I am Lost.
I walk the grey corridors where time draws out like a knife, lost in the unending labyrinth of swirling Mists. There is nothing else to be here, but Lost. Every pathway changes, shifts, ethereal and ephemeral as drifting thought. Between them the ensnaring oubliettes beckon, temptation and death waiting in each of those shifting, twisted landscapes. I have learned only to take what I must from them, and avoid the worst. Looming shadows prowl nearby, fell creatures as bound and lost here as I am. These to I have learned to avoid. To draw attention here invites death. But I have learned to be a ghost, to slide past beneath the lurkers notice. I have to keep searching. I know they're here, somewhere, my lost family. They have to be. I wish I could remember my name...
I am Hadrian. Of the House of Amakiir. Born in Qualinost, thirty three years before the Cataclysm sundered my world. My father is stern and proud, the seventh lord in the Speaker of the Suns high council. My mother is an elven lady, quiet and beautiful, who loves nothing more than to tend her gardens. My elder brother, Paithian, is a captain among the Sunspeakers guard. He was always my fathers pride and joy, his favored son, a natural leader and charmingly charismatic. I was never good with words, or swords. I tend the gardens patiently, with mother, listening to the soft symphony of songs we elves weave. I am Hadrian Amakiir...
... am I? I can't remember anymore.
A massive shape looms out of the ebbing tide of the Mist, a giant black as pitch with eyes that burn like dying embers. Shadows and stealth are useless against this abomination. It smells out the very essence of life, eager to snuff out the pitiable spark of my existence. The giants massive limb lifts, reaching for me, black claws outstretched in a horrific promise of blood and death. Suddenly, a familiar lupine howl echoes forth from the Mists nearby, distracting nights gaunt horror from claiming my life. I flee, dashing into the whirling abyss of flowing Mists. A familiar form appears beside me, loping along in pace with my steps. The dire wolf, Grymauch, my only constant companion in this world of grey whispers. Together we escape down the byways of the Mist, racing like the wind. That creature had to of been the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen...
I watched the Cataclysm as it occurred, the fiery mountain falling to the face of Krynn and destroying the once proud city of Istar. It was humans who brought that calamity down, the Kingpriest and his legions of the devout, profaning the will of the gods. I thought nothing could rival the death and devastation wrought by the Cataclysm. But now the land is torn apart by war, and an army such as we have never seen marches upon my homeland. An army of abominations and winged legends of ancient terror, led by a human warlord. The Red Dragonarmy. They are coming. A misbegotten half blood, Tanthalas, came before them, warning of what was to come. I remember Tanthalas as a child, but father had demanded I never demean myself by speaking to one tainted and fouled by human blood. Tanthalas says we must escape from Qualinost or die. The Speaker of the Suns has decreed the elves evacuate our ancient home. I stayed with the final group of refugees to leave Qualinost. I saw the red dragons descend from the sky, lancing the ancient trees and hallowed halls with breath of fire. The city is burning. And my father is still in there...
... where am I?
I don't know who these people are. They are a motley mix of humans, elves, dwarves and other strange beings. I look among them for familiar faces; like the wildling elf Lina and the stodgy, stubborn dwarf Rali; but they are not here. Gone, maybe, like so many others I'd known. These strangers I have joined spoke of a hunt, and I followed, though I'm not even sure why anymore. We are in a truly desolate land, where the very air burns hot and dunes of sun-scorched sand stretch on to the distant horizons. The creatures they hunt are twisted monstrosities, lanky, warped things of muscle and sinew, that look at us only as meat to be torn from the bone. Together we fight them, setting steel and song and magic against gnashing teeth and slashing claws. I pull the string of my bow back, close against my cheek, and send shaft after shaft into these trolls of the desert. Stings, each and every arrow that finds its mark, but enough stings can still kill. When did I learn to kill? That is not my peoples way...
