Histories

The Archer of Selvetarm

It is said the lives of some men read like books. A distinct beginning, middle, and end. Open and shut. Simple plots with tidy conclusion. Flat pages for the lives of flat men. Stories set forth, only to be left upon dusty-shelves and left for the cobwebs.

This is not the life of such a man.

Razor-tipped, it arcs from the bow of the creator into the sky, a flashing gleam of silver tearing the black air. This arrow cannot be contained in a single moment, on a single page.

It is passion. It is power. It is force incarnate.

Here begins the tale of an arrow.

Look at The Archer of Selvetarm today. See a magnificent example of Drowhood. A tall man, possessed of a dark-ebon hued skin. The stern eyes are powerful, their pale grey hues reflect a wisdom and intensity not seen in the expressions of Rhia's most sagacious scholars. Adorned with a finely engraved suit of scale mail armor, The Archer is a mighty figure, as resplendent as a young god.

The story of The Archer begins not in glory, but in the tangled skein that is the politics of the Underdark. A fierce rivalry, born of utter loathing, grew between two noble Houses. Public combat being boorish, and assassins limited in their efficacy, the less influential of the Houses unleashed an agent to dishonor its opponent. Blessed by the Spider Goddess with the ability to adopt arachnid shape, the agent infiltrated the rival House. Through his guile and shifting prowess, he found his target: a noble priestess of minor influence. In the dark chambers of the House he violated sowing a seed of hatred in her womb before stealing away, unnoticed but by his raped victim. The pregnancy was unable to be concealed and, as soon as signs of it appeared, the social harpies of the enemy House were quick to call attention to it. Thus illuminated in the public light, the House of the defiled priestess found itself trapped. Rather than risk further dishonor, the Matron Mother allowed the child to be born.

The Boy Who Would Become The Archer experienced a strange duality in Drow society as a youth. He was bedecked in the finery and given the rich trappings of one fortunate enough to be birthed of one of Lloth's priestesses. Yet within these well-tailored clothes lived a boy who was detested for the loss of prestige his existence has entailed, for his life was an inky stain upon the Honor of his House. Scorned and forsaken within the walls of his keep, the boy grew, as a solitary tree in a vast, barren wasteland. In time, the nobility of the House observed the boy's blossoming skill at swordplay. They thus relinquished their unwanted scion into the hands of the Weaponsmaster Kel'Dorl, that they need sully their own no longer by caring for him.

In the home of Kel'Dorl, whose name in the High Drowish meant "The Legendary Warrior," the raw metal that was the boy's burgeoning skill at warcraft was hammered into the mighty weapon it would one day be. Yet despite the education offered by his new master, no affection was given to the boy. The lad was given a patch of cobblestone floor on which he might sleep for three hours each night. He rose an hour before Kel'Dorl each morn to prepare the Weaponsmaster's armor, and found himself garbed in thick padding and used as a target dummy by Kel'Dorl's apprentices. Yet his skill with arms grew and Kel'Dorl came to recognize the boy for his burgeoning skill and utility as a swift-learning sparring partner. Eventually, Kel'Dorl regarded the boy as a favored companion and nearly equally skilled combatant, though he would never admit such.

It was in these years that the young man developed his love of The Running. The Running, a cherished annual Drow custom, consists of the capture of a vast panorama of the surface races. Hundreds of captive kine, avariels, orcs and the like are forced to run through the subterranean streets of Underdark cities, where young Drow warriors hound them. Massive amounts of surface-dwellers fall to the arrows and blades of these young ones, most of whom receive their first bloodings. In the orgiastic carnage of The Running, corpses fill the streets, and the gutters run red with the blood of the 'weak' races. The young man participated in three traditional Runnings, slaying scores of surface-dwellers with his fell arrows. His prowess with the bow and arrow soon attracted significant acclaim in the Drowish community for his superior marksmanship.

During the man's final Running, the event was taken to the surface city of Arinock. Black-cloaked Drow entered the city and commenced to hunt its citizens. Within hours, the city of Arinock plunged into chaos as citizens found themselves stalked and murdered while legions of Vermillion officers poured into the alleys of the city only to find themselves beset on all sides by arrow-fire. At the second hour past midnight, The Archer squatted atop a tiled rooftop, firing arrows at the panicked herds of surface-dwellers below him. As he plucked an arrow from his quiver, a sight on the levee gave him pause: there, a Raven-haired woman stood, her mouth upturned in a slight smile of amusement as dozens died around her. The Archer took sight of her, aimed, and loosed his arrow at her, with every intention of striking her full in the face. Instead, he saw his arrow splinter into two pieces in mid-air, the fragments plummeting to the Earth. In the blink of an eye, she appeared next to him upon the roof from where but moments ago he had meted out death to dozens of kine.

