Against the stone steps of the monastery, the rivers of blood are emphasised as they run down the ancient cracks. Baldr, a half-orc rescued by the monks of this temple, stands stiff; his muscles tightened, and the bow he used for the morning hunt has split in two, dangling from his clenched fist.
He gazes up at the waterfall of blood – its origin lies at the top of the blood-soaked steps. He has climbed these steps a hundred times; never have they caused such strain on his legs. His lead-filled legs reach the last step; his gaze never leaves the stone steps during his ascent. Biting his lower lip and clenching his already bleeding fists, Baldr raises his eyes.
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In front of him lay the corpses of his friends, no, his brothers and sisters. What could have done such a thing? Indeed, they were monks but not fragile humans; trained in combat and magic, they possessed skills equal to some of the king's elite. Investigating the scene, the bodies appear scattered, with some being severely disfigured while others seem to have merely collapsed and died. It can now be understood why the blood flowed with such velocity down the steps: their blood leaks like an opened dam.
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If only I had been here. Was the first thought that crossed mighty Badr's mind. The second: I must avenge them. And the third: what if I can bring them back? An ominous figure appears behind him as if Baldr's thoughts were projected. With stunning speed, Badr unsheathes his axe and turns to face the dark figure.
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"Are you the bustard who killed my brothers?"
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The man had an eerie tone in his voice, "Now-now, young Baldr, your brethren may be slain, but I am sure they would not approve of such lang -"
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With a roar, Badr did not let the man finish and swung his axe with orc rage. The man produced a magical blue shield, deflecting Badr's blow – through the middle, a clear crack is visible on the shield.
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"My, my, it has been a while since someone could damage my barrier." The man says with a sinister tone in his voice. "I mean no harm, Baldr, nor was I responsible for slaughtering your people. I offer the opposite. I can bring them back to life, with a cost, of course. But be warned, no soul can ever be resurrected as it was before death."
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Baldr's breath softens, and asks, "How?"
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"Magic"
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"What kind of magic?"
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"The kind your people reject, yet it is their only hope."
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Baldr considers the offer for several minutes, weighing the pros and cons, and selfishly accepts.
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"Where do I start?" asks Baldr with a heavy tone.”
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"There is a lady called Syndra Sylvain; she will guide you."
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The Cloaked figure hands Baldr a map, indicating his destination. Baldr's eyes are fixed on the map for a few seconds before grabbing and clutching it in his fist. He turns to look upon his family again, knowing that his actions would not be allowed. They are his only family, all he knows, and his only source of happiness – he is doing this for himself. After a heavy sigh, he turns around, only to find the dark figure gone. He begins his descent, refusing to look down; however, he cannot avoid hearing the faint splashes of blood every time he brings down his burdened legs, nor the slippery sensation of the steps, and certainly not the smell.
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Overcome with boredom and agitation, Aelene Violento, a Celestial Aasimar with crimson and petite facial features, swirled her warm beer around. The tavern she was in contained the most awful music – being a musically trained Bard, the slightest off-note would send shivers down her spine – men were brawling, if you can even call it that, and the place smelled of mould and horse dung. So why, you ask, is such an upper-class citizen loitering in such a run-down establishment?
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Well, Aelene (being a Bard) has always loved singing the tales of brave adventures and their feats. She has played for royals and kings, vigorously using her violin; they become consumed by the musical vibrations and angelic singing. It has been rumoured that those in this state become almost hypnotic, stopping anything they are doing and simply admiring the beauty that stands before them.
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A few months ago, a nobleman approached Aelene after one of her incapsulating performances to ask: "Are you ever envious of the people you sing? After all, there is always another Bard to sing tales, but not another adventurer to complete the same quest? Don't get me wrong; your name will forever be remembered as one of the greatest Bards – a respectable title– yet you will only be known for praising others in books; I have never heard a Bard sing of another Bard".
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Those words live rent-free in Aelene's mind; her performances began to dwindle, and no inspiration touched her heart – without music, she was nothing. After many days depressingly hibernating in her cottage, she decided to take action and seek adventure, write songs about the things she'd seen and accomplished, and become more than a Bard singing about others' achievements; she would be the adventurer and the teller.
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So, to answer your question as to why she is monotonously drinking in this grave of dreams, well, it turns out adventuring is more difficult than the songs make it appear. With no money, battered and bruised, our beautiful Bard is drained of motivation and joy. If only she embarked quietly on this mission instead of confidently shouting to the masses and fellow Bards that she would do what no other Bard has ever done – gulping down a pint of ale and calling everyone musical leeches may too have been unwise - she dares not show her face anywhere near a civilised establishment for fear of ridicule.
