Divine Intervention

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Divine Intervention

Postby Nilan » Sun Jan 30, 2005 7:41 pm

Nilan sat alone in the Temple of Vhaeraun. His wounds had been healed by the skills of acolytes of the Shadow Lord. The dark shadows seemed to swirl around the altar as he offered his prayer as well as gratitude. A glimmer on the altar caught the drow’s eye, his face gazed at it in confusion until he realized what it was. A fire dagger….It had been Deshana’s offering to Vhaeraun in prayer that His shadows keep him safe during the battle with Auzorm’tvorl. An offering to Vhaeraun to return His Hand safely to his people and his homeland…and to her. Nilan had seen his lover kneeling at this very altar, her cat form hiding her heritage from the drow that flitted through the shadowed temple halls. Absently, the drow touched the black pearl ring on his finger, the hint of a smile crept onto his face. He was indeed home.

The assassin had offered his life willingly to the cause, but Vhaeraun had other ideas. The Shadowed Lord had kept His Hand from dying this day…there was no other explanation for it. For that Nilan now offered himself and his gratitude. The drow gazed up at the blackened altar, whispering the words to a final prayer he rose to his feet, bowing before daring to approach. Shadows swirled as the assassin came to stand before Vhaeraun’s altar. An empty black bowl sat alone in its center. Nilan raised ‘Shadow’ toward the Night Sky, closing his eyes he completed the final words of thanks and offering.

“Senger d' Barra's, dos morfel ussta quortek sreen'aur nindol tangi. Whol nindol Usstan gultah dos wun vlos nindel vel'bolen Usstan ssinssrinil belbau wun Dosst Kaas. Ja'hai nindol belbol. Usstan tlun Dossta.”

With that, the assassin ran the sharpened blade of ‘Shadow’ across his palm. Wincing he held the blade against the wound. ‘Shadow’ pulsed eerily drawing his life’s blood eagerly into the black offering bowl. Those few drops that missed the bowl sizzled briefly upon the altar before shadow’s consumed them leaving no trace. Nilan closed his eyes tightly. The blade continued to do its work until the bowl was filled. The assassin staggered, pulling ‘Shadow’ from the wound he raised it toward the Night Sky uttering the final words to seal his offering. Bowing low, he retreated to the shadows of the temple to meditate in silence on the happenings this day. His mind flitted back through the past days events.


Deshana…His lover was in Mir Forest to wish him well. “Come back to me, Nilan,” she said as she kissed him. Nilan returned the kiss and smiled touching her cheek. He kept his feelings hidden. In truth he did not expect to live out the night. He had spent many a day lately in Vhaeraun’s temple preparing his soul in the event he had heard the call. Dlavizz and he had spoken at length on rituals, the need for a life gift to drop each layer of Auzorm’tvorl’s golem host. He was prepared to give that if Vhaeraun demanded it, if it would save his people, and Vhaeraun’s city. He was prepared for this day.

Smiling he kissed her again. “It was very brave of you to pray at Vhaeraun’s altar for me, Abbil. I…I had never expected that. You touched my heart this day, ‘ranndi.” She only smiled and kissed him again. “Come back to me, Nilan” ………..

Then he was summoned….The great dragon, had called to him. “You have been summoned, Nilan. Enter the portal and prepare yourself.”

The assassin entered the gray portal in his homeland. Nausea accompanied the magical travel but when his vision cleared he found himself on a windy ledge with several of the Strike Force Team already present. He exchanged nods, and even a few smiles with some he had come to know over the course of the battle. Gurns, Lintral and Lirela seemed engrossed in preparing the amulets. Each amulet created from the moon weaving of Selune’s priestess, contained the spirit of an ancient fighter. One who had fought in the last war, thousands of years ago. The war that had imprisoned Auzorm’tvorl.

Llandrien approached him and nodded. “Good luck this day drow, I will even perhaps miss our constant taunting of one another.” Nilan gazed at the ranger and nodded. Of all those present, perhaps he and the ranger understood each other most. Though sworn enemies, each understood the reason the other was here and how far each other would go for that which he believed in. Nilan nodded, “May your blade strike true this day as well, ranger,” was all he said before backing away.

Nilan stood alone in silence. His hand touching the insignia on his cloak, his other hand absently touching the black mask he wore, a symbol of his God. He watched in silence as Gurn’s passed out the amulets to each member of the Strike Force Team. Once worn, dragons appeared choosing their riders. Nilan gazed in awe at the majestic creatures. Blues, Greens, Blacks, Silvers, Reds….dragons of all colours gathered on the ledge of the mountain. Nilan had never seen so many.

