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Description

    The tomb was unmarked. That was no surprise. There were others not unlike this one, scattered here and there across the realms. They were the real tombs of the greatest of Arrallon’s heroes. Since the time of The Liberators, the Heroes of Crystallis, the Silver Gryphon and even the SGL, these secret burials had taken place. There was a good enough reason for it. Those who survived had no desire to see the graves of their trusted friends desecrated, the bodies stolen for some nefarious purpose, or the survivors caught in some trap by the surviving enemies of those groups. The secret places where they were really buried were known only to a few. The survivors would visit the fake tombs, the official monuments, just enough to keep up the illusion.



    But she knew all too well where her master had been laid to rest. She had been there, though none of the Silver Gryphon knew it, when they came to take Darius Falcone away, to force him back into his armor and make him take up his sword once more. She’d seen, through the magics the old Dragonmaster had put in place all around his lair, what they did, how they taunted him back into the world,… how they used his daughter, his real daughter, to drag him out into the fight once more. And she’d been watching when he fell in battle. She knew he would not be coming back. She never even got to say goodbye.



    Standing before the tomb of the Adamant Dragonmaster, secure behind walls and guards at the Temple of Bahamut in New Calladon, she wondered who he’d thought of in his last moments. Was it his real daughter, the half-elf known as Seranda Falcone,… or was it her, the half-elf girl he’d adopted? Adopted seemed such a gentle word for their relationship. Perhaps abducted and pressed into servitude would have been more appropriate. But she wasn’t feeling appropriate today. She was feeling abandoned, alone all over again. Never mind it had been over ten years since he’d died.



    The feeling washed through her like the sad tones of her violin. Her feet were moved to dance, but the dance she had in mind was more like shuffling along in a funeral procession. Her strings moaned out their refrain of pain and loss. She had come here once a year, on the anniversary of his death, when she could make it back to New Calladon. The guards and the dragons that held this holy ground permitted her entrance. She didn’t even have to drop any names anymore to get in. They all seemed to know her song by now. And no other could play it quite like she could.



    The music dropped down low. It hovered there for a time, swirling in the snow and carrying her mind back to that time, all those years ago, when she’d first seen a knight in shining adamant armor, astride a bronze dragon. The battle, the War of the Wolf Hordes had come to her home, a small, forgotten village of Elves in the high mountains north of Dragaard. Her mother, her father, she didn’t even remember them now. Her birth name was gone in that one horrible nightmare. She lost everything there in the snow, barely the equivalent of a human of twelve or thirteen summers. But that was only the beginning of her torments.



    She was taken down out of the mountains with a band of refugees, fleeing the war. But even after the Black Witch and her armies were defeated, even after Duke Gorrax’s Red Dragon scouts were crushed and disbanded, those refugees continued to suffer. She was lost in the masses of the port town of Goblinvale. And there she became one of the street people. Her natural talent for music, however, kept her from having to sell herself to survive. But it didn’t keep her from having to steal.



    One day, many years later, quite by chance, or so she thought, she picked the wrong pocket. The old man was fast, way too fast for one of his advanced years. He snagged her in a magical trap and held her there, trying to decide what to do with her. Before she knew it, she was hundreds of leagues away, in a smelly, dank cave. That’s when she became a slave to the man who’d been struck not by her musical talents, but by nightmares of his own misdeeds forty years earlier. That face, that innocent round Half-Elven face, was the last thing he remembered in that long ago battle. As the smoke and the blasted rocks settled, through the low ice fog, the snow and mud, he’d seen that one horrified little girl, clutching her violin and what was left of her father’s hand. The look of utter shock and horror, the vacant stare out into nowhere, her face caked in soot and blood, had seared its way into his heart. He knew then he could never rest until that unforgettable sin had been atoned. It had been his battle plan that brought the armies to that village. He had led the dragon wings that attacked the Gnoll lines and fought the Red Dragon squadron. It was his fault.



    It was many years later before she finally realized who her new master was. True, he was gruff, occasionally yelled,… like only a dragon can, and was a harsh task master. But he never laid a hand on her in anger, and she never feared that he would. In the early days, she half expected to be abused, raped, at least ogled and leered at,… but he was always the perfect gentleman, though she was never quite sure what was going on behind that old blue and silver leather patch over his left eye.



    General Darius Falcone had left her a legacy. It was not the same as the legacy he’d left his daughter and her adopted mother, his dead Elven wife’s twin sister. They didn’t need his money, his treasure horde. They had their own riches, their own power and connections. But the orphan girl, the one who played such soothing tones that even an old dragon could fall asleep smiling,… she needed something more. She’d served him for twenty years when he finally died. He left her everything he had,… everything except his magical swords. They would go to the Church of Bahamut.



