[	Current Location	|	Bored at work	]
[	Current Mood	|	morose	]

OK, this was actually the one and only story that I won a contest for writing.  Hmmm wonder if that is saying alot.

I did write this almost 10 years ago, I haven't done much writing in the last couple of years. I am thinking about fixing that.. The muses have actually started teasing me, don't know if I should be worried or not.

well with out further Adeiu....      enjoy.

I don't remember if this one was beta'd or not.

Arrabon rubbed the small piece of charcoal across the blank sheet of paper slowly. She knew what she wanted to draw, as the lines melded together. Her efforts became painstakingly clear as a rough portrait of a young man stared back at her with dark eyes.

The piece of charcoal she was using was rough, not allowing her to make the fine distinction a practiced artist would.  She had to be careful, not to smear the picture with her hand, a draw back of using such rough implements.

Biting on her lower lip, she furrowed her brow. It was so close but not quite what he looked like in her dreams, but oh so close.

Arrabon sat back studying the drawing, the muscles in her back and arms irritability tense from laying on the hard stone floor of her bedroom for so long.

Stiff muscles were a small price to pay to keep the dark stains from her clothes. At least she could wipe her fingers off.

“It would be easier in the library,” she mused, stretching slowly.  “Yeah if I want every one to laugh at me,” she frowned, wrapping the piece tightly, before placing the latest drawing with so many others in her secret place, a small hollow behind a loose stone in the hearth.

She brushed her hair out of her face, “really should put it up,” she thought as she pulled out a fresh piece of parchment spreading it out on the flagstones flat.

She chewed on the end of her thumb, a usual habit when she was deep in thought.

Trying to glean out of her memory, what this man looked like.

She knew in her mind’s eye, his most striking feature was his blue eyes, dark like the ocean that crashed on the rocks behind the keep.

Arrabon knew she could not have met him, living in Candlekeep sheltered as she was. “Yet.” she added with a wry grin, lightly sketching his eyes. She didn’t know if she ever would. Only Torm knew for sure.

Her inspiration was a dream, she had had several times already. It was almost always the same: the young man turned toward her, hand outstretched to aid her, staring into her eyes with a haunted expression and just a he was about to speak she woke up with a start.

That was all she could remember of the dream. Still, she felt there was more, something just beyond her reach, something that Torm was trying to tell her. Thus far, she wasn’t able to decipher the meaning of her vision. Arrabon shrugged as she continued losing herself in the work.

Arrabon found that if she started sketching as soon as she woke, when the memory was fresh, his face was easier to replicate, along with all the practice she was getting.

So, she began keeping a candle by her bedside just for such an occasion.

“Arrabon” a knock at her chamber door drew her out of her reverie,

“No! Not Imoen,” she shuddered. Her foster sister would find out and never let her have a moment’s peace.

“Arrabon! Winthrop wants us down stairs,” Imoen called opening the door.

 “Give me a moment,” Arrabon seethed her fingers on her left hand stained black. “Damn, I don’t want her to see,” she stuffed papers and charcoal in to the cubby franticly, hurrying to get the stone back in place.

Imoen padded quietly up behind her “what are you doing?” her voice was accusingly high.

“Nothing,” Arrabon clipped angrily “give me a moment,” pushing her self up off the floor dusting off her breeches, “lets go” she breathlessly curling her fingers at her side to hide the black stains on the tips, stepping on the stone seating it firmly into place. Hoping beyond all hope that Imoen hadn’t seen her hiding her things.

Arrabon liked Imoen, she was just like the little sister that Arrabon never had.

 “Well, could live without,” Arrabon scanned the room one last time. The girl was a pest, borrowing things that didn’t be long to her like my clothes.

Arrabon scowled at Imoen, “That’s my shirt!”

“Fits me better” Imoen giggled as she danced out the door.

“Patience,” Arrabon could hear her foster fathers voice chiding her.   “Imoen truly craves your attention” she could only sigh “father is right, I should wait to Winthrop let whip her.”

