Silver Wolf: Prologue

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Published: April 19, 2009
Silver Wolf</i></u>

An NWN2 Fanfic by Aaron J. Davis


Village of West Harbor, in the Mere of Dead Men
Sword Coast North
Mirtul 18, Year of the Turret, 1360 DR

Esmerelle awoke, and as always, reached automatically for Valen.

As always, Valen was gone.

As always, Esmerelle began to weep for her dead husband.

By the Lady, she thought sadly, if I never feel anything more than this grief, it will be a terrible life for my little girl.

She rose from the bed and wandered across the room, opened the window blinds.  It was still early morning.  Dark clouds covered the sky, but the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon.  She sniffed the air.  As always, the smell of half-rotted vegetation from the swamps surrounding West Harbor mixed with the smoke of newly-lit cooking fires from the other fifteen-odd houses of the village.

She heard a mumbling “meep” from the crib to her left, and looked in.  Her little girl looked at her with those too-clear violet eyes of hers.  “Kalir,” she said to her two-year-old.  She picked up the toddler in her arms.

“Mama sad.  Why?”

Esmerelle couldn’t talk past the lump in her throat.  Her little Kalir was the only joy left to her.  She looked at the wall, where Valen’s broken flail and dented, blood-rusted helm hung, never to be worn again.  Oh, Valen.  I only had you for three years, but they were the happiest of my life.  Valen Shadowbreath had been a tiefling, a demon-blood, but she had loved him as she would love no one else.  She remembered his toothy smile, the feel of his horns and hair.

She felt her eyes tear up again.

Esmerelle Patten had been a paladin serving the Red Knight, and a member of the Order of the Lanceboard, using her tactical expertise to uphold the law and fight for good.  She had bargained with a red dragon to free a kobold bard, been petrified by a medusa, enslaved by an asabi, destroyed a Netherese floating city.  She had traveled the planes, waged war in the Underdark, defeated an archdevil, and learned her true name from the Words of Creation.  Esmerelle had married a tiefling from the City of Doors, had borne him a child, her beautiful daughter Kalir.  And she had become the Grandmaster of the Order of the Lanceboard.  And all that before her twenty-third year.

And then, disaster.  Six months ago, a request had come from the Lords’ Alliance for aid.  An orc horde had formed in the Sword Mountains under warchief Logram Eyegouger, and the vicious monsters were pouring out of the range for the umpteenth time to sack, pillage, and slay.  The Order of the Lanceboard answered the call, marshaled the Greycloaks of Neverwinter and militias from towns and villages across the Sword Coast, marched on the orc horde and demolished it, but at a terrible cost.  Nine hundred-some-odd good men and women were slain, a thousand more would never walk again (no thanks to a shaman of Baghtru), the orc warchief escaped, and her beloved husband, Valen Shadowbreath, was incinerated by a balor-class demon called by the orc shamans.  The only thing left of her husband was his helm and his flail.  A broken-hearted Esmerelle left the Order and returned to the village of her birth to raise her daughter alone.

Kalir poked her in the cheek, bringing her back to the present for the moment.  “Little one,” she whispered to her daughter, “don’t ever seek valor or glory.  It’s not worth the cost.”


Having eaten a modest breakfast of eggs and sourdough bread, Esmerelle left Kalir in the care of her pregnant cousin Mayna and lost herself in her weaving.  The click-clack-rush of the shuttlecock on the loom silenced the turmoil in her head.  The sky darkened and a drizzle began.

Then she heard the sound of a bugle.

Old habits reared their heads, and the ex-paladin found herself taking her old sword from the wall and going outside to the town fence to investigate.  A column of troops in Neverwinter livery led by a dark-cloaked mage marched out of the fog.  The drummer sounded the signal to halt, and the mage stepped forward.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“This is West Harbor, correct?” he said gruffly.  He had a deep, rough, gravelly voice that commanded attention; despite the damp, Esmerelle also detected faint scents of ozone and brimstone.

“It is, but who are you?”