“Velg’larn,” came the voice of Gurns tearing him away from his reverie. Nilan looked up at the half-elf bard. Gurns only held out his hands, an amulet in it. Nilan nodded and took the amulet, gazing at it briefly before putting it on.

Almost immediately, the dull *whump* of heavily beating wings abruptly sounded, a heavy thud as they push a powerful body through the air. Suddenly, from below, the massive body of a dragon rose, towering over the ledge. Almost delicately, he landed upon the ledge, wings folding back along his flanks. Only a few steps from his enormous legs were required until the dragon stood in front of him, a slight snort escaping huge nostrils. Chey-vemtasverrak, ancient red drake of legend had chosen him.

Nilan bowed in honor and respect before the mighty red dragon. He had never seen a creature so deadly beautiful before. Dull red scales wrapped this behemoth in their armored embrace, their color that of a muted ember within a hearth. His tail curled around his forelegs, jagged and darkened spikes bristling from the appendage. In an irregular rhythm, the massive forelegs stamped and flexed, its claws digging against the ground as the drake glared at him. Abruptly Chey-vemtasverrak threw back his head and rose up, wings spread in a glorious crimson shroud before settling back against the ground. Nilan approached the mighty dragon, bowing low before attempting to mount. When, Chey-vemtasverrak accepted him, the drow took his seat as its rider.

A voice whispered in his mind. He could feel a presence enter him. At first the drow was confused, but then he realized the voice as that of an ancient warrior long ago. One that had also chosen him. Nilan closed his eyes allowing the spirit to come forward within him.


'Quiet,' the condemning voice hissed, husky with scorn. 'You call yourself Velg'larn. You believe you are worthy of the title. The Lord of Shadows has never had a more wretched excuse for an agent. You broadcast your every action and thought. Your strikes are pathetically obvious to the most amateur assassin training for His Glory.'

Nilan found himself chuckling to himself though the action was not something he himself had willed. The spirit his body shared had come forward.

'You are angry. My words sting,' the voice continued, almost purring in satisfaction. 'You are predictable. Quick to anger. Predictable when you will strike. I will have to handle matters myself. You will bear this blade to where I can ensure that we will strike true. Perhaps they will believe it is your skill in action.'

Again the assassin snickered. The spirit taking hold of him.


Nilan growled shaking the voice momentarily from his mind. Taunting, haughty, confident, and insulting, the assassin had recognized what indeed his spirit was. A former Hand of Vhaeraun. One who had fought long ago for the glory of the Shadowed Lord. One who was once in the same position as he was now. One who would live and had no doubt died in the service of His Lord. Nilan and the Former Hand shared that.

In his hand materialized the weapon of Vhaeraun’s Former Hand. A darkened dirk, slim and deadly. Touched by Vhaeraun himself. Nilan’s gaze took in the divine weapon. A simple blackened blade with an irregular edge joined a functional hilt and was finished with a plain stone at the pommel. Wavy temper lines slick across the steel. As the weapon settled into his grip, the impression shifted. Nilan’s sensitive fingertips sensed the slight wear on the leather-sheathed hilt, made by fingers smaller and thinner than his own. The pommel stone shimmers, spilling shadows instead of brightness across the dirk. The mottled markings on the blade blur and shift, resolving into a dark forest, blur and shift into a subterranean city, blur and shift into a palace of fearsome beauty. A faint unheard whisper floats through the air, and Nilan sensed both hunger and impatience, before the shadows shifted again.

The assassin gripped the darkened dirk tightly and whispered words in silence meant only for Vhaeraun’s ears. He was honored to be the vessel for this spirit. Honored that Vhaeraun had chosen him for this task. Honored to serve His Lord in whatever way was commanded of him. Nilan welcomed the spirit into him fully, taking each insult and berating word.

It was Targsk’s call to battle that returned him to the present task before him. One by one the Strike Force Team entered the portal. The fight was on. Demons attacked relentlessly. Nilan heard the screams of many in his team. He drove them from his mind. Only the task at hand mattered. People would live and people would die. It was the way of things. Death was necessary, a means to an end. It mattered not how many died, only that Auzorm’tvorl was slain. The drow pressed onward, he and Chey-vemtasverrak fought as one. Each complementing the other in a deadly combination of steel and dragon breath.