Her foster-sister knew how to grate arrabon’s nerves, getting into things she had no place being and following her around like a lost little puppy.  Her mind conjured up images of Imoen as a small lap hound begging for attention, gazing forlornly at her with those brown eyes of hers.

“That’s why I like cats,” she laughed with a wicked grin, bounding out of her bedroom after Imoen, the heavy door swinging closed, her drawings forgotten.

In the shadows, Imoen watched Arrabon swing the heavy training sword at the wooden practice dummy.  She swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. “That could be me if she finds out I went through her stuff again.”

 “But, she shouldn’t have tried to hide it from me,” Imoen reasoned, “She knows my curiosity is insatiable.”

  “I can’t be held responsible for my actions when I just have to know.” “And she made it so easy, by not placing a ward on it,” Imoen sighed, though she knew that Arrabon had no skill at magic.

“It’s just a bunch of silly drawings any way.” She tried to smile half-heartedly, a sinking feeling building in the pit of her stomach. “Who am I kidding, she is going to kill me and Gorion won’t be able to stop her.”

 Her thoughts raced along that fateful path. “Arrabon is going to beat me to a pulp and dance on my face.”

 If she finds out I saw her drawings and read her notes. Imoen shivered again, Arrabon’s anger was not something she wanted to be on the receiving end of.

 Imoen had witnessed first-hand her older siblings temper.

Arrabon had snapped, after she had seen a stable hand beating a horse, belonging to lady Phlydia. Lunging at the groom, pounding him with nothing more than her fists, because the lout had hit a horse.

 “The poor animal,” Imoen cringed as the memory surfaced.

  When Gorion had arrived to separate the groom and Arrabon. She was still raging mad, blood oozing from her lip and nose.

Imoen had never seen the old mage as disappointed, as he was that day in Arrabon's behavior. Even if Arrabon had taken the brunt of the fight and thought she was right.

“Not to worry though,” she fingered the parcel under her cloak “this will win her forgiveness.”

The weapons-master Alaric nodded as he paced around, chastising her older sister when Arrabon stepped to far forward leaving herself wide open to a counter attack, the heavy blade unbalancing her in the process.

“If’n you want to fight with a two ‘anded sword, don’ leve’ urself open to an attack”

Alaric walked around the young warrior, hands clasped behind his back.

“Now lass go through it again” he charged her gruffly “until ‘ou git it right”. The old man turned on his heel and strode away. “Be glad it tis only practice”

“Damn!” Arrabon huffed readying the heavy blade for the attempt again. She was hot, sweaty and tired. This was all she needed now was to go through it several more times.

The thought never crossed her mind to lay down her sword and walk away.

Torm would not accept her, as a paladin if she gave up. And the desire to become a paladin burned brightly within her.

No, she would stay until nightfall if that is what it took to get one simple swing right.

“By Torm!”

She swore as she saw her foster sister jogging out to the practice field, headed her way. “Just one day Torm,” she cast her eyes skyward. “One day without that little rat tagging along behind me,” She prayed under her breath.

“Arrabon” Imoen waved, trotting up to the fighter. Her face was flushed and she looked extremely guilty. Gods above only knew what she had been up to.

Arrabon bit back a sharp retort as Imoen pulled out a parcel from under her cloak. “I have something for you,” the younger girl smiled, passing a small packet to Arrabon.

“What is it Imoen?” she sighed wearily; trying to hide the sudden irritation, of her foster-sister’s interruption.  Imoen probably lifted it from one of the monks, and just wants me to get her out of trouble again. Before she gets caught and Winthrop wants to have her flogged. It wouldn’t be any less than she deserves.

Imoen shrugged, trying hard to quell the grin threatening to break out.

Arrabon shook her head unable to think of an appropriate response. What she had done to deserve a present from her little sister? Cautiously she replied, “Thanks.”

 Imoen was as strange as a loon sometimes. She lay the parcel down with her cloak, “I’ll look at it later.”

