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Attalus · 10-21-2002, 06:57 PM

This is the beginning of my new story about Veldren, the son of Viconia and Attalus. (See my prev story, The Siege of Baldur's Gate. here

One crisp winter morning in the old and famous city of Baldur's Gate, a magician walking to a morning meeting was ruffled by the passage of a sprinting youth who tore past her in a flurry of feet, brushing her cloak. The affronted mage was about to send a mild curse, like an hour's hiccups or a nose pimple towards the boy, but he turned around and doffed his velvet cap from his crisp black curls and flashed her a grin that melted her animosity. Such a handsome boy, she though to herself as she continued on her way.
The boy ran on, trying to avoid any other passers-by, past a huge bronze statue. He did not pause to study it, for he knew it all too well. It depicted three fighting figures. One was an apparently human warrior with fine features set in a stern gaze, concentrating on his target, the throat of a hideous figure that seemed to be elfin by its ears, but whose face contained eight eyes and was set in an expression of mindless animosity. The man's great sword was in full swing at the thing's neck. The third figure was an elfin woman in armor whose beautiful face was set in a fierce scowl as she aimed a great hammer at the monster's mid-section. The whole effect was of Right destroying Wrong, brave beings beating down brutality with righteous anger. The youth pulled his cap free again and waved it at the statue in salute, as he always did. "Hi, Mom and Dad," he shouted.
Sir Attalus Delange, Duke of Baldur's Gate, and his lovely wife, the drow elf Viconia, were enjoying a late breakfast on their balcony overlooking Thanksgiving Square when they heard the clatter of feet on the staircase. Viconia half-rose and called out, "Veldren, is that you?" The clatter stopped, to be replaced by slower steps that headed their way.
The aforementioned youth, now in fine color from the flush of his run, stepped out on the balcony and bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. She was still just as lovely as the first day that he had seen her, Attalus thought with a smile, remembering the startlement that he had felt when a drow woman had come rushing up to him, demanding help from a pursuing militiaman. Even then, when she should have been in fear of her life, she had seemed lovely and naive to him, rushing up to a stranger in all confidence. His life had changed forever that day. He had never regretted any of it, even now as he had grown middle-aged and gray, while she remained as beautiful as a painting by some unknown master.
Viconia sedately accepted her son's salute. She then shook her finger at him. "Veldren," she said sternly, "you should have been at your dancing class an hour ago. The dancing master has sent a messenger, asking where you are. Off hunting again, I suppose? Why your father and I spend good money on training for you while you ignore it is beyond me. Were this the Underdark, I would have you whipped soundly."
Veldren flashed her the smile that had melted the heart of the irked mage. "But, Mother dear," he replied, "I was on the trail of a winter wolf. There has never been one seen in these parts, Paoli said." Paoli was the hunting master. "I wanted to get you a new pelt to replace the one that Father gave you and you made a robe of. It's getting rather ratty," he ended impudently.
Viconia smacked him on the wrist with the hilt of her eating knife. "Ragged, indeed," she responded indignantly. "I keep that robe in memory of days gone by when your father and I were alone against the world, and had no fine mansion like this one, indeed, no house at all, just the next inn or grassy field. And do not think that I am fooled by your winning ways, imp. I suspect that, had you been lucky this morning, that simpering pink-cheeked girl, Delia whats-her-name, would be seeing more of it than I. But, the flattery was well thought out. I like it that you are beginning to think like the drow that you half are, not just rushing up to things and bashing them like your father, here."
Attalus smiled and said, "It served you many a time, lady wife. Besides, how many times have I been cautiously looking at something to hear your battle-cry and see you flailing away at something that I had not seen. Bashing, hrmph. But Veldren," he switched his blue gaze to his wayward offspring. "Your mother is right, as usual. Get out of those leathers and get into your dancing suit. I want to hear of progress in the pavane and minuet. There is a big Ball coming up for Down Drow Day, and your mother and I will be guests of honor. I do not want you to disgrace us by clodhopping all over the dance floor. So, go."
Veldren went. As usual, he was much more likely to obey his father, whose hand, though wrinkled now, was much more to be feared than his mother's fierce words. He changed in a flash, and was striding into the dancing studio not many minutes later. His fellow students had apparently just made a mess of things, and the elfin dancing master was upset. Delia Camberwell, the pretty blonde with the peaches-and-cream complexion that his dark-skinned mother was so contempuous of, smiled a greeting to him, rolling her eyes at the apoplectic dancing master.
"Now, Master," Delia cried, "here's your star pupil, back from playing truant. Let's see if we can get it right this time." She pirouetted over to Veldren, taking his hands and dancing. He joined her and they did a gavotte, the musicians joining in merrily, as Veldren was a favorite with them. He slipped them food and drinks at parties, where all the nobles ignored them.

