A Search in Vain.

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Kellindil Loreweaver

Revered Ancient
Frustration crept into his voice. "You mean, there is nothing you have to offer? No information?"

The old man slid forward in his chair, his wispy grey hair falling over his eyes. "You seek to take what is rightfully the gods. Do you think it so unbelievable that I know not how to do that? They keep what is theirs close to the chest." He cast his gaze to the floor. "They are a jealous lot."

With a growl of agitation, the elf swept a hand across the table, knocking the meager meal and watery ale, along with the plateware, to the floor. The room was empty; only he and the old codger were in attendance to the uncharacteristic display of emotion.

The weathered, old man seemed unphased by the outburst. "You have spent so much money and have come away with nothing. Take what you still have and go - live a full life."

The elf stood, wiping the now stained sleeve of his shirt with a dirty cloth napkin. He dropped the cloth. "The money is of no consequence, old man, and, with your abhorrent lack of information, you..." he said monotonously, a green-bladed sword, thin and razor sharp, appearing in his left hand, "...are of no consequence."

The old man seemed unperturbed at his looming demise; instead, toying with the food on his plate, eyes downcast. "Killing me will not bring them back."

He raised the blade up, ready to strike. "No, you are right. Killing you will not bring them back but, I will sleep better at night."

The blade fell.
 
The wait.

A tavern. It was always a tavern. He had spent years traveling the multiverse with questions and all the answers pointed him back to a tavern. His mouth twitched in contempt. The amount of money he had thrown away, the number of palms he had greased, all the people killed - and it leads him here.

If need be, he would travel back to the Elvenhome and take what was rightfully his. God or no, he would get what he deserved - for bringing him back, for making him nothing more than a weapon, and for taking that which he held dearest. Kellindil had learned much more about the sword he had been given than was intended. His benefactor was ignorant to power and depraved machinations of the weapon. Corellon, the god of elves and their kin, had given him the sword and sent him back with instructions to rid the world of evil outsiders - those that did not belong to the natural order of things; the demons, devils, and undead who walked the world without fear.

Ly'kriitch - Blight-Queller. The sword was intelligent and ancient. It whispered to him constantly, every time he crossed paths with undead; with demons and devils; with angels and devas; with the very gods. The sword was hungry for the blood of them all, not just evil creatures but those that would do good for the world. Corellon was a fool! It was a never-ending battle and when he ignored it, it howled furiously in his mind; when he first returned he was not strong enough to resist the sentient sword and he killed at Ly'kriitch's pleasure. Now, the sword was all but impotent to his wishes; after many hard fought months and years, the sword was his to command.

The elf-god held the departed souls of his long dead parents as payment for his services. His parents for an impossible task. He would find a way to bring his parents to his side. If he had to betray the very god who had given him life once more, he would redeem himself to his parents and give them another chance at happiness. He would find a way to bring them back and the start began with someone here, in this tavern.

He was dressed to ward off the chill that was creeping from the mountains. A wool coat, thick pants, dark gloves and a scarf; as he opened the door and the blazing fire bled warmth over him, he began peeling the excess layers off. He sat with his back to the wall, an unfortunate side effect of years of paranoia, and waited.
 
She stood with her back against the bar lined with bottles; one hand lay upon the bar with a cleaning rag in its light grip. The Taverns fire blazed a few feet from her station, causing small beads of sweat to glisten in her hair line.
She was a small and young looking; pale green eyes looked out from a winters paled face, made paler by dark hair that fell in waves just beyond her waistline. Her clothing was a bit odd for a barkeep, dark leather boots and leggings with a tight deep purple tunic cut low enough to allow a suggestion of the tattooed ink that adored the left side of her chest. The only other thing that adorned her was a twin set of daggers on her hips and a stone of emerald fastened around her throat. She looked to all as a delicate flower might, but beneath that façade steel strength laid.

She watched as the Elf entered and removed his layers. She once more continued to wipe the scared wooden bar top down, watching everything and nothing and waited…For what, she was unsure, but something with in the bar had changed and it had started with the new arrivals presence.
 
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