 Arrabon watched awestruck, as Imoen danced away singing a rowdy little ballad. She chuckled at her sister’s silliness then went back to attacking the wooden soldier with more enthusiasm.

The sun was setting, as Gorion ambled outside to the practice field. The last place, Sir Alaric had relayed at dinner, he had seen her. The old sage limped slightly, joints aching from the damp chill as he walked, searching for his ward. Lately his young charge was found on the drilling field, practicing with the long sword.

“Was she aware of her destiny?” the old mage unconsciously questioned, tucking his hands inside his heavy robe against the evening chill.  “Dear Mystra, let her remain a child a little longer,” he prayed, seeing her swinging that practice sword.

 “Arrabon,” the sage called. She turned a large grin on her face, waving at him. “I did it!” she whooped racing up to the old mage. “Father” she laughed breathlessly “did you see?”  He smiled down at her; as she skidded to a stop, “see?”

 Arrabon laughed excitedly. “Yes, I took off its head.”  She gestured to the now headless practice dummy, alone on the field.

She laughed unable to stand still dancing in front of him, “Sir Alaric said I could do it.”

A sudden rush of anxiety washed over the old sage as he peered at the decapitated wood.

Old prophecies of the wise Alaundo echoed in his thoughts, rising to the surface. Requiring the sage to question his own wisdom on the fate of one young orphan. The mage suddenly felt very old.

Masking his concern with a grim smile, Gorion nodded, “well done.” With a knarled hand he clapped her lightly on the back, noting she was drenched, clad in a light shirt and breeches. “Gather your things,” the old mage smiled warmly at his charge, “it’s late and you haven’t had dinner.”

“Yes sir,” Arrabon saluted, turning on her heel, racing back to her things on the ground. With a fateful sigh, Gorion looked after her, realizing that his ward was not a little girl any longer, but fast becoming a young woman.  

A hot bath had been just what she had needed, to wash the grim of the day away without dampening her spirits. Arrabon toweled her pale hair dry, as she padded quietly back to her room; it was late and half the keep was already in bed.

  It wouldn’t do to have Winthrop wake up her father, if she disturbed anyone; he needed to rest.

 She knew that the sage wasn’t all that old, yet something was troubling him, to the point of affecting his slumber.

“Should I discuss my dreams with father?” she paused offhandedly, looking over her shoulder, towards her father’s room.

“No,” she sighed, “maybe later,” she combed through her hair with one hand, opening the door to her chamber with the other. As she moved in to her room, pushing the door shut; her gaze fell on the parcel that Imoen had given to her earlier in the day.

Curiosity nipped at her as she sat down on the edge of the bed, to examine the contents. Arrabon ripped the wrapping away, in it’s wake lay graphite sticks, for drawing. “Oh my,” lightly she touched the small pieces counting, there had to be at least five here.

A small treasure for certain, one she could not afford.

 A traveler, from a Spelljammer ship, had traded the graphite for supplies with Winthrop the innkeeper. The captain of the ship was making it a point to bring more on his next trip.

 The monks in the library coveted the graphite, for it’s ability to produce fine lines, without smearing like charcoal.

There was only one reason that Imoen would have given her this. Arrabon reasoned as anger flared, the little rat knew! “Torm,” Arrabon closed her eyes praying, “grant me peace.” Inwardly she thought, “not to kill her in the morning.”

“Arrabon what are you doing?” Imoen whined impatiently falling on to her stomach on arrabon’s bed. “Nothing” came the clipped reply from the prostrate figure balled up on the floor attempting to cover her latest work from her nosy little sister, with no great success.

“Are you drawing again?” Imoen groused brushing her bangs out of her eyes and behind her ears, she leaned forward to get a closer look.

 “Oh come on let me see this one” she leered over arrabon’s shoulder.

“Blast Imoen” Arrabon growled lightly, reining in her temper.

Always bugging me she added silently, ignoring her.

Arrabon slowly colored on the paper, turning the parchment several times, before leaning back to allow Imoen full access to the finished portrait.

