Another book landed with a thump.  The smell of mildew pervaded the room, dust billowing from under the rapidly growing stack of books lying on the floor beside the desk.  With a muttered curse, Fizzban dismissed the tome he was reading as useless, and proceeded to open another.  Brushing at the sleeves of his burnished robe, he bent close over the pages, the keen lines of his bearded face alight from the candle resting an arm’s length away.

The hunt had not gone well that day, the enchanter mused as he read.  Though he was no stranger to the life or death struggle that oft demanded his attention during the course of his career, this particular struggle was quite different indeed.  The quest today was knowledge – the enemy, ignorance.  His most powerful weapons were simple perseverance and tenacity – two traits with which he had quite a history in his chosen line of work.  Of the two archetypes, Fizzban continued to debate with himself which was the most arduous to undertake.

Though this wouldn’t be the first time the enchanter found himself hovering over a book late into the night, this evening’s efforts were markedly different than any he had undertaken before.  Nocturnal studies in the mystic arts were commonplace, but this night’s study was a race.  Moreover, it was a race against time, and he felt as if he were falling further behind with every hour that passed.

“Here’s something,” a voice said from across the musty room.

“What is it?” Fizzban asked, looking up with tired eyes to find Lorr the bard hunched over a book of his own.

“Does this mean anything to you?” Lorr asked, reaching down to mark with his hand the words he quoted from the page.  “‘Daylight falls to the bane of light and warmth, for the shadow congeals in its temporal form, rooted from the sins of lands abroad to lend birth to the black and skeletal tower standing in reign over the realm of the pristine.  A mockery of life and the mimicry of matter, all that is seen, heard and felt within be traced to the one and only truth from which all falsehoods bear: Frozen Shadow, simulacrum and antithesis of life.’”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger, the enchanter nodded and gestured irritably for the bard to go on.

“’Hark be to the wary,’” Lorr continued.  “’The nature of shadow transcends its counterpart to life, which harbors no manifestation beyond the ephemeral constraints of mortality and the will that binds it to the realm of the living.  Time is the great equalizer in all things, to which no force of resolve can deny.’”

Tishalulle made a rude noise from across the room.  “Whoever wrote that needs an arrow shoved up their-“

“It was penned by an Erudite named, Bonyeur Rassmusen,” Fizzban interrupted, flipping a page in his own book.

Shocked, Lorr cast a brief glance at Tishalulle and back at the enchanter.  “That’s right,” he declared.  “B. Rassmusen, chief researcher in the Velious expedition, year 3144.  How did you know that?”

“I studied with him at the academy in Freeport,” Fizzban replied, his tone distasteful.  “He was the most brilliant student in his day, without peer among any two of us.  Upon graduation, he was immediately offered the position of High Researcher at the library in Erudin – an opportunity never before extended to any unfielded spell caster.”

“That doesn’t sound too encouraging,” Tishalulle muttered, closing her own book.

“What the text fails to mention,” the enchanter continued, “is that the man was an incorrigible bastard.  His philosophy was to assume the worst in regards to the ambiguous.  When confronted with an academic unknown, his knee-jerk reaction inevitably spelled the doom of all involved whenever conceivably possible.  Working with him was a study in taking cynicism to new heights, even to the point of proving a given.  I can only imagine what working with him in the real world was like.”

“Was…?” Lorr asked with a smirk.

Fizzban nodded.  “During an expedition to prove his theory of a continent existing south of Velious, he attempted to prove that it was impossible to sink an iron ship of Gnomish design by ramming it into an ice berg.”

Moments passed in silence as the ranger and bard both stared blankly at the enchanter. 

“He was wrong,” Fizzban said with a leer.

Tension broke, and the three of them fell into laughter.  Chuckling, Lorr added his book to the growing stack and reached for another to peruse.

Tishalulle stretched and yawned, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.  “I need a break,” she declared, her wooden chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.

“There’s a water basin up in the passage,” Fizzban offered, flipping another page.  “Some washrags, too.  I figured we’d need them before the night is out.”