“There’s no time for that, woman,” the mage said.  “I need to speak to your mayor, or whatever passes for leadership around here.”  He strode past her, but she stepped in front of him.  “Woman, if you keep this up— ”

“—you’ll do what?” Retta Starling said, coming out of her house.“You got a problem with Essie, you got a problem with me.”

A sudden breeze caught the mage’s cloak, swirling it and blowing back his hood, revealing a silvery, spiderweb-shaped tattoo on his bald head.  A Thayan?  On the Sword Coast?  Esmerelle wondered.  Then she noted the sword on his back.  She’d never seen anything quite like it.  It bore a golden-sheened hilt with a basket guard that tapered to a point below the grip.  The blade was easily four feet long, but appeared balanced for one-handed use; it had a series of graceful curves and seemed to be made of pure silver.  What in the Nine Hells is this blade?

Then the mysterious mage looked at her, and his piercing red-eyed gaze shook her to the core.  He regarded her critically.  “You’re not an average village woman.  That’s too fine a sword, and your stance is a fighter’s.”

“All right, what in Faerûn is going on out ‘ere?” came the voice of West Harbor’s alderman, Harmon Ricard, a voice made rough from too much alcohol, and indeed he carried a flask of West Harbor’s finest winter ale in his hand.  His prominent beer gut jiggled as he stomped up to the mage and leveled a toothy, overconfident grin.

“Are you the leader of this town?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Ammon Jerro, court mage of Neverwinter, and I’m ordering the evacuation of this settlement.”

“The hells you are.  We’ve lived here all our lives, and we ain’t—”

“Then you face your deaths, all of you.”

“Are you threatening us?” Retta Starling said.

“No, ma’am, I am not.  This town, however, is under threat.”

“From whom?” Esmerelle asked.  “Bandits?  Orcs?  Dragons?  We’ve seen them all.”

“What you face now is something else entirely.  The undead—”

“Bah!” Harmon said, and belched in Jerro’s face.  “There’ve been zombies and skeletons running around the Mere for ages.”

“I am aware of that.  But prior to this, they were a minor threat.  But has anyone besides me noticed they seem better-directed lately?”

Esmerelle thought for a moment, but shrugged.  “There are more of them lately, to be sure.  But directed?”

“Yes.  It has happened before.  The last time, it was on the Astral Plane.”

Not listening, Harmon bellowed, “Shove it up your backside, mage!  You can take your ghost stories and go—”

What happened next was too fast for Esmerelle to follow completely.  It seemed Jerro barely touched him, but Harmon was blown clear across the creek and into the muddy garden by the Farlong house.  Her old friend Daeghun Farlong, the half-elf residing there, opened the door in surprise, then walked over to the growing crowd.  “What did you do that fer?” Retta yelled at Jerro.

“Imbecile,” the mage remarked offhandedly, as if he’d done nothing more than flick a loose thread from his cloak.

“Harmon is no imbecile,” Daeghun inserted.  “He acts like one, to be sure, but—”

“Oh, I’m quite sure he is, but that’s neither here nor there.  The threat of which I speak is—”

The wind suddenly picked up.

“—approaching rapidly from the east,” he finished in annoyance as dark shapes began to come out of the mist.  “Seems we had less time than I thought.”

Animated skeletons splashed through the muddy swamp water.  Esmerelle swore viciously and drew her sword.  “Iyer homech!” she carefully said, and the blade came alive with a radiant white glow.  She yelled at Daeghun, “Get the children to safety!  Anyone who can fight, get them here!”  The Greycloak bugler sounded the charge.

Leading the way, the former paladin quickly discovered her skills had not deserted her.  “For West Harbor!” she shouted, and swung at the lead skeleton two-handed.  A flash of holy light erupted from the blade, and the now-bisected undead fell to pieces.  She ducked the next skeleton’s blow, blocked left, and smashed its skull with the hilt.  She pivoted on her left foot and, blade singing, chopped its spine in two at the waist.  She tore the wooden shield from its arm and strapped it to her wrist.