    Not only wealth did he leave her, but powerful connections. She was soon taken in by the Kingdom of Carellon, assigned as attaché to the 4th Dragon Wing out of Dragaard, Darius’ old command. But a life at court and hobnobbing with nobles was not to her taste or her skills. She left after a time and gained introduction to the Dragodrome, far south in Sancrist. There she learned her P’s and Q’s and graduated with honors.



    Now, she is on her own again, seeking something she’s not sure of, destined for greatness if her master was to be believed. He should be. He never lied. And though his heart weighed heavy for all the things he’d done in his life, he was a good man, a knight, a commander, a Dragonmaster. He deserved greater honors in death than he received. But at least one Half-Elf would never forget him, and she’d never fail to make it to his tomb once a year. There was a favorite tune of his that needed to be played, and none could do it quite like the first Wyrmsinger in a century.



----------



    Cadence Clearwater

    Half-Elf (Carellonian/Sylvisan Elf) Bard/Wyrmsinger



    Alignment: NG (-5/16)



    Height: 5’ 5”

    Weight: 124#



    Age: 81 (Young Adult)

    Birthdate: 11 Sixlue 18490



    Str 12

    Dex 18

    Con 14

    Int 18

    Wis 16

    Cha 18

    Luc 18

    Brv 14

    Cms 18



    Honor: 10

    Fame: 14

    Piety: 12

    Station: 8

    Sex Drive: 16

    Sex Ability: 18



    Traits: Acute Sense (racial – touch & hearing), Allure, Ambidextrous, Exact Time Sense, Friend (dragons), Greasy Luck, Natural Born Artist.



    Social Aspects: Graduate (Dragodrome), Contacts (Major +0: various members of the Carellonian Dragon Wings and the court of the Duchess of Dragomonte), Contacts (Minor +4: various street musicians, thugs, and syndicate types in Goblinvale).



    Disads: In Service (The Platinum Order, secret society of mages in service of the Church of Bahamut, direct report – Lady Aurellia Jheren, the Golden Dragonmage), Enemy (Deadly DC2, the old enemies of General Darius Falcone and The Olde Silver Gryphon – specifically, any remaining or new members of The Jeweled Cobra, any remaining members of Duke Gorrax’s Red Dragon scouts).

Description

    The tomb was unmarked. That was no surprise. There were others not unlike this one, scattered here and there across the realms. They were the real tombs of the greatest of Arrallon’s heroes. Since the time of The Liberators, the Heroes of Crystallis, the Silver Gryphon and even the SGL, these secret burials had taken place. There was a good enough reason for it. Those who survived had no desire to see the graves of their trusted friends desecrated, the bodies stolen for some nefarious purpose, or the survivors caught in some trap by the surviving enemies of those groups. The secret places where they were really buried were known only to a few. The survivors would visit the fake tombs, the official monuments, just enough to keep up the illusion.



    But she knew all too well where her master had been laid to rest. She had been there, though none of the Silver Gryphon knew it, when they came to take Darius Falcone away, to force him back into his armor and make him take up his sword once more. She’d seen, through the magics the old Dragonmaster had put in place all around his lair, what they did, how they taunted him back into the world,… how they used his daughter, his real daughter, to drag him out into the fight once more. And she’d been watching when he fell in battle. She knew he would not be coming back. She never even got to say goodbye.



    Standing before the tomb of the Adamant Dragonmaster, secure behind walls and guards at the Temple of Bahamut in New Calladon, she wondered who he’d thought of in his last moments. Was it his real daughter, the half-elf known as Seranda Falcone,… or was it her, the half-elf girl he’d adopted? Adopted seemed such a gentle word for their relationship. Perhaps abducted and pressed into servitude would have been more appropriate. But she wasn’t feeling appropriate today. She was feeling abandoned, alone all over again. Never mind it had been over ten years since he’d died.



    The feeling washed through her like the sad tones of her violin. Her feet were moved to dance, but the dance she had in mind was more like shuffling along in a funeral procession. Her strings moaned out their refrain of pain and loss. She had come here once a year, on the anniversary of his death, when she could make it back to New Calladon. The guards and the dragons that held this holy ground permitted her entrance. She didn’t even have to drop any names anymore to get in. They all seemed to know her song by now. And no other could play it quite like she could.



    The music dropped down low. It hovered there for a time, swirling in the snow and carrying her mind back to that time, all those years ago, when she’d first seen a knight in shining adamant armor, astride a bronze dragon. The battle, the War of the Wolf Hordes had come to her home, a small, forgotten village of Elves in the high mountains north of Dragaard. Her mother, her father, she didn’t even remember them now. Her birth name was gone in that one horrible nightmare. She lost everything there in the snow, barely the equivalent of a human of twelve or thirteen summers. But that was only the beginning of her torments.