Meanwhile, in the Drow city of Ust'Natha, a war partrol was making ready. This would be an unusual one, led by a priestess of Llloth, Shal'Drissa. A great sacrifice to Lloth was needed, and she meant to have the very best that she could conceive, a female Surface Elf. "Now, jaluks, you remember," she shouted. "You may kill, rape, and burn all you want, but if you do not leave the very best alive, for me, I shall flay one of you alive and the rest will go to the Handmaidens, do you hear me?"
The nearest drow male, who had been excited about the raid unitl she had shown up and announced her intention of going along, answered subserviently, "Yes, Malla Shal'Drissa." She slashed across his face with the snake-headed whip that she was brandishing. "Stupidjaluk. I didn't ask for comment. I just want you to do it." She stormed out. The rest sniickered at the lad's dicomfiture, as he wiped the blood from his face. "What 's the matter, Ganstis," one of them mocked, "haven't you learned to shut up when the great Shal'Drissa is about? Despana bitch, I can just hope that one of the stupid surfacers gets lucky with an arrow, and poor we will have no resurrection scroll."
"Quiet, Bufo," one of the older men said, "she has ears in every corner. She'll be wearing gloves made from your belly if she hears you saying anything like that."

[ 10-23-2002, 09:17 AM: Message edited by: Attalus ]

