Ashen March Saga

## Prologue but it's way more worldbuilding.

In the year 1600 DR (Dalereckoning) not much happened. Faerûn - one of the many continents found on the planet Abeir-Toril, has been peaceful for the past seventy years. There were no wars, no scandals or similar events. It was a strange phenomenon, considering how often situations beyond the human mind took place in this vale. None of the evil cults were active, apart from isolated cases regularly checked by paladins or clerics of the order of Tyr, the lawful deity in the Faerûn pantheon. He was also the leader of a coalition of deities known as the "Triad".

Abeir-Toril itself was a single planet prior to 1482-1487 DR, but during the Second Sundering, a catastrophic event triggered by the omni-divine known as Ao, the planets separated completely from each other. Abeir then, thanks to Ao's gesture, became a home for primordial beings, represented by another deity, Asgorath. According to the legends, the original dragon was the father of Bahamut and Tiamat - siblings presenting opposing subspecies of dragons, referred to as metallic and chromatic.

An old rogue who was waiting by the window for the arrival of his siblings was smoking a pipe, disturbed by something. His brothers and he were not pure Rakshasas. - beings originally coming from the nine hells, from where they escaped and lived in the material dimension, stood. They are considered cunning wizards, political puppeteers, and generally evil beings. They could take on any appearance, but most often Rakshase were seen as humanoid creatures with animal appearance, most often tigers. It was also known that the real Rakshase did not die permanently after death, for they were reborn as souls in the nine circles of hell, where, vulnerable to complete annihilation, they waited a really long time to gain a physical form.

Yarhan and his brothers didn't inherit this ability, but they didn't feel bad about it. The awareness of eternal life and with each reincarnation, more and more succumbing to the evil of which the Rakshase were famous, did not inspire them with optimism.

Terrifying frost reigned, sharply whipping at the faces of those who dared to leave their insulated homes to purchase food. The conditions that now prevailed made it impossible to grow crops for obvious reasons, but also completely hampered the delivery of supplies. Snow melting on the elevator ran down the mechanism, causing it to corrode. With the onset of spring, the local trained technicians, performed an annual inspection, replacing and cleaning parts rusted from the water. The elevator itself allowed easy access from the foot of the mountain to its summit, with the city-state, Ash March, presenting itself there. The expanded settlement was founded about seventy years ago, on the initiative of Ralakosh, who, in the course of his adventure, amassed quite a substantial fortune, enough to cover the construction of more important buildings.

## Silver Melancholy - Prologue

The rogue was waiting for the siblings he had summoned. He was standing by the open window of the watchtower rising directly from the administration building of Ashstar, the Guild founded by his long-dead father. Yarhan watched as the rooftops and streets of the Ashmarch were engulfed in a thicker layer of snow. A sharp, cold breeze blew through the window and hit him in the face. He sneezed, then drew his cloak tighter, shivering. His brothers had been late for some time.

Impatiently, he closed the window and moved to sit behind a simple wooden desk. Once there, he pulled an old and tattered journal from his desk drawer that belonged to his parent. He opened it to the first page.

*“Nineteen years have passed since the day I and my old comrades stopped the threat of Reles and the champion of Tharizdun, the mad god. I must admit that the adventure itself cost me much more than I could bear. I witnessed many events that had a negative impact on my personality. I am grateful that I met people with whom I went hand in hand, but I also feel regret that I led to events that weakened specific friendships.*

*I never wanted to be a hero. I knew what happens to those who rise too high to the heavens, and one such person was my father, Vekhor. Once a hero of Baldur's Gate and a demigod, now a fallen deity, held captive by a magical spell at the hands of his brother Malafar."*

Yarhan turned the pages of his father's diary, continuing to read.

*“After all the conflict, everyone on my team, including myself, went their separate ways. Horace took the position of the archmage of Neverwinter and of his own accord proposed to cast a magical barrier while the city was being built. It's a strange feeling knowing that at the beginning of our relationship he sent me to the afterlife with a spell. Then there was Saelihn Elprym, called Lestin by her friends. We weren't very close to each other, but we tried to support each other. By creating what appeared to be an alliance, we separated private knowledge from state matters, and it ultimately worked out for us. I broke up with the rest or severely limited my friendships. The most I cut off from Gaius, with whom I had the best friendship, but by one action of mine, it fell apart. I didn't have the courage to seek forgiveness."*

Ralakosh's son turned another page.