Where is everyone?  Damn!  She ducked a skeleton’s crossbow quarrel and blocked another’s axe with the appropriated shield.  The blow was much stronger than the other skeletons’ and she stumbled, tripped over a root, and landed in the mud.  She rolled left, felt the axe nick her shoulder, got the shield up to block, and then a purple bolt from the direction of town blew the thing to bits.  The mage, Jerro, materialized where the skeleton had stood, offered her a hand.  “Thanks,” she said.

“You’re welcome.  I knew you weren’t a normal woman.  Paladin, correct?”

“I used to be.”

He nodded.  “I recognized your sword; the Holy Avenger can only be wielded by a paladin.”

She got to her feet and looked around.  “What in the hells is happening?”

“If we survive this skirmish, I’ll explain.  I don’t think Lord Nasher gave me enough troops.”  He indicated the field, where the Greycloaks were struggling to hold off the waves of undead.

A much larger skeleton than the others loomed above the field, swinging a club with wild abandon.  Ogre, probably.  She started towards it, but Jerro pointed a hand at it, and another purple bolt erupted from his hand and blew the thing in half.  “How many of those spells do you have left?” she asked.

“It’s not a spell, exactly.”

“You’ll explain if we survive, right?  Don’t bother answering,” Esmerelle said, then ran to a knot of Greycloaks that were trapped.  She hacked her way through the skeletons and smashed a path for the soldiers.  “Thanks, ma’am.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Another wave of undead appeared.  This time, ghouls and ghasts led the way.  “Damn!  Fall back to the fence!”

Meanwhile, across town, little Kalir had gotten separated from the other children.  “Mama!  Mama!” she cried.

Daeghun bolted past her, barely seeing the two-year-old as he ran for his house to arm himself with bow and arrow.  The ranger stopped as he returned, scooped her into his arms and said, “Hold on, little one.”  He ran for the barn where the nursery’s inhabitants had taken shelter, dropped Kalir with Auntie Mayna, and told Osric Martin and Lorne Starling to guard the children with their lives as he ran back out the barn door.

The barn was full of crying children, but Kalir was just confused.  She felt a big ... badness approaching, though the toddler was hardly capable of telling what it was.  It was so dark in the barn.  Hate dark.  Want light.  Want ... light!  A soft bluish glow materialized in front of her.  A startled Kalir fell to her backside.  I do that?  I did that.  She tried again, but nothing happened.

Then she heard a horrible roar.

Esmerelle heard the roar, too, but she was a little preoccupied.  She must have destroyed hundreds of the damned undead by now, but they just kept on coming.  She was bleeding from a dozen slashes all over her body, and was so tired she could barely block even the half-hearted blows of the approaching zombies.  “Duck!” she heard someone say.  It was more of a stumble, for her, but she heard steel sing through the air above her head, looked over her shoulder and saw the decapitated trunk of a ghoul shudder to a halt.  The young Greycloaks she’d saved earlier now returned the favor by finishing it off.  “Get out of here, lady!  You’ve done all you can!”

Then a mohrg, a fast-moving and disgusting variety of skeleton made from the corpses of unrepentant murderers, dropped from the tree above her.  A bony fist crashed in below her right breast, throwing her backwards into an elm tree and snapping two ribs.  One Greycloak stabbed out with his sword, burying it in the mohrg’s half-rotted gutsac, but the creature was unhurt and, with blinding speed, reached out, grabbed the soldier’s neck, and snapped it.  It pulled out the sword and hacked the dying man to bloody oblivion.  Its head then swiveled in circles, looking for another target.  Then it spotted her at the base of the tree.   Is this where it ends? Esmerelle wondered as it stomped to her supine form.  Valen, I’m sorry.

Then she remembered what she was fighting for.  NO!  I can’t let this be the end!  I have Kalir!  She rolled to the right as the mohrg brought up the sword to kill her, and it thudded into the tree bark.  She grabbed her own sword from where it had fallen, blocked the mohrg’s next blow with her shield, then bellowed, “Red Knight!” and ran it through.  The divine magic in the blade did what mere steel could not, and the mohrg fell and died for the second time.  An exhausted Esmerelle slumped, only now feeling the pain from her wounds.  Jerro reappeared, blasted several undead with his strange magic, and said, “Get back to the town, woman; you’re no good to me dead!”