“Good man,” the ranger said, playfully hitting the enchanter’s arm as she passed by on her way to the stairs.

As promised, a large white bowl filled with clear water rested on a hall table not far from the cellar door where Tishalulle exited.  The fresh smell of rain pervaded the passageway, fed by the open window at the hall’s end.  The warm draft rustled the gossamer draperies, as if the unseen hands of the dead handled the folds of sheer cloth – answering the subject matter she’d been studying that night.  Thunder rumbled far in the distance, to which the ranger smiled broadly.  For a worshipper of Karana, the coming of a storm was an omen of immensely good tidings.

Snorting derisively, Tishalulle counted her blessings – not the least of which was being out of the dry, stuffy air of the basement where Fizzban kept his books.  Stepping over to the table, she dipped the top rag into the water and bathed her face in the cool, moist cloth.  Stray droplets fell back into the basin, the sound of their ingenuous dripping a peaceful contrast to the storm mounting outside.

Approaching the open window, the ranger considered possibly going for a walk outside to greet the weather front, when the sound of a door opening gave her pause.  Turning, she found a small blonde figure wrapped in a woolen bedcover, as if fighting off some phantom chill in the summer night.

“Faun, you’re supposed to be in bed,” Tishalulle said in accusation.

“I can’t sleep,” the druid answered, approaching.

“More dreams?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Faun muttered softly. 

Stepping close, she gratefully accepted the ranger’s comforting arm around her shoulders as they both stared out the darkening window.  The wind grew to ardent proportions, causing the trees to bow wildly in its midst.  Faun watched as nature’s force ripped wildly at the world outside, captivated by such ferocity as the lightning drew closer with each electric flash.

“It looks like Karana’s pulling for you, my dear,” Tishalulle commented.

A small chuckle escaped the druid’s nose, her smile stretching into a broad grin.  “I used to hate the rain.  Storms,” she replied, her eyes still glued to the spectacle unfolding before them.  “They’re loud, blinding, and obnoxious when you’re trying to get anywhere in the wilderness.  They always scared me as a small girl when they woke me in the night.”

Shaking her head with a smirk, Tishalulle didn’t comment.

“But now I don’t mind them so much,” Faun continued.  “They make everything alive out there that would otherwise be still.  They give life to the land in so many ways.  They even make me feel alive.”

The ranger’s eyes glanced suspiciously with lowered lids at the druid.  Faun closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath of the stormy air blowing through the window.

“And they smell good, too,” she concluded.

“You seem unusually calm,” Tishalulle observed.  “More so than I’ve seen you in months.”

Faun nodded, her features suitably placid.

Small spatterings of rain began to find their way inside, causing Tishalulle to step up and slide the window home.  Turning, the ranger faced the blanket-wrapped Wood Elf with folded arms and a poignant expression.

“I’ve decided not to stay,” Faun explained somberly.  “I want to go home.”

“Home?  To Kelethin?  We were just there not too long ago,” Tishalulle asked, somewhat surprised.

“To the Faydark,” Faun corrected.  “It’s been so long since I took the time to stroll among the trees and grass and truly feel a part of the forest.  It’s been forever since I dressed in something other than layer upon layer of hardened leather and focused my attention on absolutely nothing.  I want to recapture that lost wonder, Tish.  I want to pretend that none of the past years ever happened, and I’m still the naïve little girl who knows nothing about griffons or giants or wielding the power to obliterate them from the face of Norrath.”

Tishalulle’s stone-like features softened as she listened to the druid’s reflections.

“Lying in bed and listening to the storm approaching, I realized this is exactly what I’ve been missing from my life.  I looked up at the stone ceiling and rafters and I thought to myself, if the end came right now – this very moment – would I be satisfied?  Do I want these walls to be the last things I see?”

Pausing a moment to take in her stone surroundings, she looked back to the ranger and shook her head slowly.

