“Yeah, yeah,” Ivan called to him, waving his hand and not wanting to hear any of it.
Of course he had no weapon. Of course he had no armor. Of course he had no idea of where he was or of how to get out of there. Of course he wouldn’t likely get fifty feet into the forest before being recaptured, probably painfully.
But none of that really mattered to the outraged dwarf. He just wanted to do something, do anything, to stick his finger in the eyes of his captors. That was the way of dwarves, after all, and of Ivan beyond the norm for his taciturn race. It was better to head-butt your enemy, even if he was wearing a full-faced plated helmet, even if it was spiked, than to stand helplessly before him.
Determined, Ivan strode through the Pikel-made gap and down the forest trail.
Pikel sighed and moved to retrieve his sandals. Hearing a commotion beyond the lea, he merely shrugged yet again and fell back to the grass and stared up at the stars. Perfectly content.
“Never would I have believed that a dwarf could move a tree without using an axe,” Innovindil remarked.
She stood at Tarathiel’s side, on a low branch overlooking the lea, observing the brothers.
“He truly is possessed of druidic magic,” Tarathiel agreed. “How is that possible?”
Innovindil giggled. “Perhaps the dwarves are moving to a higher state of consciousness, though it is hard to believe when you consider that one as the source.”
Looking at Pikel and his waggling toes, Tarathiel found it hard to disagree with the last part of her statement.
The pair watched silently as Ivan stormed out of the meadow then patiently waited the few minutes it took for the struggling dwarf to be reunited forcibly with his brother, a trio of elves dragging him back.
“This could get dangerous,” Innovindil remarked.
“We still can’t be sure of their intentions,” Tarathiel replied.
She had been pushing him all day to resolve the issue with the dwarves, leaning heavily in favor of escorting them to the edges of the Moonwood and letting them go.
“Then test him,” Innovindil said, her tone showing that she had just found a revelation. “If he is a druid, as he seems, then there is one way to prove it. Let Pikel Bouldershoulder find his judge at Montolio’s grove.”
Tarathiel stroked his thin chin, a smile growing as he considered the words. Perhaps Innovindil was on to something, which really didn’t surprise Tarathiel when he thought about it. Ever had Innovindil been the farsighted one, finding roads out of the darkest dilemmas.
He looked to her appreciatively, but she was eyeing the field, concern growing on her fair face. She nodded his way and bade him to follow, then hopped down from the branch and moved onto the field, where it looked like the confrontation between the yellow-bearded Bouldershoulder and the three elves might be about to explode.
“Hold fast, Ivan Bouldershoulder,” she called, and the attention of all five turned to her. “Your ire is not justified.”
“Bah!” the dwarf snorted, so predictably. “Ye’re locking me in, elf? How’d ya think I’d take it?”
“And I am certain that if one of us went into your homeland, he would find himself welcomed with open arms,” came the sarcastic reply.
“Probably would,” Ivan retorted, offering a snort at Pikel, who merely giggled. “Cadderly’s always been a soft one, even for a human!”
“Your dwarven homeland,” the quick-on-her-feet Innovindil clarified.
“Nah,” Ivan had to agree, “but why would an elf want to go there?”
“Why would a pair of dwarves walk out of a tree?” came the reply.
Ivan started to argue, but realized the futility of that.
“Point for yerself,” he agreed.
“And how does a dwarf coax a tree to move aside?” the elf asked, looking at Pikel.
“Doo-dad,” came the giggling response, with Pikel poking his thumb into his chest.
“Well, that is a common sight,” Tarathiel said sarcastically.
“Nothing common about that one,” Ivan agreed.
“So please excuse our confusion,” said Innovindil. “We do not wish to hold you captive, Ivan Bouldershoulder, but neither can we readily dismiss you and your curious brother. You must appreciate that you have intruded into our home, and the security of that home remains above all else.”
“I’ll give ye that point, too,” the dwarf replied, “but ye gotta be appreciatin’ that I got better things to do than sit here and watch the stars. Damned things don’t even move!”
“Oh, but they do,” Innovindil enthusiastically replied, thinking she may have found a commonality, a way to thin the ice, if not break it all together.
Her hopes only grew when Pikel hopped up and gave an assenting squeal.
“Some do, at least,” the elf explained.
She moved closer to Ivan and pointed to one particularly bright star, low on the horizon, just above the tree line. She continued for just a moment, until she took the time to look at Ivan and see him staring at her incredulously, hands on his hips.
“I think ye’re missin’ me point,” he said dryly.
“True enough,” the elf admitted.
“It ain’t like we ain’t been with elfs afore,” Ivan explained. “Fought aside a whole flock o’ them in Shilmista Forest, chasing off the orcs and goblins. They was glad for me and me brother!”
“Me brudder!” Pikel agreed.
“And perhaps we will come to be, as well,” said Innovindil. “In truth, I predict exactly that, but I beg your patience. This is too important for us to make any hasty choices.”
“Well, ain’t that like an elf,” Ivan replied with a resigned, but clearly accepting, sigh. “Seen one in Carradoon, gone to market to buy some wine. Took her time, she did, moving front to back and back to front across the winery, then course she bought the first bottle she’d seen.”
