Amliwyn
Amliwyn was my second character on the Neverwinter Nights roleplay server "Savage Frontier". She was an elven cleric of Shiallia who had shifted her worship to Shevarash after a Drow warband slaughtered her village. I did not do much writing about her, which is a pity because she had one of the most fascinating lives of any of characters. She hated the drow, yet fell in love with a man who was half-drow. He was also, sadly, of demonic blood and his infant nearly killed her whilst it was still in the womb. Her dear friend, Scarecrow, performed a particularily horrific abortion for her - which she survived although her sanity was questionable for sometime afterward.
And then came Carver, a truly evil wretch whose charm disguised his wickedness long enough for her to become hopelessly entangled with him. Their relationship was tender but volatile at times... As far as Mark & I are considered, even though we ceased playing them, the reformed murderer and the gentle priestess rode off into the sunset to make little half-elven infants.
Vengeance
Vengeance
Author's Note : This story is more-or-less Amliwyn's history and takes place before she reaches Nesmé.
The gleaming blade sliced through the moonless night; a rush of wind swept across her cheek proving how narrowly her foe had missed. The weapon slammed into her large, golden shield, clanging loudly upon impact. Recoiling, she rolled backwards, rapidly whispering an incantation. He shrieked in pain as a divine bolt scorched from the sky and through his writhing body and the man fell to the ground.
“Amli,” a soft voice spoke and she turned. “Amliwyn, I love you. I want you to be my…my wife.”
Amber eyes, filled with adoration and hope stared back at her and the vision – seen through her own eyes – blurred with tears.
“Riathon…I love you.”
Strong arms encircled her, fingertips calloused by decades of lute strings caressing her cheek. She heard her own voice murmur into his ear.
“Sing for me love, sing for me…”
Reality thundered back as the lightening died away prematurely. She bit back a curse of frusteration and leapt forward, raising her enchanted morningstar over her head, poised to strike.
“Xas,” he hissed, his common was broken as he taunted her. “Kill me. I am one only. More come – filled with hate. You will die.”
She spat in contempt, and swung her weapon down, the momentum carrying her forward.
“She is beautiful, Amliwyn…your pale hair and Riathon’s golden eyes. Oh my, will she break a few hearts once she is of an age.”
“What shall we call her, beloved?” His raven hair fell lose over his shoulder, amber eyes like flames in the flickering candlelight. His sister, Ka’liel, a twin despite her carrot-colored hair and emerald eyes, stopped the haunting tune and lowered her flute, listening expectantly.
She gazed upon the child, still slick with the fluids of birth and trailed delicate fingers across the tuft of white-blond curls atop the tiny head.
“Samtynntira…” She heard herself whisper. “My little golden angel.”
The flail struck low, crumpling the decorative panel on his left shoulder and putting a large pent in the plate below. The force of the blow carried her off balance and the man, sensing opportunity staggered on his feet. Scorched flesh dangled obscenely from one arm. Despite obvious agony he gripped the sword’s hilt with both hands. Howling, the man whirled, bringing the blade up at an angle designed to lay open her armor, and with luck, her entire torso.
Though she saw the movement and pushed herself to one side, the weapon connected and the flat of the blade slammed into her spine. Pain seared through her body and Amliwyn heard herself cry out.
She turned from the window; sitting before the hearthfire were the two people she loved most. They were deep in conversation, occasionally he would reach over helping her places her fingers properly on the lute strings.
“Sam, try this,” Riathon said – and his fingers danced across the strings. Amliwyn felt a smile spread across her lips as her half-grown daughter watched, brow furrowed. Samwynntira nodded, then her small tongue poked out from the corner of her lips and she imitated her father’s song.
“Amliwyn, let’s leave them to the lesson,” a soft voice implored.
The scene shifted abruptly and they were walking down a cobbled path.
“It has been eighteen decades Amli, I am afraid I will not conceive.”