*"During the adventure, on the ashes of my father's order, I founded Ashstar, and then, at the end of the adventure, Ashmarch. The city was supposed to give a second chance to those who had been rejected by their families or society for many reasons. Domestic violence, false accusations, being a bastard or just not having a family. The construction of the city was not simple. I got myself into an unhappy marriage and had to raise my offspring on my own. Catie was reluctant to take care of three urchins, and I had little time left."*

Yarhan smiled softly. He took a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lit it. He went back to reading.

*“During my time in the magical inter-dimensional forges, I aged 50 years. Maybe it was my punishment for the sins I had committed? It's hard to tell. However, I believe that despite the end of my life, my sons after my death will lead the Ashen march to even greater prosperity."* - Ralakosh 1533 DR.

Yarhan blew the smoke out of his lungs and carefully put Ralakosh's diary back into the drawer. He slouched lazily on the chair, his legs resting on the desk. Behind him, a blue flag with the Ashen Star symbol marked its presence. The emblem on the pennant was a star that burned on one leg and smoke on the other. He patiently waited for his brothers to arrive, looking around the office.

It was a rectangular room with dark red walls. To the left, looking against the pennant wall, were two different-sized glass cases displaying a dragon's glaive and hell-metal armor, both used in the final battle of his life and then put away by Ralakosh. The rogue was disgusted by the armor, which was related to the sight of the scorched fur and skin on his father's body.

On the right were bookshelves with various contents. About rare metals found in Faerûn, their properties and ways that blacksmiths used to convert them into weapons or armor. In addition, in the center of the right wall was a portrait of Ralakosh and his siblings standing on the stone steps of the stairs leading to the Ashstar building. A nice keepsake.

Yarhan's attention was drawn to the loud sound of the door opening, accompanied by a hiss. In the passage he saw his brothers, covered in snow.

- Sorry I'm late, there's been a little complication. - Rek'Saval said as he entered the room.

However, Yarhan's attention was first drawn to Kyorim. Each time he saw a mirror image of his father, only his lightless eyes distinguished him. This was a consequence of Tharizdun's influence while all three of them were in the womb. Their father tried all the magic he could to bring them back, but to no avail. The mad god's power was too strong until at some point the half-rakshasa let go. Kyorim's blindness, however, made up for in the fact that he was physically the strongest.

In public, he often had his eyes covered with a blue-gray blindfold. The monk's robes and the spear hanging on his back aroused great admiration for the inhabitants that despite such a terrible defect as blindness, he became an efficient and agile warrior.

Rek'Saval was a druid of Silvanus. When young, he often stayed in the High Forest, where he became acquainted with the existence of the god of nature. Silvanus was intrigued by the presence of Rakshasa, who did not hate all living things. Rek'Saval himself, after learning about the deity, began to learn many things related to nature.

He was isolated from life in more populated places. If he had to be in a city with a dense population, he tried to minimize his presence. Sometimes, however, he was able to aid the farmers of the lower ring of the Ashmarch with his abilities. He also often offered them home-grown tobacco, which he and Yarhan used to smoke pipes or cigarettes.

Unlike his siblings, he had more bleached fur to match his dark leaf-green eyes.

- I don't know what kept you guys, but I'm glad you finally came to me. - Yarhan said, sliding his legs off the furniture.

- We are brothers, we should help each other. - Rek'Saval said.

Kyorim just took off his blindfold. It was only with his brothers that he felt comfortable enough to walk without them.

- Sometimes I get tired of walking in this headband. - He said as he tied it around his wrist. - I would like to see the world and you in person, but I have resigned myself to my fate.

- I know it's been hard for you, but we've been through a lot. - Yarhan smiled.

- But why have you summoned us? You didn't want to talk over cake and tea, did you?

- No, it's about the further fate of the Ashen march and the Guild. Me and Kyorim won't live forever, and you're not very good at running a country.

Rek'Saval nodded. Although he was a little hurt by Yarhan's sincerity, he had to agree. As a druid, he was unfit to be head of the city.

- If any of you have children, maybe… - Kyorim started, but the rogue's croak interrupted his speech.

- I am aware that my offspring or Rek'Saval's could take over the job, but I have put the city's interests ahead of mine, and Rek'Saval is a recluse who prefers living in the wilds. You, on the other hand, have devoted yourself entirely to training, rejecting love completely. I don't want to sound negative towards you, but I have to be realistic about the future of this country.

- I understand your point of view. If I may make a suggestion, there is one person who could help us. - said the druid.

Yarhan looked at his brother surprised, but quickly understood what character he meant.

- We agreed to give Vekhor to the care of other relatives. We couldn't risk Malafar coming to settle the score, wreaking havoc in the city. I didn't want to make that choice either, but civilians always come first.