“When the time comes, Tish, I want to die among the trees I love.  I want to die in the Faydark, surrounded by nothing but the gentle mists and nature’s melodies.”

Stepping forward, Tishalulle cupped the Wood Elf’s face in one hand.  “My dear sweet one,” she whispered.  “That time is far away.  We may yet find a solution to your illness.  Even now, Fizzban and Lorr are hard at work downstairs, searching for any reference to the-“

“Time is shorter than we thought,” Faun interjected.

“What do you mean?” the ranger asked with a small laugh, thinking the druid flippant.  Stepping back, she took in the Wood Elf’s appearance as if everything looked fine.

“It’s started,” the druid explained.  “I can feel my legs tremble slightly as I get out of bed in the morning.  I become winded as I climb the stairs in this place.  By now, I’m sure you’ve noticed the afternoon walks I take are growing shorter by the day.”

Pressing her lips together, the ranger couldn’t deny it.

“I’m tired, Tish,” Faun said beseechingly.  “Please don’t misunderstand, I appreciate the effort you and Fizzy and Lorr are putting into finding a cure, but something is telling me that our time is nearly gone.  Soon I won’t be able to journey anywhere, so I need to take advantage of the time I have left.  I want to spend it traveling to Faydwer, and seeing the world along the way.  No teleportation or complicated magics, either.  I want to feel the ground beneath my feet and the wind in my hair.  Just simple, basic travel one last time.”

Her brow furrowed, Tishalulle took the Wood Elf by her upper arms.  “You can’t give up on this, Faun,” she declared.  “Not when we’re so close!  All we need is a little more time…”

Faun merely stared at her friend, her eyes deep.

Tishalulle returned down the cellar stairs, her stride markedly less enthusiastic than before.  Noticing this, Lorr sat back in his chair.

“Everything all right, hon?” he asked, concerned.

Swallowing the bile in her throat, the ranger nodded.  “As long as we find something quickly,” she said, reaching the bottom.  “If we don’t find a cure by nightfall tomorrow, she wants to go back to Faydwer.”

Fizzban looked up with a raised eyebrow.  “What’s in Faydwer?” he asked.

“Her home,” Tishalulle said simply.  “She said she… It’s where she wants to die.”

The bard and enchanter exchanged silent looks.  Moments passed before Fizzban cleared his throat.

“That may not be necessary,” he said softly.

Raising her head, Tishalulle took a step forward.  “What?”

His expression grave, Fizzban slid the tome he was reading toward the ranger, who immediately picked it up and began to read the passage to herself silently.  Before long, she shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said, finishing the page.  “No, she can’t do this.”

“If she doesn’t, she’s dead,” Fizzban said, leaving no room for argument.  “The Plane of Growth is the only realm capable of stopping the process.  She must go there, and there she must stay, or the degeneration will continue until she dies.”

“You don’t understand, Fizz,” the ranger insisted.  “Faun and Tunare are not on good terms.“

Standing suddenly, Fizzban pressed his hands against the desktop before him.  “I do understand,” he said firmly.  “Nevertheless, whatever quarrel she has with her goddess must be rectified, or she will be lost.”

“It’s not as easy as that, Fizz.” Tishalulle returned the book to the table.  “She has very serious issues that can’t simply be swept aside because they’re inconvenient.  It doesn’t work that way.”

“Tish,” came Lorr’s gentle voice from beside the ranger.

Turning, Tishalulle confronted the somber features of the man she loved.

“Lorr, tell him,” she said.  “If she goes to the goddess, she’ll be spurned from Her realm.  She will!  There has to be another way!”

“My dear,” the bard began, reaching out to comfort the distraught woman.  “I don’t know that.  And frankly, neither do you.  This is a choice she has to make.  We can continue rifling through these tomes, but I truly believe it will be in vain.”

“There lies but two paths before her,” Fizzban said, now standing erect.  “One we already know about.  The other lies in her redemption to the Mother of All.”

“Either way,” Lorr finished, “it means she will be leaving Norrath.  Probably forever.”

Part IV

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