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The window next to her burst open due to the gusting winds. Aelene, clearly in thought, jumps at the sudden interruption. A single pillar of golden light spears
through the clouds on an otherwise overcast and dreary day, illuminating a small
the pamphlet that is seen dancing onto Aelene’s table with the breeze, landing right in front of her.
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"Adventurers needed, fame and riches await those who succeed," stood printed on the pamphlet, as well as directions for where to inquire further.
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It is probably some scam or quest only the desperate or foolish are willing to take…nothing worth my time, nor would any 'real' hero be interested. She thought as she finished her beer with a few consecutive gulps, disgust written on her face. She slams the mug down, taps her fingers on the table, and, with one quick motion, crumples the pamphlet into her pocket and darts out the door.
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The sounds of footsteps on hard oak floors echo in the halls of the prestigious wizarding school, Neverwinter. Here resides a Tabaxi called Tamari Dornwood, an interesting individual, as you will soon learn.
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Her history can be traced to her great-great-grandmother, a Tabaxi slave brought from an unknown land to serve in Neverwinter. She found herself working in a nobleman's residence – one of the fewer harrowing jobs for a slave. One early morning, a friend of the master's paid a visit, a nobleman in his own right. It is said that when he first laid eyes on Tamari's grandmother, he instantly fell in love as if some spell enchanted him. In fact, that is what many accused Tamari's grandmother of doing, for not only was she a slave, but a Tabaxi, unlike her beloved. Nonetheless, he married her, making her the Lady of Neverwinter.
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The two lovers would go on bearing many children, and those children would expand the bloodline far and wide. Tamari is one of those descendants, and both her parents were Tabaxi; what makes Tamari even more interesting is that she is a distant niece of Syndra Sylvain – ring a bell?
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Syndra Sylvain is a descendant of the noble who 'Cinderellaed' Tamari's great-great-grandmother. She is celebrated all over Neverwinter as a legend known for her magical prowess, audacious adventures, and impeccable skills as a wizard and adventurer. However, none was a greater admirer of Syndra than Tamari; captivated by her mapmaking adventures, mastery of the arcane arts, and unyielding courage, Tamari decided to forge her epic future.
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The echoing footsteps stopped in front of Tamari's hostel room; before the door could be knocked on, it was opened by an olive-skinned half-elf woman, a roommate of Tamari's.
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"Oh! My apologies, mistress, I was startled by your presence," said the girl nervously.
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"Do not fret, child; many are. Is Tamari present?"
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"Indeed, although I do not know if she would be very cooperative. She found an old map in the library, and you know how she can get."
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"Yes, I know, a trait I am sure originates from her aunt.; If it were not urgent, I would certainly not bother."
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The elf girl nods her head and steps aside.
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Once the Dean has entered the room, the elf quickly walks down the corridor, sighing in relief.
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Tamari can be seen scribbling away at her notes; if she were any faster, the paper would light ablaze from the friction.
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"Tamari," called the Dean in an authoritative voice.
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As expected, Tamari was unresponsive.
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"Tamari!" this time, with far more gravity.
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In alarm, Tamari swung around to face the Dean, "My apologies, mistress, I was enveloped in my research." Her face would be flushed if her fur were not as black as charcoal.
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"It is of no concern; I am merely here to bring to your attention a quest that was posted on the university notice board."
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"A quest? Why would a quest necessitate your personal involvement with delivering it to me?" it will be seen more than once that Tamari loses all sense of conformity when following her inquisitive mind.
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"First off, I have been made aware of your growing skill and ambition; the university can certainly help develop your skills and teach you new spells. However, I believe this to be a dishonour to you as you already possess the means to learn these yourself. No, the best thing for you is to learn through experience. The university will provide you with a seal that identifies you as a student of this prestigious university and that we trust you in your judgments."
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A clear sparkle can be seen shining in Tamar's eyes, and her tail whips back and forth - this may be the longest she has ever kept quiet.
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"Not only this, but I remember your deep fascination with Chult and its lack of mapping. The quest will require you to go deep into the land of Chult, where I am sure you will document your every move and findings. If that is not enough, the quest is from your aunt Syndra."
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Tamari excitedly jumps from her chair, grabs the pamphlet, and runs around the room, grabbing various scrolls, books, stationery, and bags, all while chanting, "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She darts out the door, hugging all her belongings; papers can be seen falling while she runs, or rather stumbles down the hall.
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The Dean jumps into the hallway, yelling, "Remember to take rations, food, money, and clothes from the storage!"
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Tamari has no response; I don't think anything could get to her now.
"Ah well, I am sure she will figure it out", says the Dean, eloquently walking down the hall and picking up the fallen papers.
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