- Malafar did not come after all. So we can assume that our great-uncle forgot about Vekhora. And if you want it back, I need to contact someone.

Rek'Saval looked at Kyorim.

- Do it. Me and Kyorim will prepare for our grandfather's return.

- It will not be necessary. We don't need to bring him here on purpose. I think he'll find his way to Ashen march. Yarhan said stretching. - Are you going to dinner? I am terribly hungry.

- Today is not the anniversary of Ralakosh's death at all? - Kyori asked.

Yarhan stopped abruptly. The question from his brother quickly made him aware that something was dawning in the back of his mind. The scene in Baldur's Gate quickly formed before his eyes. Looking for his father, he found him sitting calmly on the pavement. Another thing is that the entire spinal cord that the half-rakshasa had was lying next to him, and a large pool of blood was spreading underneath him.

Yarhan, depressed by the memory, lowered his ears.

- Yes. Dinner can wait, the cemetery can't.

An old man stood at the edge of a long and deep gorge. He wasn't alone. At his side were seven canaries flying around him. The cold and damp emanating from the fissure did not deter the mysterious newcomer. The staff he held glowed with a faint white light. The mage began to float in the air, then descend. The birds flew ahead. His feet landed lightly on the ground. He uttered another spell, and an orb of light appeared above the old man's head, dispelling the darkness. He headed in the only available direction.

He hadn't walked long when his eyes caught a glimpse of a pale blue glow emanating from a narrow gap to his right. Almost immediately he grasped the fact that the transition was not natural but magical. And surprisingly, from an exceptionally strong being. He tapped the rock with his cane, and it shattered, making a noise that echoed. The two beings present interrupted their conversation.

Their surprise was great when seven canaries appeared to both eyes. The mage himself joined a moment after them and was quite surprised to see two black dragons. Kioth quickly combined some of the features of the person before him and calmly turned to his father.

- Okay, father. We have nothing to fear. he said, then turned to the mysterious arrival that had come around the corner. "Nice to see you, Fizban."

- You too, Cleric of Tyr

Kioth represented the dragon race, but due to his origin, he had the power of shapeshifting, which he used, taking the form of a draconian.

In this form, he was almost two meters tall. His body was covered with scales in three colors, black, white and red. The first two colors were balanced in quantity, with red appearing much less, but that didn't mean it didn't add a peculiar look. The last of the colors could be seen mainly on the muzzle and at the joint of the hand with the shoulder. His eyes were violet. The whole thing was completed by a white mane that stretched from the top of the head to the back, but he decided to adopt a different hair style. Kioth was finally done with several male braids falling down both the back and the chest.

- I'd ask what brings Bahamut's avatar here, but I don't have to guess. - said Kioth, turning towards the block of ice.

Fizban tugged at his white beard. The seven canaries perched on his shoulders stared at the black dragon with hostility.

The elder of the dragons was an exceptionally seasoned warrior, as evidenced by visible scars and wounds. One such mutilation was the naked-eye scar on his left eye socket, the scythe of his old enemy, a demon called Rakdos. Unlike his descendant, he did not care about any order with his long and loose mane. He turned to the transformed seven.

- I'm not sure why you make me your enemy. I helped your people defend Myth Drannor long ago.

The canaries fluttered their wings. One of the birds flew from Fizban's shoulder, then carefully landed in the dragon's thick mane. Quint didn't react aggressively, which surprised the other six.

- The platinum dragon wanted to free his former champion from prison. Eighty years in the ice, he decided, was long enough.

- I tried to dispel the magic, but I'm not skilled enough to break through divine magic. - Kioth said disconsolately.

- Do not despair my friend, I am sure that your deity appreciates your efforts.

With these words, Fizban avoided the two of them and found himself in front of a block of ice. Inside, he saw a draconian frozen in time, some thirty years old. He didn't perform well. The tattered upper robes and frozen shock on his face made the dragons guarding him pity.

- As soon as you release him, I should heal him. - Kioth said.

- No. Vekhor has relied on you for too long, even in its current state.

- So what do you think we should do? asked the one-eyed dragon.

- Go away. The silver draconian awaits one last, or so I presume, journey in which he must take significant steps himself if he wants to regain his lost pride and solve old cases. If necessary, I will have Bahamut assist him despite his exploits in Avernus.

Quint doubted the whole thing. He knew Vekhor personally and the chaos he caused in his life was too much for him to handle alone.

- I feel your fears, chromatic dragon. I'm surprised, considering you fought Rakdos.

- Rakdos was someone who threatened my immediate family. - Quint said, glancing at his offspring.

