Campaign Journals

The Chronicles of Jeiroth

By Tyson Bell

The following is an excerpt from the Chronicles of Jeiroth Ulondarr.  The character information and the following text are the property of Tyson Bell.  Download and install the Tolkien font for the best results).

Aftermath Drannor's Fall

Currently Jeiroth is undergoing an adventure of Holy Grail like proportions. It seems that during the creation of Elven Court after the fall of Myth Drannor, the last twelve High Mages sacrificed their lives and melded into the Highfire crown. Rumor has it that any elf possessing the crown will be able to cast even the most complex of high magic, without needing to learn it (Jeiroth is not a high mage, although he is eligible to learn its magic). The original Mythals were formed of high magic and they are the most powerful. A mythal has not been raised in Faerun in at least 400 years. With the Highfire crown, Jeiroth could do it. Myth Drannors mythal could be fixed, although the fiends of the area need to be cleared out first. Fixing the mythal is the most important step towards resurrecting the city of song. The Highfire crown has been lost to the elves ever since the creation of elven court some six hundred years ago. Jeiroth has done much research (even went to hellgate/formerly Arcorar of the elves). The crown is reputedly in possession of none other than Loth! Soon Jeiroth will try to acquire it, or die trying.

* * * * *

The brightness of the portal caused Jeiroth to squint as he walked through it. On the other end it was much darker. As he glanced at his surroundings Jeiroth couldn't believe it. He rubbed his eyes in hopes that the brightness of the portal had blurred his vision. But it hadn't. All around him lay the torn and battered fragments of what once were great towers. Towers of peaceful learning, laughter, and love. Dark smoke still rose out of more than half.

A knot that had begun to build in his stomach reached its crescendo and Jeiroth let out a huge scream. It was more of a pleading wail. A wail to the God's, to Corellon, to ...anybody. "Why!" "Why!" All of a sudden he began to run. "Onamae!" he screamed as he ran. "Onamae!!" He ran for several minutes frantically screaming the name until he came to a stop in a rubble

filled clearing. Frantically digging through it he came to an abrupt halt. Gently reaching down he picked up a partially charred body. It was that of a beautiful elven woman. Even in her state her face was serene in its slumber, and the armor she wore was still reflecting in the rainbow prisms of the color spectrum, giving her an angelic glow. Tears streaming down his eyes, Jeiroth silently carried her body, stroking her face and whispering her name.

He laid the knight Onamae Durothil's body to rest in the Tomb of the warriors, and reached down into her armor and onto her chest. After a soft tug, he withdrew his hand and with it came a beautiful pulsating emerald. It was the jewel that linked them, both in love and as N'Velar. He held it aloft as the jewel softly pulsed. He closed his teared eyes, took a deep breath and whispered in the ancient musical elven tongue "Good bye Beloved Onamae" and swiftly and abruptly crushed the gem, and set free her soul.

Jeiroth walked out of the Tomb and onto the city, heading towards Castle Cormanthor. Though he tried to maintain a composed face, his eyes betrayed him and reflected their sorrow. Suddenly there was movement towards his right side. Coming to a spinning warriors crouch, Jeiroth peered. Sure enough in front of him there now loomed a group of orcs. Jeiroth counted "five, six, seven...fourteen". Suddenly, the so-called leader of the group spotted the lone elf. Screaming in his hideous gruntal tongue, the orc shouted, "kill elf, kill elf". Then, in the manner of orcs, the boss promptly jumped to the back of the ranks, while the troops charged.

"Hmm, it is a shame but I will not waste spells on such vermin" Jeiroth patiently relaxed his muscles. Easing the tensions of the body was crucial for the bladesong. A war chant began to course through his head. It was the one that Onamae, his love, had sung during one of their many battles together. It was a fierce flowing song, perfect for his fighting style. He calmly stood up and placed his hands on the hilt of Keryvian, his sword. His calm and serenity seemed to unnerve the orcs a bit because they slowed their charge. When the first one came within ten paces it stopped and the others behind it began to fan out and surround the elf. At that point Jeiroth decided to act.