The Tvorlites attacked in waves. Targsk and Teej shouted commands and the Strike Force Team pressed onward toward its final goal. Some fell around him. Many of the enemy out numbering those fallen from the Strike Force Team. Still they pressed onward, striking out at the tvorlite enemies surrounding them. And Nilan heard the call of the Former Hand of Vhaeraun yet again.


Nilan, or better yet the spirit, heaved his chest and let out a great, big sigh.

'Look. Feel. The grace of the dance. Lunge! The shudder of your enemy sagging off your blade. Breathe the dance! I have exterminated ogres more adept with the flow than your skills show. Arm in tighter. Extend from the hip. Shoulder down! Compose yourself. Focus!'

Nilan muttered something unintelligable.

'These are only the weak fools who follow our enemy. Foes you should be able to slay without effort. We will face Auzorm'tvorl soon enough. Stay alive long enough to get me there, or you will never be rid of me again.'

Growling the Hand of Vhaeraun pressed onward.


The great dragons took the Strike Force Team as far as they were able to fly. Their task completed, they proudly guarded the entrance. The team tended what wounds they could before moving toward their final target. The moon priestess, Lirela, tended him. Uttering words to her goddess, Lirela touched his arm and shoulder. Light flashed only briefly as the jagged bloody gash closed, flesh knitting with flesh to stem the grisly wound. Nilan nodded to her in thanks, flexing his arm. Bowing low he nodded towards the great red drake, Chey-vemtasverrak, before following the others out of the room.

The battle raged. Waves of tvorlite fell dead or dying around them. The Strike Force fought as one. A unified force of all races of Toril. One such force needed as the half-drow spirit Noloth’e had explained in the runes on her monoliths. Only a unified force could attempt victory this day.

Felton Orm, the disciple of Auzorm’tvorl himself stood before them. The Strike Force charged as one, but Orm had other ideas. A wave of powerful magic emanated from him, sending the drow and several others flying in the air. Nilan groaned as he impacted the hard ground. His breath knocked from him, his muscles refusing to respond. Magical pain seared though his body touching every nerve ending causing uncontrolled spasms of gut wrenching agony. Nilan cried out through gritted teeth, clawing at the ground as he tried to maintain his footing. The darkened dirk clutched tightly in his hand as he pulled himself to his knees and attempted to stand. He rose to his feet to see Orm smile, preparing his deadly spell that would no doubt send him and others to their deaths.

Then the drow saw Tida approach Orm who was so engrossed in his chanting, Nilan was unsure if the mage had seem the woman. Tida smiled seductively and gazed at Orm, disciple of Auzorm'Tvorl, with a smoldering gaze. Stepping lightly toward him, she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his. At the contact, the tvorlite mage’s eyes seem to glaze over in rapturous bliss and his limbs fell limply to his sides. Nilan watched as Orm broke away from the embrace. Suddenly, he stopped moving entirely, his eyes rolling back in his head. Blinded and paralyzed Felton Orm, disciple of Auzorm'Tvorl ceased to move and fell in a lifeless heap to the blades of the Strike Force Team.

Several other tvorlites fell around him as the Strike Force Team moved closer toward its final target. Elementals of the enemy attacked, and the drow found himself pitted against one such malevolent creation. The assassin dodged and struck, feeling the flow of the dance within him. The grace of each agile step turned parry into attack with almost blinding speed. The darkened dirk opening several wounds in the elemental form as Nilan continued the deadly dance. One with the blade, the Hand of Vhaeraun pressed his attack further. Then it was the blade itself which suddenly responded. A rhythmic pulsing emanated from a darkened dirk as it floated from the assassin’s hand to take on a life of its own.

Nilan had seen his own blade ‘Shadow’ do this as well, except this was different in some ways. Both blades touched by Vhaeraun moved in similar fashion. But Nilan watched as the darkened dirk continued to pulse causing light in the area to flicker creating a horde of dancing shadows. Under the influence of a darkened dirk, the shadows grew more animated and moved to engulf a large air elemental, its own shadow wrapping it in its chilly deadly embrace. Nilan watched, hand outstretched to receive the blade once the Shadow Lord had taken its victim. Once consumed the darkened dirk returned, finding itself again held in the Hand of Vhaeraun's comfortable grip.