Kalir felt her mother’s pain, and, confused and crying, but determined to help, she snuck out the back door into the paddock, dashed around a frightened heifer, then slipped in the mud and fell flat on her face.  She got up and discovered the light she had made still followed her.  Heartened, she wiped the mud off her face and made her way to the village's split-rail fence, climbed up and over.

Kalir had spent countless hours wandering the village with Amie Fern and Bevil Starling, but she had never seen anything like the sight that greeted her eyes as she mounted a hillock.  Shouting metal men swung shiny blades, a cloaked form fired blast after blast of purple energy, and—

“Mama!” she yelled, as lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the form of her mother struggling up the hill, bleeding.  A horrific crash of thunder silenced any response Esmerelle could have made, then the low-pitched, rumbling roar came rolling out of the marsh again.

Ammon Jerro swung the Silver Sword of Gith two-handed in a blur of intricate movement, turning skeletons to dust.  He drew again on his internal reservoir of power, sending an eldritch blast into a cluster of undead.  The resulting explosion cleared a path for a group of Greycloaks, who ran gratefully through the gap and up the hill.

His ultimate foe sounded another roar from the woods.  The King of Shadows is getting closer.  “Fall back to the village!” he bellowed across the field at his surviving troops.  He aimed several more eldritch blasts, then backed up the hill, swinging the Sword with powerful precision at any beast foolish enough to come within reach.

He took a chance, glancing over his shoulder, saw the paladin stumbling up the hillside.  Good, get out and you’ll have a chance to live.

Then he saw a little girl crest the top of the hill.  His first reaction was one of surprise and chagrin, but then his planes-attuned senses detected an unusual aura about the child.  

Odd.  I’d swear that girl was a celestial, but she’s otherwise human.  An aasimar, perhaps?</i>  Then he turned back to the battle.  The undead were starting to scatter.  Five minutes or less!  Get out, woman!

Esmerelle saw Kalir, too.  What the—how did you get away from Mayna?  Damn, I don’t need this right now!  Her fear for her child overpowered her pain and exhaustion, and she Ran.  Up.  The.  Hill.  It seemed so far away.  But she made it, scooped the two-year-old into her arms.  “Kalir, what are you doing here!?”

“Mama hurt!  Me feel bad!  Big bad coming!”

A much louder roar sounded from the woods.  This one was followed by a magical shockwave, and the three houses nearest the swamp were blown to flinders!  Esmerelle instinctively shielded her startled and wailing girl with her body, but little debris landed near her.

The ex-paladin got to her feet, ignoring the pain in her side, and looked to the woods.  A fog of darkness rolled out, and then the trees were rent asunder by a huge, black, horned humanoid like nothing she’d ever seen.  Every nerve in her body told her to run and not look back, but her legs were jelly.  “Red Knight, Tempus, Tyr, and Torm, save us...” she mumbled.

Then she was astonished:  instead of fleeing like any sensible person (and the majority of the surviving Greycloaks and village militia were sensible in that respect), the magician Jerro brandished his strange silver blade, let out a battle cry and charged straight at it!

Several arrows rocketed past Esmerelle in quick succession at the black beast, but it ignored the hits and formed a blade of blackness, which crashed against Jerro’s silver sword in a shower of sparks.  Daeghun Farlong, the source of the arrows, walked up and put a hand on her shoulder.  “That one has no fear.  And what is Kalir doing out here?”

“I want to know the same thing.”  The toddler, however, wouldn’t answer.  “Dammit.”

“Well, we’re no good to him now.  I don’t think we have a chance against that thing.  Let’s do what he told us, evacuate the village.”

He helped Esmerelle up as the combatants’ blades crashed together once, twice, three times; a dozen collisions of silver and black, and the ranger, paladin, and child ran for the barn where the other children had sheltered.  Esmerelle tripped and fell, landing on her broken ribs.  “Aarrgh!”  Kalir’s wails increased to match her pain, but her mind was too clouded by it to notice.