He became a blur of motion as he sprang towards a flanking orc while drawing his great sword. Keryvian was a wavy bladed bastard sword surrounded by a blue flickering flame, the well of dreams had blessed the already highly magical weapon with a vorpal capability. In one fluid motion he both drew his sword and gutted the fowl beast. Spinning while moving to the right he parried the chop of a battle-ax while at the same time kicking out with his foot. His foot connected with the knee of one unfortunate creature and caved it in. The creature dropped its weapon and howled in pain. Moving on to the next orc Jeiroth faked high with his sword. At the same time his foot came up in a kick to the groin. As expected the orc immediately lowered his weapon. In one swift cut Jeiroth beheaded the beast. He continued his swing around behind him to parry a war hammer coming down. Jeiroth continued his blades spin but this time doped to a crouch. As expected the blade sliced through the attacker's stomach and liver. All through the fighting Jeiroth softly sung his love's war song. Jeiroth kept up his fight becoming more and more ruthless until only the leader remained. The leader drew a slim and glowing elven sword. Jeiroth's face then became solemn. He told the orc in its vulgar orcish tongue "the sword you hold was not meant for use by such filth as yourself, drop the weapon and beg for forgiveness for invading my peoples' land and you will suffer a quick death, do otherwise and I will kill you slowly... and painfully". At that the orc snorted as a retort and charged with the sword. Jeiroth met the orc's sword with his own and with a quick flick of the wrist sent the creature's blade flying behind him. The orc stumbled back but Jeiroth was on him instantly, screaming insults to him and his race while

raving like a rabid dog. He began by severing the tendons at his ankle, thereby hobbling the beast, then slicing off an ear, then an eye, then a nostril, a finger etc...until the orc was but a bleeding stump of quivering flesh, begging for death. Tiring of his diabolic game Jeiroth slowly sang Keryvian into the shrieking body of the orc and ran it through its black heart.

Tearing a clean section of cloth from a felled orc, Jeiroth cleaned the gore off of Keryvian and sheathed it. He then stumbled on the ground, and began to cry. His ragged breathing then came easier as he once again began to compose himself. Standing up he headed for Castle Cormanthor at the heart of the city. It once stood as the bastion of all things good and elven. But now, looming in the distance, it appeared ghostly and dark. Its walls were unblemished although the central door had been breached. Its towers were still tall and proud, so unlike the destruction surrounding it. Reaching the Castle he glanced up at its walls. A small spot in the sky above the castle stood out from the flying debris. As he watched the spot became larger and larger until it formed into the silhouette of a dragon. It was an enormous dragon with large bright gold scales and a wingspan that almost equaled its length. A top the dragon rode a person in bright silver plate armor. A large gold cape flowed behind the warrior. The dragon gave a startling roar, as it landed not twenty paces from where Jeiroth stood. The warrior lifted the visor to reveal his-no--her elven face. She was a gold elf as was he, with bronzed skin and almond shaped eyes, though her eye color was amber, while his eyes were leaf green, an inheritance of his moon elf mother. Reaching up and removing her helm entirely revealed large black locks of hair, which were different from his own copper locks. She carried herself with a regality that surely identified her as one of noble blood. Looking down at Jeiroth from the perch of her dragon she spoke.

"I am Lady Ashkahala Durothil, Commander of the Wing and Horn of Myth Drannor"

Jeiroth politely nodded but turned his back he had better things to do that to cavort with noble babble today.

"And who might you be...well wait, I remember you, didn't you associate with my younger cousin Onamae?"

"I loved her" Jeiroth calmly stated.

"An Ulondarr, isn't that it, you are from house Ulondarr."

"Yes", Jeiroth turned to face her once again, "I am Jeiroth from house Ulondarr, but...I am also from another house."

"And which house would that be?"

Jeiroth paused took a deep breath, and quietly proclaimed "I was born the illegitimate son of the late Coronal Eltargrim Irithyl and Sashaela Ulondarr...therefore, I am both Ulondarr and Irithyl."

Now it was Ashkahala's turn to pause... "If that is true then why did you not attempt the claiming ceremony?" (Referring to the ceremony to claim the rule sword, thereby becoming the Coronal of Cormanthor).

"I was not worthy of the great blade" it was the only answer he could give.

Lady Ashkahala gave him a quick questioning glance, then her countenance returned to normal. "Well, what will you do now son of Eltargrim?"

Jeiroth glanced around at the destruction surrounding him "I think that I will go away for a while"

"You would leave when our people need you the most?"

"I think that the Elven Court has established its leaders and that my attempt at reclaiming the rule would upset this fledgling place. Furthermore, I think that our people do not need any more bloodshed over the crown than that has already happened. Finally, the Srinshee has set her terms for her return, I will be patient a wait until I can meet them."