- But you won. You also tamed your anger and did not fall under the yoke of the dragon goddess Tiamat.

- Because I've never been alone. Vekhor has no one to support him. Ralakosh is dead and his grandchildren are practically strangers to him.

- That's true. But life is a path full of surprises, isn't it?

Kioth listened to the whole conversation, eventually coming to the conclusion that actually leaving the draconian alone would be a good idea. They'd just have to move him before releasing him. His father suggested throwing him near Baldur's Gate or near another city. Sam, on the other hand, began to slowly back out of the cave, wanting to return to his lakeside home in Cormyr.

Kioth thanked Fizban, and he and his father left for Cormyr.

Bahamut's avatar smiled wryly. He hit the ice with his staff. A small dent appeared on its surface, which after a while began to expand into cracks. Shards of ice fell to the ground and in a moment the unconscious draconian was free. The man bent over him and with the last spell he moved with Vekhor to the vicinity of Baldur's Gate. The unconscious drakon was hidden in the thick and tall grass, away from prying eyes.

As the draconian began to wake from sleep, he saw the night sky above him. He didn't know where he was, what year it was, or how he got here. The last thing he remembers is the sight of Malafar approaching him, and then darkness. Panicked, he saw only the familiar city behind him. Baldur's Gate.

## Silver Melancholy - Part 1 [on-going]

Vekhor sat alone at a bench, eating a rather tasty dinner of herb-roasted fish, potatoes, and a simple salad. For drinks he had a local beer, the quality of which he could not complain about. The liquor was exceptionally refreshing. He didn't pay attention to the celebration of the villagers in front of him. He was deep in thought about the day two years ago when someone or something had dragged him out. Too many secrets were hidden in its shadow, and only after he got used to the new reality, he could calmly think about it.

The village he found himself in was called Trighafen and was a typical fishing village between the larger towns of Illupur and Pros. The townspeople danced around the great fire, inspired by their drunken courage. The reason for this joy was the actions of two draconians stationed in the village. One of them was Vekhor - a muscular draconian, on whose body you could find scars and wounds openly testifying to quite a long history. Another thing is that these wounds dated back almost a hundred years or more. His purple eyes, unusual color of silver and black scales and wings were an unusual sight, which made many citizens of Trighafen intrigued by the figure of Vekhor. He didn't like talking about his past. He wasn't particularly proud of it, and its consequences trailed behind him with a great stench, lurking in the darkness to strike again out of the blue. The second champion was Nyala, but she didn't stand out as much as Vekhor. Silver color of scales, sea color of eyes and clothing typical of an adventurer. Medium armour, duffel bag and a dagger fastened at the waist.

About the history of Trighafen, no one had any idea that more than a hundred years ago before the present day, a tragedy occurred, remembered only by ghosts, trees and the ground soaked with the blood of the victims of the local genocide. But it didn't matter much, the event had taken place a century ago and no one would have cared.

The village was quite simply built. Covered by a simple stockade of quality, it had a dozen or so houses located in random places. This did not create the image of a village that was quite organized and used the space nicely, but no one was eager to criticize the decisions of the inhabitants. A shrine also marked its presence, but it is not entirely clear which deity. There was no symbol, so he decided that the holy place was free from a particular faith. Also visible here was the marina, which ultimately served both fishermen and those who simply wanted to relax on Dragonmere Lake.

He had been present in Trighafen for less than a month. After his last assignment at Proskur, he had to spend some of his time recuperating. Bandaged hands or a broken shin bothered Vekhor a lot, but he tried hard to hide the accompanying pain, although looking at the celebration of the local people, he felt a little joy mixed with pain after the fight with the red mage. He didn't notice when his plate was empty of food and his beer was almost over. He was about to sluggishly leave the bench and ask one of the people for a refill of drink when Nyala sat across from him. Her breathing and the chaotic movement of her body clearly indicated that she was already heavily drunk.

- Hi Nyala, I see you're having a good time with the people here. He smiled softly, but winced as his bruised ribs ached again.

- Vekhor, why don't you play with us? You should celebrate!

- If I was in better shape, maybe. But for now, I want to recover. The fight we fought in the underground was extremely hard.

- You're complaining, you're in good shape, and you should move. she said leaning towards him.

- Not after you get shot in the face with a fireball in a tight corridor.

Nyala laughed drunkenly. She put her foot on the table, stretched her hand with the bottle forward, and began to empty the bottle. She staggered, then fell backwards to the ground. Someone more sober ignored the healing girl and then took her place.

A dark-haired man of average height for men, with a bushy beard. He looked to be thirty years old, maybe a little older. He was curious and, taking the opportunity, wanted to ask Vekhor about his past.