“Esmerelle, are you all right?!”

“No!  That mohrg broke my ribs!”


“Daeghun, promise me something.  Promise that if, gods forbid, I don’t make it out of here, you’ll take care of Kalir.”

“You’ll make it.”

“Promise me.”

Daeghun sighed, then nodded.  “I swear by all the Seldarine and Corellon Himself if I have to, I’ll raise her as my own.  But you’ll make it out of here.  You’ve survived too much not to.”

Ammon Jerro backed away, as did the King of Shadows’ avatar, the Nightwalker.  The combatants regarded each other with a grudging respect.  Each circled at a distance of two dozen paces, trying to gain an advantage in footing.  Jerro decided to force the issue:  “Come on, you bastard,” he growled.  “I’ve fought rabbits more fearsome than you.”

The Nightwalker roared and stabbed its blade into the ground, unleashing a shadow magic shockwave, a much stronger one this time.  Jerro was thrown backwards eighteen paces, but landed on his feet.  He shook off the aftereffects, then noticed that most of the town had been leveled by the latest blast.  He swore viciously in Abyssal, then shifted the Sword of Gith to his left hand and charged an eldritch blast in his hand.  If I have to, I’ll draw every last ounce of power granted by my pacts to stop the King of Shadows.  Come on, come on...

The eldritch blast grew larger and hotter, then passed its normal shade of purple and became white-hot.  The warlock roared incoherently and charged again.  The Nightwalker followed suit.  They closed the distance, and Jerro unleashed his blast, striking the Nightwalker between the eyes, but it shrugged it off.  They closed to striking distance, and Jerro swung the Sword of Gith two-handed at his foe’s neck.  The Nightwalker swung to block, and the crash was deafening!

The last shockwave had scattered Kalir, Esmerelle, and Daeghun.  Esmerelle crashed into a still-standing chimney, sending her sword flying far out of reach.  Kalir fell by a wagon, and Daeghun bounced off a roof and landed by a tree.

Kalir wailed, “Mamaaaaa!”

Then a shriek of metal on metal reverberated across the clearing where the village had stood.  A barely conscious Esmerelle saw the combatants had continued their fight, and—

Then Kalir screamed.

Jerro looked at her.

The black beast roared in sudden alarm.

Their blades seemed to merge.

Then they exploded.

Esmerelle shook off the dizziness, and threw herself forward to cover her daughter.

She felt a blinding pain in her torso—

The final blast had snapped the tree Daeghun had landed beneath.  He looked up and saw the trunk hanging above his head, suspended in a fine silver haze.  He looked around, saw the haze everywhere.  Neither the beast or the mage were anywhere to be seen.

Then he saw Esmerelle lying face-down on the ground in a pool of mud stained with blood streaming from her back.  He crawled out from under the tree, then ran to where the woman lay.  Looking at her, he didn’t need a healer to know she was dead.  Poor girl.  You climbed so high, but fell even further.

Then he heard crying, from under her body.  He rolled her away to reveal little Kalir, drenched in her mother’s blood.  Daeghun knelt and picked up the child, wiped the blood from her face.  “Where Mama?” she cried.

Daeghun clutched her to his chest, then looked into Esmerelle’s silent face, finally at peace.  “Esmerelle, you died well.  You have my oath; I’ll raise your child as my own.”

The survivors of the Battle of West Harbor rebuilt the town in the Mere of Dead Men.

Esmerelle’s ashes were returned to the Order of the Lanceboard’s headquarters in the town of Nehr’bak, near Waterdeep, and were enshrined with the greatest heroes of the Order.  A grateful Red Knight took her soul and made Esmerelle one of her generals on the plane of Warrior’s Rest, the highest possible honor for a worshiper.

Daeghun obeyed his oath to Kalir’s dead mother.  Though he was a distant and sometimes cold father, the optimistic and altruistic young aasimar he raised knew he loved her in his own way.  At age twelve, she ran away from home to Nehr’bak, following in her mother’s footsteps to become a Paladin of the Lanceboard.  Three years later, she returned to West Harbor and, in the harvest festival that year, competed with her childhood friends Amie Fern and Bevil Starling and won all four events, a feat not achieved for over twenty years.

