This page will eventually include some of my favorite links to other DR-related web sites and may chronicle a few things I've found useful. I think I'll also post up a tag-board just for kicks, so people can post comments to this site.
If you have any ideas, please email them to me for now.
The Fading is when an elf who has lost the will to live takes a solitary walk into the forests…and vanishes.
I've been in woods north of my childhood home of Leth Deriel for the past few cycles of the moons.
I sit and meditate for long hours; my mind wanders to far places; my hunger for food is gone now; my flesh and bones begin to feel light, misty.
I do not know if my soul is ready for The Fading. Though I feel it won't be long before it is finished.
I've recorded here visions of my past in the lands of Elanthia. I'll jot them down as they come. Perhaps a young elf will find this journal in another aeon.
UPDATE: My body tugs at my soul, pulling it back to me.
My meditations have gone on for seven cycles of the moons, and now my red-rimmed eyes open in slits. My vision is blurred. My body feels like an empty shell.
I have slumped back against a fir tree in the Lethian forests, my muscles too withered to stand. I consider my situation: alive, but too weak to fend for myself. Days walk away from the elven city.
My help comes in the night in the forest. I hear a deep thrumming sound and the nearly silent padding of paws across fallen leaves. Through my blurry eyes, I make out the form of a large, dark-furred panther, sitting on its haunches. It drops something warm in my lap, turns, and vanishes.
Over days, it brings me more food: rabbit, squirrel, eggs, berries. My strength returns slowly, and one day, the panther never arrives. It is time to return.
The cold wind howls along the icy ridge south of the gondola to Shard. My cloak is frosted white and powdery snow has fallen upon me. I am crouched low, in the shade of an outcrop, hidden in a camoflage of snow and wind. My breath comes in and out slowly, hiding the steam from my mouth. My eyes hide within the cowl of my cloak, and they watch. I wait and marvel at the tenacity of elvish blood to not thicken in such weather.
I stay silent as the fifth white-pelted snowbeast I've seen prowls past. It raises its head, sniffing, sensing. But in moments it moves on.
My slender fingers flex in the battered black gloves I wear. I double-check my grasp on the stiletto I picked up from Shard. I have four spare stilettos, quick to hand. The thin blades do not fare well against the prey I hunt. A gargoyle's hide is of stone, and I've shattered more than one blade in a hunt.
I hear it grumbling before I see it. The gray, hulking creature stomps its way around the outcrop and looks out to the wind. It curses loudly to itself, wrapped in its own evil misery. It stands a mere three feet away, unaware of my presence.
I rise in a fluid movement behind it, swiftly, silently. My strike is solid, and the stiletto slips in and out of the beast before it can even begin to turn. I roll to a side as it spins in pain, furious. As quickly as I struck, again I've blended against the rock and snow and wind.
The gargoyle is in obvious pain, it moves awkwardly now. It looks to the side, hearing a noise, and my strike is again solid. The beast falls to a knee, its massive stone feet beginning to fail. I strike again, three times and it is finished.
My heart pounds as I search the beast. The stiletto is too badly damaged now, and I let it drop into the snow. The wind cries louder.
I am young now, clumsy, full of doubt, defensive. I work hard at practicing stealth, but even my measly leather armor hinders me. I try to sneak up on a rat in the Crossing shipyard, but fail every time. My blade skills have gotten better -- I no longer fear the rodents, and enjoy hunting and skinning them.
It is a warm summer evening and I am with a group of young hunters in the shipyard. Someone is teaching a class, and we listen. There is only one other woman present, the rest are young men, boasting and trying to impress the two of us.
I am unimpressed, even irritated at their presumptiousness. Foolish human. Crude rakash.
The rakash suddenly steps towards me, leans forward and kisses me boldly on the lips. I am shocked and furious. I do not know this rakash, nor do I like him. And I certainly don't like being used.
I can feel my face flush hotly and the men are smirking. One young human barbarian is watching coolly off to one side. I know that my reputation is at stake. For a moment I consider brushing it off as funny, laughing along.
My jeweled dagger lodges itself in the rakash's neck, and I quickly nock an arrow to my short bow. I am aiming at his chest, and say in what I hope is a menacing voice, "I'll take my dagger back now."
He returns the dagger and leaves without a word. The others snicker a bit at his expense, though they shift a bit uncomfortably. May they think twice before being so bold with an elvish woman.
I stop to glance around a room in the Crossing's shipyard. There are two others there: a young woman bard and a tough looking paladin, in full plate armor.
The paladin suddenly glowers at me and yells, "Thief!" I glance at him and ask if he refers to me.
"I'm a ranger," I say, "I've done nothing to offend you."
The paladin grows more agitated and yells some dishonorable accusations at me. My temper again gets the better of me and I step up to him and proclaim, "I challenge you to the pain or worse as you've insulted my honor!"
I draw a sword and am about to move into a position to parry, when he slams his right palm towards me and bellows, "Halt!" Instantly, I am unable to move. I can do nothing but watch as he hefts his greatsword and brings it down on me. Death comes soon after, my limbs severed, laying about me.
My spirit cries out to the gods for help, to send me back to the living.
I sit in shadows above the derelict alleys of Riverhaven, on a rooftop. My body is sore from the give-and-take with swamp trolls, and I'm satisfied with the pile of opened boxes and other loot at my feet. This is an earned rest.
The city bussle is far away, the sounds muted, the smells of old fish cleansed by a brisk evening wind, up in the rooftops.
I'm a wanderer out of necessity, and there are few places that I find solace, few places of refuge for me. This is one, the Rookery.