“Him again!” Imoen stifled a yawn, thoroughly bored with Arrabon, and rolled leisurely onto her back.

“Gods! You’d think you would learn to draw something else by now,” She chuckled lightly only to receive an irritated glare in response.

Arrabon frowned at the younger girl “again?” it was becoming quite common lately. “I saw his face again last night.” She quietly whispered staring at the picture losing her self in the vision.

“Torm” Arrabon prayed silently, tracing her finger gently over the paper, “what am I to do?” 

The depiction was the same as all the others lining the cubby, piercing dark gaze, straight nose, full lips surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard, all crowned by a shock of dark unruly hair.

Arrabon had told her several times that his eyes were a dark blue, as a stormy ocean at high tide, and just as easy to read.

Imoen whistled, “this is really good” she turned looking at Arrabon “you should show Gorion”

Arrabon inclined her head to the side, a slight smile touched her face softening her features, and once again she declined.

 Imoen smiled she knew her sister would.

 “No, no I don’t think father would understand”, Arrabon replied off-handedly continuing to roll the parchment up tightly.

How could she expect to tell anyone; that she knew that some day she would meet this knight, that Torm needed her to do something, Arrabon just didn’t know what.

Why she felt the need to excel, that her life depended on it.

She placed it in the cubby along with her small drawing pencils and colored chalk. Things procured for her by her foster sister, from only Imoen knew where.

Arrabon placed the bricks in back place securing her secret once again with one last longing glance. The memory of the face fleeting like a ghost, as she turned to face the younger girl “Now what did Gorion want me for?”

Four years later…

Imoen returned to Candlekeep alone. It wasn’t quite like she remembered it. The old fortress was still a library with many dusty old tomes.

Few guards walked the ramparts, not half as many as before the attack by the doppelgangers.

Her foster father was still among those living in the keep, tending the inn as he did before the events of the Iron Throne, so many years ago.

Few of the original inhabitants survived those troubled years. “Massacred within the very walls that was supposed to protect them,” Imoen thought, as she grimly walked the courtyard in front of the library en route through the gardens, where she spent so much of her child hood playing with her older sister Arrabon.

“Oh Mystra,” Imoen sighed she missed her. Leaving Arrabon in Athkatla was one of the hardest things she had ever had to do.

 The loss of her sister by her side left an empty feeling in her heart.

The day before Imoen left Athkatla, Arrabon had taken her aside.

Assuring Imoen that she would be arriving soon with the others.

“I need a little time, okay?” Arrabon had hugged Imoen tightly.

 “I will miss you,” the young mage sniffed.

 The paladin had held her at arms length, her own tears falling unchecked down her face.

 “I will be home soon,” she had whispered hoarsely. “Just not yet, dear Torm, I can’t go home yet.”

The watcher had stepped in closer to the paladin of Torm, a strong steadying hand on her shoulder.

Imoen shook her head, “I think I understand.”

 But the mage still couldn’t help but miss her sister. Miss all of their companions, even the stuffy priest of Helm.

 Winthrop welcomed Imoen back with open arms, Imoen knew in her heart he would, she was his daughter after all.  Imoen was tired from the long journey, and only wanted to rest, retiring to the second floor of the keep, where long ago she had lived.

As she ascended the stairs she trudged past her old room to Arrabon’s.

It was clean and tidy, almost like she remembered it.

 She sighed as she sat down on Arrabon’s old bed. Gods! How she missed her older sister.

She sighed again looking around the small cell. Her gaze fell on the dust-covered bricks. No couldn’t be?

She slid off the bed, onto her knees to the stone floor. Removing her knife from her belt began prying at the loose stones.

“By Mystra!” She shouted, pulling the stones from their nesting place. Revealing the cubby, stuffed full of scrolls, yellowed with age.

Her hands were shaking, as she removed a one of the rolls, carefully unrolling the old draft. “Oh dear Mystral!” she swore again, as she gawked at the face of one Sir Anomen Delryn…