The following spring, she turned sixteen.  That night, fate intervened and changed her quiet life forever.  West Harbor came under attack by githyanki forces.  The events following the Second Battle of West Harbor were revealed in Neverwinter Nights 2.  During these adventures, the young Kalir fell in love with a Paladin of Tyr named Casavir.  After their successful defense of Crossroad Keep against the King of Shadows’ forces, he made love to the virgin aasimar.  Unknown to either, that single night was enough for Kalir to conceive.

Casavir never saw their child, for he died in the collapse of the Vale of Shadows after the companions’ defeat and destruction of the King of Shadows.  But Kalir carried their babe, Narra, within her throughout the events of the Spirit-eater curse, which ended in the Fugue Plane, where the paladin led a diverse army to a resounding victory against the forces of Kelemvor in a battle that shook the planes to their foundations.

During these events, Kalir fell in love again, this time with the hagspawn spirit shaman Gannayev-of-Dreams. After the battle, Kalir returned to West Harbor with her new fiancé, where they were married.  She then returned to Thay, and founded an Order garrison at the Academy of Shapers and Binders.

Late that year, during a diplomatic mission to Mulhorand, Narra was born.  The Patten line’s celestial blood reached full flower in the newborn aasimar.

But this was not the end of Kalir’s adventures.  No, it was but the beginning...

To be continued...

This is the first part of a fanfic I'm writing starring Kalir Patten the Wolf (LG aasimar female Pal25/Chm4 of the Red Knight). [link]

The setting for the prologue is West Harbor, the village of Kalir's birth, and the main protagonist is Kalir's mother Esmerelle (LG Rog2/Pal21 of the Red Knight/Longsword Master 7). [link]

The hardest parts were where the narrator followed two-year-old Kalir. It's tough to think like a toddler when you're twenty. ;-)

The preview image is a screenshot from the opening cinematic of Neverwinter Nights 2.

Subsequent chapters:
Chapter I: Armored Wolf [link]
Chapter II: Never Trust a Lich [link]

Chapter III: Two Meetings [link]
anonymous's avatar
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AlliKrait's avatar
AlliKraitStudent Photographer
You're a very talented writer. I really enjoyed this story.
samurai-jim-87's avatar
You really have a decent writing style. You have talent and I hope you keep using it.

Jerro's ruthless pragmatism and deeply hidden concern was really well portrayed. However, there's a few things you should know.

1. Your timeline is badly distorted. The band of adventurers who travelled to Waterdeep (Sharwyn, Linu, Daelan, Tomi) were companions of the Hero of Neverwinter. Sharwyn mentions him as 'A man I fell in love with'. His (He was confirmed Male) deeds, saving the city from the Wailing Death, occurred in 1372 DR. This event (the Wailing Death) is Forgotten Realms Canon.

2. Therefore, Mephistopheles' plot occurred sometime in 1373, as Galen the Merchant knew about it, and Neverwinter's suffering in the Wailing Death is constantly referenced. Your Esmerelle was at least 18 years dead by that time. If Valen Shawdowbreath was the father of Kalir, as you claim, she would be two years old at most at the time of NWN2. The Spellplague would already have begun by the time your hero could have begun her adventure at 16.

3. Lorne was Retta's SON, not Husband. Bevil and Retta both mention it.
StarSword-C's avatar
StarSword-CHobbyist General Artist
1. I'm aware my timeline is distorted. I needed to adjust the timeline to fit the story I envisioned. I'll have to work out a new set of events, but there is a reason I made Valen Kalir's father, a reason which will become apparent late in the storyline.

2. Again, I'm aware of the distortion. But I wasn't aware Galen mentioned Mephistopheles' intrusion in NWN2--where did that come up?

