unsettling . . . chanting and whispering . . . I could smell thick amounts of incense and tallow and wax . . . and sweat . . . and fear. 'My' sweat. 'My' fear. As the thrum of chanting murmurs went on, I could feel myself thinning . . . like water poured onto a hot stone. I screamed . . . for the first time in my life, I screamed out of mortal terror. The chanting grew in intensity and I began to feel the words. They were like wasps in my eyes and ears! My eyes! Oh gods, my eyes! How they burned! I could not close them against the blanket of fear that covered them! They burned! I could feel them sinking back into my head, burning through it! Oh gods, what have you done, Marishka?! I screamed out her name with all the pain, anguish, hate and grief I could bring together . . .

My last memory was of a fading sensation . . . after I screamed Marishka's name, the pain stopped and I closed my eyes. I guess she finally found a way . . . to be her own person and be rid of me forever . . .

What am I? Who am I? Marishka named me . . . 'Tanya.'

[Emerald Snow]

Intermission . . .

I have small fragments of memory spanning the time between Marishka's betrayal and my return. I was not here during that time, of course, so they are entirely her memories. Thus, I cannot account fully what took place during those few moons.

I recall something about Aris the Thayan Exile . . . especially after reading what appears to be sworn affidavits from several witnesses against him and his demonic master, emphasis on his blade through which the demon remained connected with him. Marishka was often quite foolish about taking on too much dragon with too little shield.

I also found a book . . . a most curious compendium. It had within its pages a scroll to cause fear and a scroll to turn battle to the reader's favor. The odd thing is, after reading these two scrolls that were abridged into the bindings of the book, they were not consumed! Instead, the ink that made up the incantations sizzled away from the parchment in a flash, then, over the course of a day, would slowly fade back into existence! The book also regaled many things that I dare not re-write. For it appears that fool Marishka had gone and taken a damnable blood-oath in my absence! I am growing fonder and fonder by the day to be rid of that little bitch.

I remember very vaguely the cataclysm that sparked my return . . . it was a spell miscast. I remember Marishka sitting in the dungeon of the Great Hall in Valkur's Roar, speaking with a man in a helmet about his companion . . . I'm assuming by the papers I found on the desk, this man was one of the 'known terrorists' that an informative poster had been made for. I seem to recall them being done, and he used magic to teleport away. Marishka was standing close by when the spell went off and the spell . . . 'forked' . . . it seemed to replicate almost instantly, pulling the man away, and causing a crash of awareness between myself and Marishka. She fell dead and I saw her as I came back . . . we passed each other . . . her going to Kelemvor, and me coming back from utter fugue.

I opened my beautiful black eyes . . .

[Emerald Snow]

The curtain rises . . .


'She thought herself rid of me . . . she thought quite wrong'

I cannot fully recall the last few months . . . I did not know right away what happened to me . . . to make me what I had become . . . weak. A shell. Pathetic.

All I know is that when I opened my beautiful blackened eyes from such a slumber, I found myself lying on the dungeon floor of the Great Hall of the Inquisitors. Why was I there?! Had I not severed ties with the fool Inquisitors?! What happened to my beautiful blades I had kept so close to my heart . . . as though they were my own children? What of my eyes? Though black as wet onyx, they could see through the darkest of nights . . . I recall being without my beautiful eyes! Such a memory . . . more a feeling than a memory. No matter. They are returned to me.

I recall getting up from the dungeon floor and making my way back to the table I usually used to sit at . . . looking around, I saw papers on the table. I had no recollection of these documents, though upon reading through them, I had a definite feeling of recent involvement. I took my now-feeble blades and went to leave when I heard the sounds of a prisoner from one of the cells . . .

"Please! Inquisitor Sinvraal! Mercy! I've not eaten in two days!"

Shocked, I turned and went to the cell door . . . therein lay a wretch of a man, barely worth a rat's meal . . .

"Where did you ever hear that name?!" I hissed

He looked at me in shock and trepidation and scuttled close to the cell door . . .

"'tis your name, madam Inquisitor . . . Marish . . ."

That is as far as the worm got. I silenced him immediately.

"What the hells has happened here?! How is it that this maggot-fodder knows that name?!"