“And that elf enjoyed the experience of the purchase, as we wish to enjoy the experience of learning about Ivan and Pikel Bouldershoulder,” Innovindil explained.
“Ye’d be learning more if ye’d let us off this stupid field.”
“Perhaps, and perhaps soon.”
As she finished Innovindil glanced at Tarathiel, who obviously wasn’t sharing her generous thoughts. She gave him a hard nudge in the ribs.
“We shall see,” was all that he would admit, and that grimly.
Thibbledorf Pwent kicked a stone, launching it many feet through the air.
“Bruenor’s expecting better of ye,” scolded Cordio Muffinhead, the cleric who had accompanied the wounded back to Mithral Hall.
They had found Pwent and the Gutbuster Brigade camped along the high ground north of Keeper’s Dale, the battlerager having gone back out after escorting the main force into Mithral Hall.
What a sight that meeting had been, with Cordio and the others waving frantically to slow down the insane charge of Pwent and his boys. The relief had been palpable when Cordio had at last been able to explain that Bruenor and the others were fine and were moving along a different and roundabout course on their way back to Mithral Hall, checking in with the various settlements, as a good king must now and again.
“If he’s knowin’ me at all, then he should be knowin’ that I’m about to set off to find the fool!” Pwent argued.
“He’s knowing that ye’re a loyal warrior, who’s to do what ye’re told to do!” Cordio yelled back at him.
Pwent hopped aside and did a three-step to another stone, kicking it with all his strength. This one was much larger, though, and not quite detached from the ground, and so it hardly moved. Pwent did well to hide his newly-acquired limp.
“Ye got two camps to organize,” Cordio said sternly. “Quit breakin’ yer toes and get yer runners to Mithral Hall. Ye build a camp here and get one set up on the Surbrin, north o’ the mines.”
Pwent spat and grumbled, but he nodded and went to work, barking orders that sent the Gutbusters scrambling. That same day, what had been
a casual camp awaiting Bruenor’s return was transformed into a small fortress with walls of piled stones, perched on the north side of a mountain north of Keeper’s Dale.
The next morning, two hundred warriors left Mithral Hall, heading north to join up with the Gutbusters, while at the same time a hundred and fifty warriors moved out of Mithral Hall’s eastern gate and marched north along the banks of the Surbrin, laden with supplies for constructing the second forward outpost.
Thibbledorf Pwent immediately set his Gutbusters into a liaison mode, working the direct trails between the two camps.
It tormented Pwent to stay so far south and wait, but he did his job, though he continually sent scouting parties to the north and northeast, searching for some sign of his beloved, and absent, king. It remained foremost in his thoughts that Bruenor wouldn’t have ordered the establishment of advanced camps unless he believed they might be needed.
That only made the waiting all the more unsettling.
“He truly is a druid?” Tarathiel asked, hardly believing his ears as a pair of his clan reported the news to him that Pikel’s spells were not some trick, that the dwarf did indeed seem to have druidic magic about him.
Beside him, Innovindil could hardly contain her grin. She was truly enjoying these unexpected guests, and indeed, she had been spending quite a bit of time with Ivan, the surly one, who was about as perfectly dwarflike as any dwarf she had ever seen. She and Ivan had swapped many fine tales over the past few days, and though he remained a prisoner it was fairly obvious that Innovindil’s contact with Ivan had brightened his mood and lessened the trouble he was causing.
Still, Tarathiel thought her a fool for bothering.
“He prays, sincerely so, to Mielikki,” said one of the observers, “and there can be no doubt of his magical abilities, many of which could not be replicated by any cleric of a dwarf god.”
“It makes little sense,” Tarathiel remarked.
“Pikel Bouldershoulder makes little sense,” said the other, “but he is what he appears to be, by all that we can discern. He is a woodland priest, a ‘Doo-dad,’ as he himself puts it.”
“How powerful is his magic?” asked Tarathiel, who had always held druids in great respect.
The two observers looked at each other, their expressions showing clearly that this was a question they had feared.
“It is difficult to discern,” said the first. “Pikel’s magic is … sporadic.”
Tarathiel looked at him curiously.
“He seems to throw it as he needs it,” the other tried to explain. “Minor dweomers, mostly, though every now and again he seems possessed of a quite potent spell, one that would only be expected of a high-ranking druid, their equivalent of a high priest.”
“It seems almost as if he has caught the goddess’s fancy,” said the first. “As if Mielikki, or one of her minions, has taken a direct interest in him and is watching over him.”
Tarathiel paused a moment to digest the information, then said, “You still have not answered my question.”
“He is no more dangerous than his brother, certainly,” the first replied. “Surely no threat to us or to the Moonwood.”
“You are certain?”
“We are,” answered the second.
“Perhaps it is time for you to speak with the dwarves,” Innovindil offered.
Tarathiel paused again, thinking. “Do you think Sunrise will bear him?” he asked.
“To Montolio’s grove?”