Beneath the deep black canopy of the Arinock night she plucked a single arrow from his quiver, the only remaining arrow crafted from the same tree whose wood had been used in the one with which he first spilt blood, and vanished. When those who had hunted in The Running returned from the bloodbath, the gory trophies of victory slung in their belts, a peculiar sight greeted them at the entrance of the keep. There stood a priestess of Lloth holding the arrow that the Raven-haired woman had taken from The Archer. As the woman had taken of The Archer his most important possession, his fate was bound now in the chains of her will. So it was that The Archer became a slave to this woman of the surface world. He speaks to none of the conditions under which he suffered as her thrall. It came to pass that The Archer grew so tormented that he took an arrow and slashed open his arms from wrist to elbow. Crimson poured from The Archer's gaping self-inflicted wounds as he surrendered himself to what he hoped would be final oblivion.

Imagine The Archer's surprise, then, when we regained conscience the following day, covered in his own crusting blood. The woman approached him, nude and smeared with blood herself. Into The Archer's lap, she dropped the arrow, granting him autonomy without a word of explanation. Not entirely comfortable with his new sense of freedom, The Archer returned to his former House's keep, and presented the Matron Mother with his arrow. Over the period of a year, the nobility's attitude of disdain for The Archer transformed into a sense of awe. They soon noticed that his martial prowess far exceeded that of his former master, the legendary Kel'Dorl. The Archer astonished all with his preternatural agility, his insurmountable strength, and his unerring aim.

In time, paranoia took root among the nobility. A creeping, cancerous fear turned astonishment to resentment as the nobility began to grow hostile towards the man they once abused. It came to pass that a phalanx of Drow soldiers descended upon The Archer, and goaded him to the temple of Lloth, where he was to be sacrificed to satisfy the rapacious appetite of the Yochlol. Cast into the spider-filled pit, The Archer struggled against what, to any other man, would have been an unavoidable fate. Casting off his bonds, he plunged his fists into the walls of the sacrificial pit, which, to his utter amazement, yielded. Stung by a hundred venomous bites, The Archer clawed his way from the pit, blessed by a newly realized strength. He escaped slaughter, but was banished from his home, never to return. In his subsequent wanderings through the Underdark, The Archer wound his way to the settlement of Eryndlyn, where he learned first of Selvetarm. Blessed with Demi- Godhood, Selvetarm served Lloth as a Weaponsmaster. In his form, The Archer found much to admire: a stern strength, a deadly efficacy in combat, a true embodiment of warfare.

The Archer soon gained a reputation among the mortals of Eryndlyn. The masses hounded him, seeking to hire his martial prowess. The Archer resisted their offers of jewels, mates, and finery, instead choosing to serve Selvetarm's army. And so, The Archer of Selvetarm grew in his patron's graces and was given control over the army's bowmen. Unfortunately, as The Archer's skill and grown, so had his hubris. In a pitched battle, he witnessed the mortal commander of Selvetarm's army engaging the leader of the foe in solitary combat. Round and round the two whirled, their scimitars flashing in a dance of death. The Archer aimed his bow and, overconfident, let fly an arrow. It pierced his own commander's throat. As the man fell, arterial blood spraying in a fountain from the wound, The Archer fired once more in anger, slaying his now dead commander's opponent. Alas, the Army of Selvetarm decayed into disarray. The enemy force overtook all but the bowmen, who had been situated apart from the melee.

His shame burning within his breast, The Archer did not return to Eryndlyn. Instead, he returned to the battlefield the following morning. There, he observed his fallen comrades no longer in the poses of their deaths, but arrayed in a circle around their commander. Atop the arrow that had slain him perched a solitary raven, cawing mockingly. In confusion and misery, The Archer ran in misery to a surface forest where he clawed a hole, a deep scar into the Earth. Despondent, he hurled his weapons into the pit and leapt in, covering himself with dirt, fully intending it to be a tomb. He laid within the dark ground for an interminable time, languishing in his misery.

Then a sound:

Running footfalls.
Screeches of terror.
Shouts of elation.

The Running.

Within the earth, The Archer smiled in spite of himself.

And an arrow continued its flight.

Penned by Kalbabobrix.