10-21-2002, 06:57 PM	#1
Attalus Symbol of Bane Join Date: November 26, 2001 Location: Texas Age: 77 Posts: 8,167	This is the beginning of my new story about Veldren, the son of Viconia and Attalus. (See my prev story, The Siege of Baldur's Gate. here One crisp winter morning in the old and famous city of Baldur's Gate, a magician walking to a morning meeting was ruffled by the passage of a sprinting youth who tore past her in a flurry of feet, brushing her cloak. The affronted mage was about to send a mild curse, like an hour's hiccups or a nose pimple towards the boy, but he turned around and doffed his velvet cap from his crisp black curls and flashed her a grin that melted her animosity. Such a handsome boy, she though to herself as she continued on her way. The boy ran on, trying to avoid any other passers-by, past a huge bronze statue. He did not pause to study it, for he knew it all too well. It depicted three fighting figures. One was an apparently human warrior with fine features set in a stern gaze, concentrating on his target, the throat of a hideous figure that seemed to be elfin by its ears, but whose face contained eight eyes and was set in an expression of mindless animosity. The man's great sword was in full swing at the thing's neck. The third figure was an elfin woman in armor whose beautiful face was set in a fierce scowl as she aimed a great hammer at the monster's mid-section. The whole effect was of Right destroying Wrong, brave beings beating down brutality with righteous anger. The youth pulled his cap free again and waved it at the statue in salute, as he always did. "Hi, Mom and Dad," he shouted. Sir Attalus Delange, Duke of Baldur's Gate, and his lovely wife, the drow elf Viconia, were enjoying a late breakfast on their balcony overlooking Thanksgiving Square when they heard the clatter of feet on the staircase. Viconia half-rose and called out, "Veldren, is that you?" The clatter stopped, to be replaced by slower steps that headed their way. The aforementioned youth, now in fine color from the flush of his run, stepped out on the balcony and bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. She was still just as lovely as the first day that he had seen her, Attalus thought with a smile, remembering the startlement that he had felt when a drow woman had come rushing up to him, demanding help from a pursuing militiaman. Even then, when she should have been in fear of her life, she had seemed lovely and naive to him, rushing up to a stranger in all confidence. His life had changed forever that day. He had never regretted any of it, even now as he had grown middle-aged and gray, while she remained as beautiful as a painting by some unknown master. Viconia sedately accepted her son's salute. She then shook her finger at him. "Veldren," she said sternly, "you should have been at your dancing class an hour ago. The dancing master has sent a messenger, asking where you are. Off hunting again, I suppose? Why your father and I spend good money on training for you while you ignore it is beyond me. Were this the Underdark, I would have you whipped soundly." Veldren flashed her the smile that had melted the heart of the irked mage. "But, Mother dear," he replied, "I was on the trail of a winter wolf. There has never been one seen in these parts, Paoli said." Paoli was the hunting master. "I wanted to get you a new pelt to replace the one that Father gave you and you made a robe of. It's getting rather ratty," he ended impudently. Viconia smacked him on the wrist with the hilt of her eating knife. "Ragged, indeed," she responded indignantly. "I keep that robe in memory of days gone by when your father and I were alone against the world, and had no fine mansion like this one, indeed, no house at all, just the next inn or grassy field. And do not think that I am fooled by your winning ways, imp. I suspect that, had you been lucky this morning, that simpering pink-cheeked girl, Delia whats-her-name, would be seeing more of it than I. But, the flattery was well thought out. I like it that you are beginning to think like the drow that you half are, not just rushing up to things and bashing them like your father, here." Attalus smiled and said, "It served you many a time, lady wife. Besides, how many times have I been cautiously looking at something to hear your battle-cry and see you flailing away at something that I had not seen. Bashing, hrmph. But Veldren," he switched his blue gaze to his wayward offspring. "Your mother is right, as usual. Get out of those leathers and get into your dancing suit. I want to hear of progress in the pavane and minuet. There is a big Ball coming up for Down Drow Day, and your mother and I will be guests of honor. I do not want you to disgrace us by clodhopping all over the dance floor. So, go." Veldren went. As usual, he was much more likely to obey his father, whose hand, though wrinkled now, was much more to be feared than his mother's fierce words. He changed in a flash, and was striding into the dancing studio not many minutes later. His fellow students had apparently just made a mess of things, and the elfin dancing master was upset. Delia Camberwell, the pretty blonde with the peaches-and-cream complexion that his dark-skinned mother was so contempuous of, smiled a greeting to him, rolling her eyes at the apoplectic dancing master. "Now, Master," Delia cried, "here's your star pupil, back from playing truant. Let's see if we can get it right this time." She pirouetted over to Veldren, taking his hands and dancing. He joined her and they did a gavotte, the musicians joining in merrily, as Veldren was a favorite with them. He slipped them food and drinks at parties, where all the nobles ignored them. Meanwhile, in the Drow city of Ust'Natha, a war partrol was making ready. This would be an unusual one, led by a priestess of Llloth, Shal'Drissa. A great sacrifice to Lloth was needed, and she meant to have the very best that she could conceive, a female Surface Elf. "Now, jaluks, you remember," she shouted. "You may kill, rape, and burn all you want, but if you do not leave the very best alive, for me, I shall flay one of you alive and the rest will go to the Handmaidens, do you hear me?" The nearest drow male, who had been excited about the raid unitl she had shown up and announced her intention of going along, answered subserviently, "Yes, Malla Shal'Drissa." She slashed across his face with the snake-headed whip that she was brandishing. "Stupidjaluk. I didn't ask for comment. I just want you to do it." She stormed out. The rest sniickered at the lad's dicomfiture, as he wiped the blood from his face. "What 's the matter, Ganstis," one of them mocked, "haven't you learned to shut up when the great Shal'Drissa is about? Despana bitch, I can just hope that one of the stupid surfacers gets lucky with an arrow, and poor we will have no resurrection scroll." "Quiet, Bufo," one of the older men said, "she has ears in every corner. She'll be wearing gloves made from your belly if she hears you saying anything like that." [ 10-23-2002, 09:17 AM: Message edited by: Attalus ] __________________ Even Heroes sometimes fail...