The adventures of Shurliah, "The Dying Art."

[The Underdark Rises]

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Rumors traveled like wild fire, talk of a Lone rogue Justicar. A viper who defied the wishes of her order, left to wander these broken lands alone. The whimsical tales speak of a lady with beauty, eyes defiant yet the stern visage of a killer. On her back wrapped tightly to her frame, was a long seven foot sword. Narrow yet sturdy due to the rare mixture of metals and enchantments that made up it's form. With speed and grace she wielded this weapon, it's reach nor it's keenness hardly the focus of the stories. What truly birthed interest was her uncanny innate ability to call upon an art long since thought dead, Sword magic. The combination of both spell sligner and warrior, granting the user the close range prowess of a brute and the elegant flashy death wielding effects of a mage.

They say she took out a whole family of trolls single handed, slaughtered a basilisk with ease and even tore the head off a wyvern. Disposing of all manners of beast foolish enough to prey on the world of men and mer alike. And she did all of this without monetary gain. Her life was that of solitude and servitude, traveling from one town to the next; never staying long enough to form bonds. What inspired such a lifestyle? What could be her motive for such kindness? The answer was oddly enough simple; she thirsted for an apprentice. One who could keep the legacy of her art alive long after her passing. For though elves may live a long time, she too would become but ash. Dust to be carried off in the wind.

It mattered not if she died of illness, age or the sword. If it transpired within a year or a decade. In the end, her existence will be snuffed out like a flickering candles flame against a roaring wind. That is why she now ventured east, over the frost tipped misty peaks of the spine of the world. To a group of simple fishing and hunting communities located deep within the frozen tundra. Locked away from most the world, they seldom saw visitors. Force to fend off giants, polar worms and frost drakes on their own. Their people hardy and strong, as resilient as the clime of their homeland. Stubborn, traditional but overall respectable. Yet here within this group of four towns the path of the warrior prevailed, magic considered nothing more than a flashy illusion.

A tool of weak and brittle fools trying desperately to survive in this dog eat dog world. The mere act of practicing it earning you rebuke, laughter and social discord. But where better to find a soul worthy than to wield her art? A soul toughened by their habitat; a soul capable of holding a blade yet a soul passionate enough with the arcane arts to practice it despite the social persecution. It would be here that perhaps her long and never ending journey may finally come to an end.

The almost Xenophobic people of the Tundra spotted her approach from miles away, her golden skin and brown armor standing out in contrast to the bleak visage of rolling hills of snow. Winter was here, and never had anyone braved the dangers of both nature and beast to enter such an isolated place. With the polar worms in full bloom, and frost trolls wandering the frozen waste with eyes riddled with hunger. Only a fool would dare traverse this unforgiving realm with a party of comrades, less likely alone.

Boots weighed heavily by snow she pressed onward, eyelids narrowing to fight against the beating unrelenting frigid wind. Flakes of snow staining her hair and armor as she defied her bodies wishes. The gap between herself and the settlement would soon be closed, as word spread of her arrival. Even far out here in the middle of no mans land, whispers had arrived of her journey and deeds. This solar elf fit the description perfectly, especially when she came into full view.

The sword alone wasn't what betrayed her, rather her vivid eyes. Those unnaturally bicolored eyes of hers. A testament harrowing her revolting heritage, the lineage that is a viper. Urchins said to have flesh contorted by black arts, soul and mind battered by foul alchemy. Their souls offered to archfiends in exchange for their prowess. This may all seem like a work of fantasy and fiction, however the truth behind their conception was something far more frightening.

"Halt!" One of the guards barked, forcing the mer to abruptly cease her progress as she peered skyward toward the armed sentry. His body cloaked in thick fur, crossbow clenched tightly in gloved hands as he stood along the wall. The only barrier that served as a buffer against the monstrosities that lurked beyond it's reach.

"What business does an elf, let alone a viper have in these parts?" He questioned, though Shurliah took no offense from his skepticism and curiosity.

"I am here for two purpose, the first of which is my own. But the second reason is to remove the frost drake that has preyed on your people for far too long." Her words seemed true enough, she spoke confidently and matter of fact like. Her body language and eyes failing to betray her, for their was no deception in this one.

"What makes you think a woman, let alone a pointed eared bastard can do what us men cannot?" He retorted, craving only to evoke an emotional response; but he'd receive none this day.

"I do not think, I know." She replied, silence forming between them as the other sentries whispered between themselves. Despite her sex, despite her race they saw the flickering crackling flame of a true warrior. One perhaps as bold as those of the tundra.

"You may enter, but do not stray too far. The elder will be wanting to speak with you she elf." He spoke with sharpen tongue.

She couldn't have protested even if she wanted, here they outnumbered her. Furthermore she was an unknown variable. Being a people steeped heavily in tradition change and foreigners seldom proved appealing, less likely beneficial to the laws and ways of this land.

"So be it, I will be waiting at the inn." She concluded, the guard nodding as he motioned for the men to open the gate. The chains clanked against one another as shards of ice danced to the slow. The once sealed jaw of the town open wide, hastily she stepped beyond the threshold.

The Inn was right by the gate, with but three steps as an obstacle. Cold hands grasped the knob of brass, lightly twisting it as she pushed the door open. It creaked, as orange hued light and the warmth of a fire hit her like a brick wall. A welcomed refreshing change as she stepped into the walls of the establishment, securing the door behind her. Once flakes of snow quickly melted, as her sense of touch returned to her toes and fingers soon enough. The locals stared at her as she made her way to a vacant table. Weary of the elf and her unholy lineage. Shurliah had grown use to such reactions, though here it was worse than usual.

Alone she sat, ignoring the idle whispers her ears could pick up on with perfect clarity. Their occasional glares and ill poised thoughts hardly bothering the mer. If she were sensitive her lifestyle would of consumed her sanity if not her life long ago.