- Greetings, Hero! Why don't you join us in the joy you brought us with your heroism?

"*I'm not a hero, I've made too many mistakes.*" - he thought, smiling pityingly at him. - I would like to join, but at the moment the treatment is more important to me.

- Nothing, I wanted to know more about our hero. - he asked carefully and in detail examining the exposed parts of the body. What interested him the most was a pair of wings, a rare trait among draconians. - I see you're a draconian variant of the platinum dragon, Bahamut. - What was your past with this deity?

Vekhor gasped at the question.

- He was my god, nothing interesting.

- Please, keep talking. Winged ones are rare among your race, which is why it piqued my interest.

- I used to serve him as Champion, but that's long ago.

- Why don't you come back?

- I don't know if Bahamut would want a loser like me.

- Don't call yourself a loser, Vekhor, the dragonborn who saved Avernus in 1509 DR.

Vekhor focused his gaze on the interlocutor. How did he know about Avernus if it had been so long ago?

- Who are you, stranger.

- I? I'm just a faithful member of the Spirits of Cinder. An information and spy guild whose members are scattered across Faerûn.

- It doesn't tell me anything, and it's not likely to pique my interest.

- What if I said it was related to the Ashen Star.

Vekhor raised his head, looked around, then leaned forward.

- I don't know what you expect from me, but nothing.

The strange and highly intriguing man laughed.

- I was only supposed to look for you at the behest of yours grandchildren.

- Grandchildren? - The answer caught Vekhor off guard.

You don't know what year it is?

- 1600 DR.

- How can you be sure.

- I was at Baldur's Gate and the guard there briefed me on the situation. He couldn't believe some of the facts himself, but perhaps he understood the oddity of the situation over time.

The man who said he was one of his grandsons' Cinder Ghosts lent an ear curiously.

The first stop Vekhor found after waking up was a city he knew very well, with which he associated a lot of interesting, but also bad and unwanted memories. It took him about an hour to walk to Baldur's Gate, and he soon ran into his first problem. The city was tightly shut in, people slept outside the walls in encampments, and sentries were on duty around the clock, changing every six or seven hours. The reason for the isolation was an alien plague that had arisen inside. It wasn't particularly serious, but god knows how the plague could develop. Vekhor himself was noticed by the captain of the guard, who, interested in the appearance of the draconian, approached him and then talked.

- Hello Dragonborn, sorry if you can't get to the city, something inside caused a plague and we reacted almost immediately by cutting off access so that any infected people could not get outside. If there's anything I can help you with, I'd be happy to do so.

Vekhor bowed slightly.

- I wanted to know what year it is.

- Year? We have 1598 DR currently.

The silver dragonborn was speechless. Almost eighty years have passed?!

- Is something wrong, stranger? You look very weak, would you like some water? - The guard, surprised by the reaction, grabbed Vekhor's arm. He was so impressed that he sat down on the bare ground.

## Silver Melancholy - Part 3

The sight of the unconscious dragonborn with black scales, also in black armor decorated with gold, surprised Yarhan. Vekhor, on the other hand, mastered his fear. He was well aware of the identity of the individual lying in front of him. In his heart, he wanted to turn around and run away, but fear froze him. His grandson tried to revive the alien draconian and after a while he succeeded. The wounded individual opened his green eyes. Stunned, he could not see well, and therefore it took a long time before he could see the faces of his saviors. The draconian was about to express his gratitude for saving the local Rakshasa, but his joy quickly turned into great anger when he saw Vekhor standing behind him. The only nervous one tried to downplay the whole situation and pretend that he didn't know the black scale knight.

- Leave me alone! - shouted the dragonborn in a hoarse voice. He wanted to get up, but the wounds he had were too serious.

- Do not move. I don't know what happened, but your injuries shouldn't be underestimated.

The tall bush moved violently. Yarhan and Vekhor looked up.

- Morkval, are you here? - called an older female voice. After a while, Rakshasa emerged from behind the plant, dressed in white robes with blue ornaments. She was holding a book in her hand, which she dropped when she saw a familiar figure. - Father?

Vekhor narrowed his eyes. Yarhan just turned around, saying nothing.

- Leave him Faray, it can't be him. Vector is dead. - he hissed in pain.

But his sister did not listen to him. Intimidated, she started walking towards Vekhor, but instead of standing, he began to gently move away. Due to an unusual encounter, he panicked. Faray stopped, surprised by the attitude.

- Vekhor, what's going on? - asked Yarhan, getting up and straightening his back.