Ghosts of Illidia
Something in the woods catches your eye and you turn, ever so slightly. Seeing nothing of interest, you turn once more to the road ahead. A slight sound alerts you once again and this time, you stare intently at the trees, only just making out the lithe figure melded into the treeline ahead of you. A dark green cloak obscures the face and figure of the elf-like creature ahead of you. A stiff wind suddenly blows by, throwing the hooded creatures cloak and you catch a startling glimpse of burning crimson and ebony skin before the figure disappears back into the forest, as if she had never been there to begin with. She vanishes too quickly for any traveler to notice the small tear that trickles down her cheek as she returns to the forests she has guarded over and protected for the past few years.
|Name||Kiira Stardancer||Class||Bard 5 Ranger 4|
|Weight||095 pounds||Eyes||Sky Blue|
|Weapons||Jericho’s Shortsword, Kukri, Composite Longbow +2||Armor||Leather +2, Gloves of Dexterity +2|
- Skill Focus (voice)
- Two-Weapon Fighting
- Spring Attack
- Bardic Music
- Bardic Knowledge
- Inspire Courage +1
- Favored Enemy – Humanoid (elf)
- Wild Empathy
- Low-light Vision
- Inspire Competence
- Animal Companion (Hawk)
- Lvl 0
- Summon Instrument
- Lvl 1
- Cure Light Wounds
- Disguise Self
- Critical Strike
- Feather Fall
- Lvl 2
- Cure Moderate Wounds
- Mirror Image
- Eagle’s Splendor
- Lvl 1
- Pass without a Trace
Firstborn daughter to Silvrienna and Tarathiel Quentillian (Stardancer, in Common), Kiira began life in the small elven city of Corindan. The beginning of her life passed in relative tranquility, nothing traumatic happening beyond the standard childhood growing pains. As she neared adulthood, she began to study music and found her true passion. Devouring every scrap of music and song she could get her hands on, she learned to play the lute and sing from the village bard, Niamh. She spent a number of years with her, learning the intricacies of the craft and the joy of song. When Niamh felt she was ready, she gifted Kiira with a special lute. Niamh getting on in years and having no children herself, she reverently handed down the lute that had been given to her from her mother, which in turn had been given from her mother and her mother before that. It was carved with fairies and clinging ivy, its wood worn smooth by the loving hands of its previous owners.
So Kiira began her journey, traveling to many different cities and villages to learn new songs and experience the world. Again, nothing too traumatic or unforeseen happened. Life was a beautiful place that needed to be explored and sung to and she was as happy as she had ever been. Then the unthinkable happened.
The elves of the great city of Lythiiri were celebrating the life-bonding of one of their beloved sons, Ciaran, with the beautiful Shianeen, from the elven city on the other side of the forest. I was to be one of the musicians on the many dancing spaces set out that day. If the occasion had not been so joyous or so widespread, the ensuing attack would not have come as a surprise and could have been much more easily repelled.
Drow. The word had little meaning to me before that day. I had never seen one – only heard stories of their vicious and treacherous ways. And this day it would not be just any drow who attacked – but Kinslayers, horrors even to their own kind. They brutally ravaged the city and many of those inside it before we had time to draw arms and defend ourselves. After much loss and with great struggle, the elves finally managed to push the drow back, out of the city. There remained but a few left fighting. Even I, as a musician, was not immune. Seeing the pain and devastation they had wrought, I had drawn my own meager dagger to do what I could to defend the city. I came upon a drow, smirking gleefully as he used his weapon in an attempt to dispatch one of the helpless partygoers, this one not even armed. Glaring angrily, I managed to move in position behind him before he finished the job. Hefting my dagger experimentally between my hands I took a stab at his gut. He turned, a startled expression on his face that quickly turned to flaring anger. My dagger had gotten lodged in him and I faced him, weaponless. He looked down at his lifeblood flowing quickly to the ground and then looked back at me, hatred etched in his crimson eyes. Just as quickly, he muttered the words to what seemed some sort of spell, and looked back at me, a maniacal, feral smile on his face as he took one last gasping breath and toppled to the ground. My body was flooded with a tingling warmth for a few seconds and then returned to normal.
Breathing a sigh of relief that my aim had been true and the enemy vanquished, I retrieved my bloodied dagger and went to help the elven woman that the drow had been attacking to her feet. Instead of accepting my help, however, she looked at me in pure terror as she stumbled to her feet and fled as quickly as her injuries would let her. Confused, I looked down at myself and noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Wait! Something caught my eye and I glanced back down at my hands. Once the fair hue of a Corindan elf, they now appeared as black as soot. Thinking something had rubbed off on them, I tried to wipe them clean, to no avail. Horrified, I pulled one of the silver plates off of a nearby table that had been set for the feast. I stared for a few long seconds that seemed like centuries at the strange face in the mirror. It was still mine – yet not. My skin was now obsidian black, my hair snow-white, and my eyes, once a beautiful shade of sky blue, were now as red as molten lava. Drow! I looked like a drow! The full implications and emotions didn’t hit me until later. All I knew was that I now looked like the enemy—and the way these drow had acted, I didn’t blame the other elves for killing first and asking questions never. But I didn’t want to die here, not like this. Not for something I didn’t even do. I quickly pulled the black and silver cloak off of the drow I had dispatched and cowled my face in shadows. Bending low to the ground, I skirted the shadows until I managed to make my escape from the city.
Forced to give up my bardic ways because of the way I now appeared, I retreated into the forests, becoming attuned to their ways and staying as out of sight as possible. I still practiced my lute and song – eerie, haunting melodies that travelers through this part of the wood shivered to hear. This was to be my new life – to live a hermit, alone in the forest. I cried many a night as I explored my new found solitude, so alien to my normally outgoing ways.
Then, a few years later, the solitude became too much. If I was to die for my new looks – if people would not listen to me before they attacked then so be it. I would not live confined to the forests anymore. This was no life – no companionship, no anything. I would find a way to break the spell or curse or whatever the drow fiend had done to me or I would die trying. So I set off for the capital city, to try my best to find a cure and to find a trusted companion or two.