3. My bad. I hadn't played the original campaign in a while when I wrote this part, and had forgotten that detail. It's fixed now.
samurai-jim-87's avatar
1. There's nothing to say that Valen could never inherently be the KC's father, although the deed must have been done whilst he was in Sigil or more likely, in the Abyss, in service of his Marilith Mistress. Furthermore, it is Extremely unlikely that Kalir would be an Aasimar if Valen was her father. She would almost certainly be a tiefling.

RE: 2. If u play a drow char, during the tutorial, Galen is scared to see you (no surprises there!), and mentions that very recently there was a drow invasion of the city.

Also, ur kind of going against RA. Salvatore's work in that ur setting an event that happened at the close of Lolth's Silence 1372-73 DR (Nathyrra notes that with the Silence, the Valsharess used Mephistopheles to rise unchallenged to power) before the time of troubles.
Furthermore, Daeghun never mentions any such events in his time of adventures with Esmerelle.

As I said, its not that you aren't talented- you quite frankly crap all over many FF writers- its just that distorting canon and timeline so badly detracts from the otherwise notable quality of your work.

I would suugest that if Valen really needed to be Kalir's father, you could create some encounter with him on Esmerelle's travels. But it should be made separate from the Valsharess' War.
StarSword-C's avatar
StarSword-CHobbyist General Artist
Good thoughts. I'll work on that.

I've never actually played a drow character during the NWN2 campaign; I didn't know about that little quirk.

However, as far as Kalir Patten being an aasimar with a tiefling father: that is indeed possible. As Ammon Jerro points out in a later chapter, it simply means that her mother was from a latent celestial bloodline. In the entry on aasimar in Races of Faerun it states that such extraplanar bloodlines can go dormant, sometimes for many generations. Also, a non-planetouched/planetouched pairing has a fifty-fifty chance of producing a planetouched or a non-planetouched. Using this logic, Kalir had roughly a 50% chance of being a tiefling (from Valen's side), and 25% each of being either a human or an aasimar (from her mother Esmerelle).

As far as the canon goes, Wizards' official position is that video game timelines are only quasi-canon. Unlike the Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic games, where an "official" version was decided upon, no such decision has been made in FR. The Grand History of the Realms, a 3.5E sourcebook which lists major events from the War of the Seldarine to the Spellplague, makes no mention of a drow invasion of Waterdeep, for instance.
samurai-jim-87's avatar
1. Yep. That's a little quirk I found out. Every realms fan has to pay tribute to Drizzt and have their drow mania phase hey?

2. Absolutely- it's possible. It's just that if you've played thru 'Hordes' (which I'm sure you have) Valen's blood/bloodline is noted as being incredibly strong. You know, he's constantly crapping on about 'I have a certain desire to kill everyone around me...' (I play male chars, so I wouldn't know how his full romance plays out). Compare this to Neeshka, who shies from blood (but displays kleptomania). Your analysis of planetouched is spot on in general. But if we're talking Valen specifically (and he sometimes makes hints that he's a Cambion- a half fiend), I'd say the chance of his kid being a tiefling is MUCH higher, 75-80% or more. Wouldn't you agree?

3. You're right. The FR canon doesn't mention 'Hordes' whatsoever. It does, however, accept the Canonicity of the Wailing Death in 1372 (Grand history of the Realms), and the FR subtly accepts the NWN Original Campaign as Canon (Aribeth's Ring, for example, in Magic of Faerun). The 'Hordes of the Underdark' IS however, constructed around the framework of the 'War of the Spider Queen' series, involving Lolth's silence in 1372-73 DR (If you haven't read this, I strongly recommend you do!). Nathyrra mentions this. My point is however, that writing a FF of a game should not disregard what the game actually confirms. I hate when ppl make the hero of Neverwinter a woman who falls in love with Aarin, however cool he was, when he was confirmed as a dude who was ostensibly connected with Aribeth and Sharwyn.(sometimes i like to think that it was the Hero of NW who journeyed to Hell and back to free Aribeth's soul.) One more 'Hordes' note- Deekin was freed from the WHITE Dragon, Tymofarrar (Whites live in the freezing north, not Reds).