Only the construct stood before then now. Auzorm’tvorl himself. Encased in six layers each requiring a blood sacrifice to destroy it. Its final essence, that of smoke, Auzorm’tvorl himself demanded a life gift to destroy him. Nilan uttered a silent prayer to Vhaeraun. “Ussta dro zhah dossta, Vhaeraun, dos drill ulu quarth ol. Ka nindol zhah dosst orn ori'gato ol tlu xunor. Usstan k'lar ussta quortek wun dosst rahi, Senger d' Veldrin. Usstan tlun Dossta.” The fight was on and two layers had been destroyed. Pril and Lahgen had offered themselves as sacrifices for the cause. It was then that Nilan heard the call of the Former Hand of Vhaeraun.


Nilan found himself hissing softly, tongue pressed against his teeth.

'There! Our prey. Ready for the dance. Ready to feel the bite of the Shadow Lord's chosen. Even you should be able to do what is necessary.'

Nilan felt he could not be more tense.

‘Just raise your hand. Don't fail in this mission, Velg'larn. Auzorm'tvorl is your mark. He must die. Raise your hand and we will succeed in our mission!'


Nilan and the others fought to chip away the third layer of Auzorm’tvorl’s construct. Images flashed in his mind. The day he gave himself to Vhaeraun. His hand for another's soul. The choices he had made. The service for his people and his God. Nilan regretted nothing. He thought of Deshana, his elven lover. She had turned from Eilistraee’s path to embrace that of Toril and her choice in that had allowed him to be with her, again. She had bravely knelt at Vhaeraun’s altar to pray for his soul. His last image was that of the path shown to him by his God. Vhaeraun’s people expanding to the Night Above. Reclaiming lands that they once held. Their rightful place in the Night Above. The images shown to him by the blade of Vhaeraun’s Former Hand… mottled markings on the blade blur and shift, resolving into a dark forest, blur and shift into a subterranean city, blur and shift into a palace of fearsome beauty. Touching his black mask Nilan did what he believed he was called to do.

Nilan raised his hand.

Time seemed to pass slowly, each slash, each pierce chipping away at the third layer of the construct. The third layer would fall with him. Nilan nodded stoically as Teej nodded toward him, seeing his hand raised as one to willingly sacrifice for the cause. The construct was crumbling before him. Nilan called Vhaeraun’s name as he plunged the darkened dirk into what was left of the third layer. But as the construct began to crumble, the Chosen Blade touched by Vhaeraun himself flew from the assassin’s hand. The link between blade and flesh separated at the last second, ensuring that the blood sacrifice would not be made.

Shadows surrounded him briefly, the Strike Force members looked at him and gazed back as the layer of Auzorm’tvorl’s construct reformed itself again. The darkened dirk hummed eerily and returned to his outstretched hand. Again the fight raged onward. And again Nilan raised his hand. Seconds turned into what seemed as minutes. The construct layer falling away piece by piece. Nilan felt the eyes of many upon him. He held the darkened blade tightly in his fist so as to make the killing blow that would drop the third layer. The construct wavered and began to fall, Nilan thrust the darkened dirk toward its mark.

The blade shuddered in his grasp, shadows tearing it from his fingers to once again float from the grip of the Hand of Vhaeraun. A shadowy whisper surrounded him. He would not be allowed to make the blood sacrifice this day.

The ranger Theshial, who had been fighting beside the assassin, gazed at the drow as Vhaeraun’s blade seemed to come alive leaving the assassin’s finger tips at the last second. Theshial only nodded, raised his hand and fired his crossbow with deadly precision that loosed a bolt that plunged deep into the construct. Nilan saw the ranger’s body being consumed even as the third layer fell away to dust.

The fight continued. Layer after layer, many more would die. But not Vhaeraun’s Hand. Not this day. Nilan had given his heart, soul, and hand to the Shadow Lord. It was apparent that his Master had other services for him to perform. Services that the Hand of Vhaeraun would eagerly undertake. For the Glory of Vhaeraun…..

Auzorm’tvorl was dead……………….


Nilan opened his eyes from his meditation focusing on the darkened altar. His blood offering consumed by the shadows and will of his God. Not even the bowl remained. The last drop of his blood sizzled before disappearing in shadow completely.

A shadowed voice whispered to him coldly.

“You are mine, assassin……”
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Joined: Fri Feb 02, 2001 6:01 am

Postby Nilan » Wed Feb 15, 2006 4:19 am

Bumped this up because of the recent inquiries I had about the Final Battle and the spirits and blades we all used. Hope this can help at least those new to rp and give then alittle incite to what took place at that battle.

Im sure others have posted too. Finding them would also help fill in any questions you might have.


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