Pool of Radiance_ Ruins of Myth Drannor - Carrie Bebris [16]
An older elf, perhaps the human equivalent of sixty-five, knelt before the altar but rose when the party entered. Unlike Faeril, he wore the simple garb of a cleric. A length of white cloth was wrapped around his waist and secured over one shoulder. His other shoulder and half his torso remained bare. He seemed to have begun losing muscle mass in his upper body, but his chest did not yet have the sunken appearance of an older man. The elf’s graying hair flowed to his shoulders, and around his neck, barely visible beneath a pointed beard, he wore a medallion that matched Faeril’s.
He took several steps toward them on bare feet. His eyes, dark as coal but warm as a summer rain, seemed to look not at the foursome but past them. After a moment, Kestrel realized why: The older cleric was blind.
“You are new in Myth Drannor, yes?” the holy man inquired. Though handicapped by blindness, he had a strong, self-assured voice. “I am Beriand, Mystra’s servant. Welcome to our sanctuary.”
The group answered the elves’ inquiry as to whether any of the party needed healing, and gratefully accepted an invitation to partake of an evening meal. Kestrel was so hungry she almost could have eaten the Bell’s five-day potluck soup. Almost. Fortunately, the clerics’ vegetable stew looked and smelled far more appealing.
Corran and Durwyn removed their armor before the meal. Eased of the burden of its weight, they relaxed visibly. Even their faces appeared less strained. Kestrel took the opportunity to study the paladin. Sweat dampened his short dark hair, which had been trapped beneath his helmet most of the day. Though he appeared less intimidating without his armor, Corran was still a formidable figure. His carriage revealed a man confident of his place in the world. He moved about as if he had a right to be there-wherever “there” was at the moment, be it the streets of Myth Drannor, the pool cavern of Valjevo castle, or this temple to a god not his own.
Durwyn, by contrast, appeared ill at ease in the shrine. He moved as if trying to confine his large body to the smallest space possible, a trait she hadn’t noticed when they were in battle or out of doors. Was it the temple, she wondered? Did he feel out of his element because this was a holy setting, or was he comfortable only in a combat environment?
The makeshift shelter had only three chairs, so the whole group sat in a half-circle on the floor as they ate. Beriand and Faeril sat in the center, with Ghleanna and Corran on one side of them. Kestrel and Durwyn sat on the other.
During the repast, the clerics explained how they came to be in Myth Drannor. “Few elves venture to this haunted city,” Beriand said. “Since the year our race finally abandoned Myth Drannor altogether, our leaders have discouraged return, and the evil creatures who overtook its streets and dwellings did their part to deter all but the most stalwart-or foolish.”
“Yet you came,” Kestrel said between hungry mouthfuls.
“We were called,” he responded.
“Beriand had visions that led us here,” Faeril explained. “He saw Mystra amid the ruins of Myth Drannor.”
“I believe it was a ‘genesis vision’-an image sent by Mystra to summon us here, back to where our sect began.” Though sightless, Beriand’s eyes shone with devotion to his goddess. “Our sect was founded in this city centuries ago by a priestess of Mystra named Anorrweyn Evensong.”
“Several months ago we journeyed here with six other clerics,” Faeril said. “But we never reached Anorrweyn’s temple. When we arrived at the city Heights, someone launched a huge fireball at our party. It killed all but the two of us.”
Corran gasped. “Unprovoked? Who would do such a thing to holy men and women?”
“We still do not know,” said Beriand. “We retreated into an undercity complex carved out long ago by dwarves, only to find the so-called ‘dwarven dungeons’ crawling with drow. Such an abomination