“Shiallia has her reasons, I am certain,” she saw her own hand trail across her belly and sighed. “Oh, Elorielle… I long for a second child every day. Perhaps-“
Her sister’s eyes brightened. “A pilgrimage. Yes! We shall travel to Silverymoon and speak directly to her… at her own shrine.”
“And leave Riathon and Sam for so long?”
Elorielle smiled, meeting her eyes. “It is perfect timing. And we will return in time for the festival.”
Amliwyn nodded.
On her back, she was defenseless. Her opponant knew this and circled slowly, spewing hateful words in a tongue she only vaguely understood. A heavy, armored foot rested on her chest. The man hissed and raised his weapon.
She waited, choosing her moment carefully. One hand slithered into her boot, straining to grasp the dagger hidden there, but from her position it was nearly impossible. Suddenly he lurched downward, intending to lop off her head.
At the last moment she rolled, his blade dragged across her neck lightly, leaving a thin ribbon of blood behind. With a grunt, Amliwyn gripped the hilt and yanked it free, gracefully rolling to her feet. She drove the knife into his neck, gore spurting onto her hand. He stumbled backward, gaping.
Amliwyn swayed, dizzy, then began to chant calling divine energy down upon the man.
Nothing happened.
Cursing, she shouted the spell again – desperation in her voice. He staggered at her, hands closing around her throat.
“Goddess!” Amliwyn gasped and swung her fist at his head, still he hung on, squeezing.
They had climbed a long, lazy hill and were approaching its peak. She could see the familiar contours of the land and felt herself smile. Conversation flowed easily. She remembered the hope they were filled with, singing as they trudged home.
They crested the hill and fell silent, the song dying on their lips. Below them, where once had sat a bustling little elven village, was a smoking ruin.
“A-Amli…?”
She shook her head, then took off down the hill at a dead run.
The scene that awaited them was horrific. Every single citizen burned in their beds or slaughtered in the streets. Amliwyn remembered single-minded resolve as she passed by friends and family – many unrecognizable – searching for her husband and child.
“Noooo!” The scream echoed across the dead town, and she followed it. At the base of a tall tree, Elorielle was on her knees, sobbing, digging her fingers into her eyes. Amliwyn heard a creak and looked up. Hanging from the very tree they had been married beneath, was Elorielle’s husband. His ears were missing and one hand had been sliced at the wrist.
She watched, unable to act as her sister spat a curse against Lloth and her spawn – then pulled her short sword from the sheath at her waist. “Kill them, Amli… kill them for what they’ve done.”
Elorielle plunged the blade into her own chest.
It was surreal. She turned, no tears, no sound, and stepped over her sister’s corpse.
Suddenly, the vision stuttered. One image flashed and then another. Riathon’s sister, Ka’liel, her throat slit from ear to ear. Her parents, charred beyond recognition. Riathon, his beautiful talented fingers severed, laying in a pool of blood – he had been run through. And last, worst. The expression of agony and terror upon the face of her daughter. Blond curls were soaked in blood, but there was no evidence of what the girl had suffered before she died – her body was never found.
A primal scream erupted from her lips and she ripped her dagger from his throat. She hacked at his neck until his hands dropped then after the corpse hit the floor with a thud, and kept stabbing until the strength left her body. Then she collapsed, crying.
“Shiallia,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse as she prayed, but for the first time, the curative light that appeared fizzled completely and her wounds remained. Sitting back, wincing, Amliwyn stared down her her hands, slick with the blood of her enemy mingling with her own. She reached a hand into the neck of her armor and withdrew a thin chain. Dangling from the end was a broken arrow over a teardrop. She whispered a prayer of gratitude for borrowed strength and closed her eyes.
Thirty years of deaths flashed through her minds eye as she bound her own injuries. Three decades of murder and revenge and… She pushed herself to her feet, using the wall for leverage. For a moment, she felt regret, staring down at the gory body. Then the sight of her daughter’s beautiful face contorted by agony and fear appeared in her mind and Amliwyn spat on him.
“You will not be the last,” she vowed, moving away slowly, her battered body objecting with every step.