Two Harpers, One Cause

This was co-written with TinySilverGoat.

Darren’s eyes shifted from a vibrant green to the color of earthy brown as he cast a gaze over the city of Luskan. His midnight blue cloak flapped wildly in the morning winds that blew in from the Sea of Swords, the smell of sea salt prominent. His chestnut brown hair was cropped short and peeked out under the cowl of his cloak. Black leather armor, well worn and weather weary, completed his ensemble. A pair of elven crafted short swords hung low on his thin hips, each one showing as much wear as the scabbards that carried them. The cansin turned his ever-shifting eyes towards his cloaked companion and a wistful smile formed on his slender tiers.

“Nervous?” he asked the new Harper initiate. Darren chuckled softly as he regarded his old friend and new apprentice.

The bulky gentleman smiled, revealing again his strangely pointed palate. His right hand rubbed his silvery bristled chin as he replied, “Not in the least, sir. I always look forward to flight.”

“Flight? Heh…I wish it were that simple. Feona’s wind walk spells are more than simple flight. Think of it as jumping off a cliff and seeing the world rush by you…but only a hundred times faster and you really can’t control where you are going.” Darren’s smirk threatened to over take his handsome face as he explained the reckless wind magics they had come to Luskan to purchase.

“Ah, but is that not what life is?” the bard said whimsically.

Darren merely rolled his eyes and started back down the path towards the towering gates that lead into the City of Sails. If only reckless flight would be the worst of their challenges…

The Temple of the Moon’s Touch was nothing more than a shrine, at least when compared to the temples of Waterdeep. The members of the Church of Umberlee often took delight in ridiculing the sparseness and barren simplicity of the local Selunite church, at times allowing their ridicule to surge up into acts of vandalism. Feona Moonshadow was repainting again the west wall of the small temple, hoping no one had seen the explicit recommendation the graffiti had offered to the young priestess. Darren had arrived just in time to catch the tail end of the comment and quickly strived to cover his chuckles of amusement and imaginative creativity. Sometimes it paid to read Aquan. Feona’s ice blue eyes turned sharply upon the young Harper as his laughter got the better of him and alerted the priestess to his amused presence.

“Funny is it? Might I remind you of the time you actually tried to do that to me? And the consequences and back pains that you suffered for it?” Her shrill voice rang throughout the empty hall. White paint quickly covered the last of the vulgar writing and the white robed priestess stepped off her ladder.

“Oh? Might I remind you have paint across your forehead? Hmm…I think I have seen you like that before…” His snide remark was enough to bring a quick snap across his face and a contempt look from the offended priestess.

“Darren Miller! Why is it that every time I find myself in an odd situation you are always about?! I swear to the Goddess that you must be Beshaba incarnate!” Feona’s clenched hands pummeled the young Harper and caused him to inch back a bit, causing him to knock over the paint bucket. The remaining paint flowed out of the bucket onto the cracked marble floor.

This was simply too much for Feona. She cursed him rather vividly as only a girl grown around sailors could do, and she set about cleaning up the split paint. She pushed her damp blonde hair away from her face and placed her diminutive hands upon her paint-covered hips.

“Why are you here anyways?” she asked.

“Well…err, its business Feona. I need one of your scrolls again…A wind walk spell to be exact…” Darren sputtered but the priestess raised a hand.

“It’s a damned good thing that you are not here for pleasure. You’d be wearing this paint and I’d be holding your dignity hostage until you returned mine!” she sneered.

Darren gulped and sighed quietly. Making contacts was always easier than keeping them…especially close contacts.


Sabine took some childish delight in his ability to see over the short walls of the open-air temple. It was a true shame that they would only be at the seaside temple until Darren could secure the necessary scroll. But however relaxing he found the quaint shrine to be, he found much more exciting the anticipation of flight. Since he was a young boy in Tantaras, his dream-self had soared and tumbled among the clouds, the winds stinging his face. He grinned like a child at this dreams inevitable realization, even if it was a part of a duty.