Tarathiel nodded. “Let us see if the image of Mielikki’s symbol will look kindly upon this ‘Doo-dad’ dwarf.”
have come to view my journey through life as the convergence of three roads. First is the simple physical path, through my training in House Do’Urden, to Melee-Magthere, the drow school for warriors, and my continued tutelage under my father, Zaknafein. It was he who prepared me for the challenges, he who taught me the movements to transcend the basics of the drow martial art, indeed to think creatively about any fight. Zaknafein’s technique was more about training one’s muscles to respond, quickly and in perfect harmony, to the calls of the mind, and even more importantly, the calls of the imagination.
Improvisation, not rote responses, is what separates a warrior from a weapons master.
The road of that physical journey out of Menzoberranzan, through the wilds of the Underdark, along the mountainous trails that led me to Montolio, and from there to Icewind Dale and the loved ones I now share, has intertwined often with the second road. They are inevitably linked.
For the second road was the emotional path, the growth I have come to find in understanding and appreciation, not only of what I desire to be and to have, but of the needs of others, and the acceptance that their way of looking at the world may not coincide with my own. My second road started in confusion as the world of Menzoberranzan came clear to me and made little sense to my views. Again it was Zaknafein who crystallized the beginning steps of this road, as he showed me that there was indeed truth in that which I knew in my heart—but could not quite accept in my thoughts, perhaps—to be true. I credit Catti-brie, above all others, with furthering this journey. From the beginning, she knew to look past the reputation of my heritage and judge me for my actions and my heart, and that was such a freeing experience for me that I could not help but accept the philosophy and embrace it. In doing so I have come to appreciate so many people of various races and various cultures and various viewpoints. From each I learn, and in learning, with such an open mind, I grow.
Now, after all these adventurous years, I have come to understand that there is indeed a third road. For a long time, I thought it an extension of the second, but now I view this path as independent. It is a subtle distinction, perhaps, but not so in importance.
This third journey began the day I was born, as it does for all reasoning beings. It lay somewhat dormant for me for many years, buried beneath the demands of Menzoberranzan and my own innate understanding that the other two paths had to be sorted before the door to this third could truly open.
I opened that door in the home of Montolio deBrouchee, in Mooshie’s Grove, when I found Mielikki, when I discovered that which was in my heart and soul. That was the first step on the spiritual road, the path more of mystery than of experience, more of questions than of answers, more of faith and hope than of realization. It is the road that opens only when the needed steps have been taken along the other two. It is the path that requires the shortest steps, perhaps, but is surely the most difficult, at least at first. If the three paths are each divergent and many-forked at their beginning, and indeed, along the way—the physical is usually determined by need, the emotional by want, the spiritual—?
It is not so clear a way, and I fear that for many it never becomes so.
For myself, I know that I am on the right path, but not because I have yet found the answers. I know my way is true because I have found the questions, specifically how, why, and where.
How did I, did anyone, get here? Was it by a course of natural occurrences, or the designs of a creator or creators, or are they indeed one and the same?
In either case, why am I here? Is there indeed even a reason, or is it all pure chance and randomness?
And perhaps the most important question to any reasoning being, where will my journey take me when I have shrugged off this mortal coil?
I view this last and most important road as ultimately private. These are questions that cannot be answered to me by anyone other than me. I see many people, most people, finding their “answers” in the sermons of others. Words sanctified by age or the perceived wisdom of authors who provide a comfortable ending to their spiritual journey, provide answers to truly troubling questions. No, not an ending, but a pause, awaiting the resumption once this present experience of life as we know it ends.
Perhaps I am being unfair to the various flocks. Perhaps many within have asked themselves the questions and have found their personal answers, then found those of similar ilk with wh
om to share their revelations and comfort. If that is the case, if it is not a matter of simple indoctrination, then I envy and admire those who have advanced along their spiritual road farther than I.
For myself, I have found Mielikki, though I still have no definitive manifestation of that name in mind. And far from a pause or the ending of my journey, my discovery of Mielikki has only given me the direction I needed to ask those questions of myself in the first place. Mielikki provides me comfort, but the answers, ultimately, come from within, from that part of myself that I feel akin to the tenets of Mielikki as Montolio described them to me.
The greatest epiphany of my life came along this last and most important road: the understanding that all the rest of it, emotional and physical—and material—is naught but a platform. All of our accomplishments in the external are diminished many times over if they do not serve to turn us inward. There and only there lies our meaning, and in truth, part of the answer to the three questions is the understanding to ask them in the first place, and more than that, to recognize their penultimate importance in the course of reason.
The guiding signs of the spiritual journey will rarely be obvious, I believe, for the specific questions found along the road are often changing, and sometimes seemingly unanswerable. Even now, when all seems aright, I am faced with the puzzle of Elli-fain and the sadness of that loss. And though I feel as if I am on the greatest adventure of my life with Catti-brie, there are many questions that remain with me concerning our relationship. I try to live in the here and now with her, yet at some point she and I will have to look longer down our shared path. And both of us, I think, fear what we see.
I have to hold faith that things will clarify, that I will find the answers I need.
I have always loved the dawn. I still sit and watch every one, if my situation permits. The sun stings my eyes less now, and less with each rising, and perhaps that is some signal that it, as a representation of the spiritual, has begun to flow more deeply into my heart, my soul, and my understanding of it all.
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