    She was taken down out of the mountains with a band of refugees, fleeing the war. But even after the Black Witch and her armies were defeated, even after Duke Gorrax’s Red Dragon scouts were crushed and disbanded, those refugees continued to suffer. She was lost in the masses of the port town of Goblinvale. And there she became one of the street people. Her natural talent for music, however, kept her from having to sell herself to survive. But it didn’t keep her from having to steal.



    One day, many years later, quite by chance, or so she thought, she picked the wrong pocket. The old man was fast, way too fast for one of his advanced years. He snagged her in a magical trap and held her there, trying to decide what to do with her. Before she knew it, she was hundreds of leagues away, in a smelly, dank cave. That’s when she became a slave to the man who’d been struck not by her musical talents, but by nightmares of his own misdeeds forty years earlier. That face, that innocent round Half-Elven face, was the last thing he remembered in that long ago battle. As the smoke and the blasted rocks settled, through the low ice fog, the snow and mud, he’d seen that one horrified little girl, clutching her violin and what was left of her father’s hand. The look of utter shock and horror, the vacant stare out into nowhere, her face caked in soot and blood, had seared its way into his heart. He knew then he could never rest until that unforgettable sin had been atoned. It had been his battle plan that brought the armies to that village. He had led the dragon wings that attacked the Gnoll lines and fought the Red Dragon squadron. It was his fault.



    It was many years later before she finally realized who her new master was. True, he was gruff, occasionally yelled,… like only a dragon can, and was a harsh task master. But he never laid a hand on her in anger, and she never feared that he would. In the early days, she half expected to be abused, raped, at least ogled and leered at,… but he was always the perfect gentleman, though she was never quite sure what was going on behind that old blue and silver leather patch over his left eye.



    General Darius Falcone had left her a legacy. It was not the same as the legacy he’d left his daughter and her adopted mother, his dead Elven wife’s twin sister. They didn’t need his money, his treasure horde. They had their own riches, their own power and connections. But the orphan girl, the one who played such soothing tones that even an old dragon could fall asleep smiling,… she needed something more. She’d served him for twenty years when he finally died. He left her everything he had,… everything except his magical swords. They would go to the Church of Bahamut.



    Not only wealth did he leave her, but powerful connections. She was soon taken in by the Kingdom of Carellon, assigned as attaché to the 4th Dragon Wing out of Dragaard, Darius’ old command. But a life at court and hobnobbing with nobles was not to her taste or her skills. She left after a time and gained introduction to the Dragodrome, far south in Sancrist. There she learned her P’s and Q’s and graduated with honors.



    Now, she is on her own again, seeking something she’s not sure of, destined for greatness if her master was to be believed. He should be. He never lied. And though his heart weighed heavy for all the things he’d done in his life, he was a good man, a knight, a commander, a Dragonmaster. He deserved greater honors in death than he received. But at least one Half-Elf would never forget him, and she’d never fail to make it to his tomb once a year. There was a favorite tune of his that needed to be played, and none could do it quite like the first Wyrmsinger in a century.



----------



    Cadence Clearwater

    Half-Elf (Carellonian/Sylvisan Elf) Bard/Wyrmsinger



    Alignment: NG (-5/16)



    Height: 5’ 5”

    Weight: 124#



    Age: 81 (Young Adult)

    Birthdate: 11 Sixlue 18490



    Str 12

    Dex 18

    Con 14

    Int 18

    Wis 16

    Cha 18

    Luc 18

    Brv 14

    Cms 18



    Honor: 10

    Fame: 14

    Piety: 12

    Station: 8

    Sex Drive: 16

    Sex Ability: 18



    Traits: Acute Sense (racial – touch & hearing), Allure, Ambidextrous, Exact Time Sense, Friend (dragons), Greasy Luck, Natural Born Artist.



    Social Aspects: Graduate (Dragodrome), Contacts (Major +0: various members of the Carellonian Dragon Wings and the court of the Duchess of Dragomonte), Contacts (Minor +4: various street musicians, thugs, and syndicate types in Goblinvale).



    Disads: In Service (The Platinum Order, secret society of mages in service of the Church of Bahamut, direct report – Lady Aurellia Jheren, the Golden Dragonmage), Enemy (Deadly DC2, the old enemies of General Darius Falcone and The Olde Silver Gryphon – specifically, any remaining or new members of The Jeweled Cobra, any remaining members of Duke Gorrax’s Red Dragon scouts).