Kalir has a lot of potential. She's evidently cool. And I can see her having an interesting journey from West Harbour to Rashemen and back. I think you just need to rework her background to make her that bit more believeable, as you have clearly have writing ability. For me, (assuming Valen's paternity)I would have most def made her a Tiefling- what's more unique than a Tiefling Paladin? But I won't presume to tell you what to do with ur chars- I apologise. Also, thnx for not taking this personally- there are some real jerks on DA.

PS. Just watch out with ur claims of Kalir being 'The chief enemy of Szass Tam' or you will find all the Zulkirs, irate at being disregarded, Bareris Anskuld and Aoth Fezim (the heroes of 'Haunted Lands';), Wizards, Richard Lee Byers- who wrote the 'Haunted Lands' saga- and finally Szass Tam himself (who has no need of yet ANOTHER irritating mortal buzzing around- don't you feel sorry for him?) all come down and annihilate you and Kalir in a torrent of Blue Flames. Haha.
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Some minor background information for people who don't know much about D&D or the Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting:

1. Deities: The Red Knight is the Faerûnian demigoddess of warfare tactics. Her worshipers include fighters, gamesters (that is to say, of strategy games such as chess), monks, strategists, tacticians, and some paladins. She is a servant of Tempus, the Faerûnian greater god of war. The non-canon Order of the Lanceboard (my own creation) is a military/religious organization made up of her worshipers.
Baghtru (pronounced "bog-true") is the orc lesser god of stupidity and brute strength. His worshipers include barbarians, followers (of a leader), physically strong beings, warriors, and wrestlers. He is the son of the orc chief god Gruumsh and his consort Luthic.
Tyr (pronounced "teer") is the Faerûnian greater god of justice. His worshipers include paladins, judges, magistrates, lawyers, police, and the oppressed. The city of Neverwinter on the Sword Coast North is a major center of his faith.
Kelemvor (pronounced "kell-em-vor) is the Faerûnian greater god of the dead. His worshipers include the dying and their families, gravediggers, undead hunters, morticians, and mourners. Unlike most gods of death, his faith's dogma states that death is not something to be feared, but rather a path that all must eventually take. (Source: Faiths and Pantheons.

2. Races: Aasimar are humans with a touch of celestial blood from a distant ancestor (a solar angel, in the case of the Patten bloodline). They typically have one or more physical traits suggesting their otherworldly heritage (e.g. golden eyes, silver hair, emerald skin, a ringing voice, or small patches of iridescent scales). (Source: Races of Faerûn.)
Hagspawn are the male children of hags and humans. (Hags reproduce by seducing human males; the female offspring are hags, the males are hagspawn.) They are typically brutish, fairly ugly, and often not very bright, though the spirit shaman Gannayev is an exception to all three rules. (Source: Unapproachable East.)

3. Geography and Cosmology: The Sword Coast North is located on the northwest coast of Faerûn, and comprises the area from the metropolis of Waterdeep north to the frozen wastes of Icewind Dale, and east to the region known as the Savage Frontier.
The Mere of Dead Men (also known as Merdelain, or the "Slow-Marching Court" in Elvish) is a swamp on the southern half of the Sword Coast North. It is inhabited by tribes of lizardfolk, various undead, a couple of black dragons, and the Harbormen of West Harbor.
The Fugue Plane is the realm of the dead, ruled by Kelemvor. It is a gray land that is primarily a waystation for worshipers' souls, who are then collected by an agent of their patron deity and taken to their deity's home plane (e.g. Warrior's Rest for Red Knightists, the Seven Mounting Heavens of Celestia for Tyrrans, Nishrek for Baghtruans, and the City of Judgment for Kelemvorites). (Source: Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting, 3rd Edition.)
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4. Spells: Hideous blow is an invocation that lets a warlock channel his eldritch energies into a melee attack. Ammon Jerro used it in this chapter to shut Harmon Ricard up.
Eldritch blast is the basic offensive ability of the warlock class. It is a blast of pure magical energy from a reservoir in the warlock's very soul. Unlike most spells, there is no limit to the number of eldritch blasts or other invocations a warlock can cast. (Source: Complete Arcane).
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