But how could one call this mission a “duty”? A duty was a chore, a responsibility. This was dreams made real. This was glory and justice. This was adventure.

The tall man surveyed the open halls of the shrine, its worn and aging structure telling in its sad state of its gradual decline and quiet losses. The moss-choked walls and sand-covered floor made it seem as if the holy site had already been lost to the sea and its furious Bitch Queen goddess. It would be lost, this quiet, holy place, and all too soon, Sabine thought. He shook his head. Why should he always seem to foresee all things lonely and decayed atrophy and not the glorious “happy-ever-after” conclusion his heart so desired? Why should all that rise fall and those who never rise be forgotten? He picked a clump of sea grass from the crack from which it grew, plucking its seeds and scattering them.

A shuffle of feet caught his ears. The caped man stood and peered over the wall towards the sound’s source.

Her scent of clinging sea-foam and molded bread filled the air about her. The old woman was dressed in old patched sailcloth, her feet bare and brown with sun and sand. Her head was topped with ragged, stringy hair, clumped and tangled as a rat’s nest. She did not look at him, although he knew she could not miss his huge form.

“Greetings, elder lady,” said Sabine. He removed his small, black hat to her. When he rose from his courtesy, she remained as obvious to him as a cold winter sun which gives no warmth.

Sabine took the arm of the old woman gently as she slowly passed him. His touch brought her pale eyes to him. She muttered and moved away.

He disappointedly watched her walk away into the labyrinth of the temple walls. Heavy breaths and pants came from behind. A quick young figure dashed up to the tall bard.

“Excuse me,” the young priestess said breathlessly. “Did you see an old woman come by?”

“Yes,” Sabine said sadly. “Although I don’t think she knew I had.”

The priestess looked to the stranger with concern. “She didn’t do anything to offend you, did she?”

“Not at all,” he said. Indeed, how could he be offended by nothing?

She thanked him after he told of the old woman’s path. He took a seat then on the outermost wall of the temple, looked to the beautiful, forsaking ocean, and thought of everything he would never know and everything that would be forgotten.

“Sabine?” Darren’s voice brought the meditative bard back from his own self-contained realm of daydreams. Darren’s light footsteps brought him to take a seat besides Sabine. He presented the hastily rolled scroll to the bard and grinned knowingly.

“I don’t want to know what debauched flatteries that you had to resort to so that you may obtain that scroll…” Sabine added with a chuckle.

“Nothing more than my usual charm…and coin. I swear to Mystra Feona raises her rates every time I see her.” Darren said as he helped pull his hulking friend to his feet. Compared to Darren’s height of just over five feet, the towering six and a half foot virtual giant he knew as Sabine was indeed hulking.
Darren merely shook his head and sighed contently. He unrolled the scroll and squinted at the divine writings that were upon the scroll’s yellowed surface, the bright sun shining through the thinness of the parchment. A soft blue aura emanated from the scroll, only visible to Darren. He nodded, satisfied with Feona’s work and re-rolled the scroll.

“Will it work?” Sabine asked, peering over his friend’s shoulder with his heavy palm resting upon it.

Darren nodded and regarded Sabine with chameleon eyes.

“We leave in the morning. This disturbance in the Weave should be near here by then…Gaeleon made it specific that this was unlike anything he has ever felt before so we should be cautious. Makes you wonder what can fly at those speeds and be as large as an entire city, eh Sabine?” the spellfilcher remarked as he put the scroll in his satchel.

“Yes…I do wonder.” Sabine’s features softened considerably and his lips twisted into a cocky smile. “I also wonder why we wait till morning…”

The flowing words of Celestial were being spoken as soon as Sabine’s sentence ended and he felt himself rising into the air; bore upon unseen wings of divine inspiration. The now empty scroll fell to the ground where the two Harpers had once stood. They would not wait till morning; adventure was never one known for its patience.