I dug feverishly into my leathers and found it . . . those damned commission papers! Marishka had sold us out yet again! I went to the candle on the table and lit the papers afire. Watching them burn, I walked back to the cell and dropped them in the hay upon which the now-silenced worm lay breathless but still twitching. The smoke was sickly sweet as it caught the bastard ablaze. I turned and left the Great Hall . . . for the last time.

Over the next tenday, I had tracked down the merchant that was so generous as to take my blades in trade for a simple caravan ride. We . . . 'negotiated' . . . a fair deal, and I took back what could only ever be mine. Now . . . It is time to reclaim the rest. I have been away too long, and the weak soul once in this body shall stifle me no more.

"Marishka, my dear child . . . you have been very naughty. It's time that auntie Tanya teach you a lesson . . . I hope you can see me from beneath Kelemvor's heel."

[Emerald Snow]

The purge begins . . .

Sometimes . . . a person is not just a person. Sometimes, a person can be . . . 'more.' When that happens, either both of you live in harmony and mutual benefit, or you tear each other apart. Marishka and I were not harmonious. So, when we could, one would quell the other for as long as we could. Both of us learned how to come back, though. We learned that there are certain tricks . . . 'triggers' that could be used to wake us up.

What poor little Marishka did not come to understand is that I had discovered hers. Now here is the real trick . . . she discovered mine as well, but neither one of us can destroy the other's anchors. To do so would damn us both. Nor can we create our own anchors . . . others must do this for us, unwittingly most often.

Marishka had one of her anchors hidden away in her investigative work. In the form of several affidavits created by others, specifically for her. Made 'official and important,' these are her tether to any possibility of return. I can do nothing to destroy them . . . they must be rescinded by those that created them . . . unwittingly more than likely. Once I have seen all three anchors destroyed, I can rest comfortably . . . for then, the traitorous wench Marishka will be out of my life forever . . . dead to the world! Kelemvor's whipping girl!

Oh, how I delight in the anticipation of having free reign over this life's fate at long last! I will finally show these eyes a masterpiece of quiet, warm blood on a canvas of fool's skin! I am restless with anticipation . . . the calm prelude to the kill . . . oh, how seamless they shall all be . . . my lovely, beautiful sleepers. How you shall dream . . . of darker places than I could ever show you . . .

"Natha cha'kohk pholor dosst dro!"

~tosses her head back in the quiet of the dark tunnels where she writes and chuckles with calculated and cold intent . . .~

[Emerald Snow]

In Remembrance . . .

It has occurred to me that there are some missing names in this . . . journal? . . . is that what this recounting of a life gone terribly wrong only to be regained is to be called? No matter. There were two others that felt the cold kiss by my hand, and I think it would be a shame to not honor them so . . .

The first of these two was a woman. I do not recall who contracted her demise. It has been a habit of mine after some practice to force my mind to forget such things. Even magic cannot pry it out of me. This was perhaps my most seamless and . . . 'fun' jobs. Nothing went wrong. Nobody caught on. It was as perfect a job as any could ever hope for. I simply followed her and her two male companions to the entrance to a cave they were about to explore, and rolled out from behind some foliage. After running my blade across her throat, I even took the time to give a cheeky grin and a 'farewell salute' to her companions before I downed a vial of invisibility tincture. I later heard that this woman was . . . somewhat inspired by the whole ordeal. I should be flattered, and I suppose that a part of me is. But make no mistake . . . I do 'not' appreciate competition. I shall see if this . . . 'Caileen Mordaine' offers any threat to my commerce. Or . . . perhaps we might become allies. Who can say.

The other is less noteworthy. Again, I do not recall the contractor. The man was to be eliminated. He seemed brash and easily taunted, which showed me a lack of combat discipline. This one would be rather straightforward to deal with. I only charged my minimum for the job. I caught up with him and about five of his 'friends' on the route to the Zorastryl Manor. I quickly applied the recommended dosage of metal to his affliction of existence, and was merrily on my way. Of course, before the actual application, I did my homework on the lad, as I do for 'all' of my special sleepers. His name was Zeleck Daethur, and he was but one of many.

Now I have listed all that have felt the cold kiss . . . perhaps next time I open this ragged tome, I will write of the one who felt the 'warm kiss.'

perhaps . . .