Ashkahala peered off into the sky. Her great dragon mount then reared his horned head and spoke "Were will you go? Young Irithyl"

Jeiroth smiled as if he knew all along. "I think that the land called Shoun, in Kara Tur would be a good place to visit." Suddenly his smile faded "It was the land were Mutishoru came from"

Jeiroth suddenly faced the elf "How about you Lady Durothil, are you going to Elven Court?"

Ashkahala broke out of her trance suddenly and stammered "I...I ...I cannot".

"And why not?"

"Because... I am flying to Evermeet" At that her mount turned abruptly and faced his rider.

"Yes Hakalashara, I need to get away from this, I have to many abrupt memories, it hurts too much. I... I want you to come with me but if you won't I'll understand"

Hakalashara spoke with his deep voice "My lady you and I are together until death, which was the pact that I made with you, why would I go against it now? Evermeet would be fine but I hope that I don't grow restless".

Ashkahala smiled at her companion.

"I see that you carry Morvian " Jeiroth said, referring to the great two-handed sword strapped on Ashkahala's back.

"Yes, this is one of Demron's blades"

'Well, this is Keryvian " Jeiroth said referring to his own sword, also a creation of Demron.

"I see, you must have fought well during the war to have earned such a weapon" Hakalashara the dragon boomed.

"Indeed, now I propose a pact" Jeiroth exclaimed.

"What kind of pact?" Ashkahala asked.

"I propose a pact of families, of houses, of clans a pact that one day we will unite, and my father's legacy will once again be reborn...Myth Drannor shall rise again!"

"The Durothils and the Irithyls?" Ashkahala asked.

"The Durothils, the Irithyls, and the Ulondarrs." Jeiroth responded.

Lady Ashkahala Durothil pondered the pact, silently thinking through. After a few minutes had passed, she spoke.

"What do you mean by your fathers legacy?"

"That all of the 'good' races can live in peace and learning in a land blessed by the gods, it was not just my fathers legacy but also that of old Coronal Oanceth Irithyl."

"That's a tough goal".

Jeiroth shook his head "Yes it is a hard goal, and my father gave everything he had for his dream to function...but I think that we must, as elves, push ourselves to create a bastion of goodness and learning. We must set the example"

"We have lost a lot of good people pursuing this dream" Ashkahala sadly stated as she looked around.

Jeiroth's countenance also darkened a bit "Aye, we have...and let us not allow their deaths to mean nothing. We live because of their sacrifice, let us continue to seek what they fought for."

Taking a deep breath, Ashkahala proclaimed "Very well, young Irithyl, you will have Durothils support, when you decide that you need it that " she arched her eyebrow "is a promise".

Jumping off the dragon's back, Ashkahala drew her great blade Jeiroth did the same. They stood facing each other and finally both swung their blades at each other. The two blades connected and a loud clash was heard echoing throughout the ruined city. Flames from both blades arched straight up to the heavens, towards the gods, so that they may know and realize the pact that had just been made.

Lady Ashkahala left soon after the blade pact was made and as he flapped his huge wings and lifted off the ground, Hakalashara the great dragon gave his final roar over the city which had once been his home. Soon the dragon and its rider were out of sight and Jeiroth sighed "Well, alone once again" he thought out loud. Hmm he remembered, not necessarily.

Reaching into a small bag he pulled out a large mithril rod. Embracing a mithril rod was a gold dragon statuette. Whispering ancient words caused the rod to smoke. The smoke began to shape and solidify. The dragon statuette disappeared from the rod. Within seconds a gold dragon similar to Hakalashara stood in front of Jeiroth. Thrashkalar was his name, and he was ancient. More ancient that Hakalashara, Myth Drannor, or even Cormanthor Forest. Once given to powerful elven warriors from the most ancient of elven empires, Aryvaandar, the ancient dragon rod's secrets have long been lost. It was only due to Jeiroth's delving into the Vaults of Uvaeren and finding the artifact that allowed the dragon rod to be once again brought to life.

Thrashkalar surveyed the city and slowly turned to face Jeiroth.

Finally the dragon spoke "What now Ne'Tauk?" (The name given to the old dragon riders).

"We're leaving the city" Jeiroth sadly explained.

"It seems that I just got here" Thrashkalar reflected "what a shame, this city was so beautiful".

"It shall be once more!" Jeiroth stated.

Jeiroth climbed onto the dragon's large scaly back. With a solid flap of its great wings the gold left the confines of the ground and circled Myth Drannor. Its rider shouted instructions lost to the wind but Thrashkalar set a course. Due east, towards the human and giant lands.

Soon both the rider and dragon were out of site. And the city itself became quiet at last.

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