The wild elves, the Kagonesti, have been teaching me their ways. They know so much about the wild lands we now live in, from the song of wind through boughs to the manner and magic born into every simple animal. My people have been sheltering here, with the Kagonesti, since our homeland was taken. My brother mocks me for spending time with the Kagonesti scouts, saying they are uncouth savages. Many of the Qualinesti think likewise. I begin to question if we have followed the right path, for these wild elves are so much closer to the living world than we. But there are greater worries. The war still rages on, the Dragonarmies ravaging the continent of Ansalon. The human Knights of Solamnia are failing, it is said. Soon the Dragonarmies will reach us again. My greatest friend among the Kagonesti, our scout and hunter Natakni, comes to me; pressing a longbow and quiver into my hands. "It is time you learned to shoot," he told me. "Every animal fights, when backed into a corner."
How old am I?
I'm no longer sure my own age. If it was three hundred and thirty before, and then... counting the passing's of the moon and stars... I'm not sure. Since I started seeking inside the Mists, I've lost track on the passing of months, even seasons. Time doesn't seem natural within this swirling veil. Sometimes when I pass through the byways, it is the same day, same hour even, as when I left. It barely seems possible with the distances traversed. Yet at other ventures, a walk that feels to me a mere mornings worth will prove to have passed months worth when I emerge. At first this discord bothered me, vexed me. It doesn't seem to matter as much anymore. The faces of those I once knew are long gone, dead perhaps, faded away. Or maybe they are still somewhere I have not visited. It is... sorrowful, perhaps? But the Mists are more important. Finding what was lost, is more important.
My brother, Paithian, has died in battle. They found his body among many of our fallen kin, lost in the oncoming advance of the Dragonarmies and their Draconian soldiers. His body is laid out for funeral, arms folded over his chest, the horrible wound that rent his life from him covered beneath a tunic of fine silk. Mother is completely desolate, lost in her grieving. I've never seen her like this, it as though the sun of her life has been eclipsed and all else withers with its passing. With father passed, and now the eldest son perished as well, I am told it is I who must lead the House of Amakiir in these dark, troubling times. This isn't anything I ever wanted. I am not a leader, nor a great warrior. I'm the sullen quiet one who stood in the background. Paithian was born to lead, and now he is dead! My own brother. I do not stay for the solemn, somber sadness of the funeral procession. I need time to think, to reconcile with all that has happened. I walk alone, under a dark nights sky, into the shadowed woods of Southern Ergoth to dwell upon my grief. As I do, tendrils of Mist arise, unnoticed by my eyes, swirling and spiraling round till I can no longer find my way home...
The Mists part before me, and I am in a country of lush evergreens, deep forests, and snowy mountains. This is a realm claimed by humans, humans who wall themselves in cities of grey stone. They are a fearful and hate filled people, these humans, who revile what they perceive as different, and hide within their hovels at night. There are things that stalk here, in the dark, hungry things of evil intent. The wolf Grymauch does not like it here, I can see it in his great, luminous eyes. But there is a hidden place, wiled away deep inside these forests, where elves and their kindred make a home. It is a good place, where the fey lights dance and the trees sing old forgotten songs. I used to live in that place, under the hallowed halls of its great house; but I cannot live there now. It is a place that stirs a deep abiding sorrow in my soul, reminding me of why I must search out what was stolen into the Mists. Maybe it is better this way. I cannot even remember the name of this place anymore...
This is Degannwy, and the hall of Nant Gaerwyn. It is where I first met her truly. She was still so young, by elven standards. Her hair was the color of fire, and her laughter could make the stars shine. Back then I was an awkward creature, sullen, still grieving the loss of my world; but she could make all of that into a fade away. Why she ever deigned to love me, I will never know. She was a thing of magic and song, so vibrant and full of life she practically glowed. She truly was the Phoenix, rising up out of the fires to spread forth its wings...
I know the Mists are slowly stealing away my memories, each time I travel through their cold embrace. Life is more and more like living through a gossamer veil, everything shrouded and distant. I know I am only a part of what was once a whole. Sometimes I think it would of been better to have given up my search. But I know I can't. I have to find them. This world is not safe, it is hard and cruel in ways that I cannot fathom. And they must be here. Sometimes I think I can hear her, in the distance, just beyond a few wisps of the Mist. And I know they are here, my family. My love. There is nowhere else left they could be. I was ... am ... a skillful tracker, I can find them, I just need to keep looking...
I keep hearing that song in the distance. Her song, her music. I wish... I wish I knew who she was...
