From the Cold-Hearth Desert north of Anasaolon she came, with fiery steed to match her temper. Across the ground of the Far northern shore Talashar Drakling flew, working her only companion into a lather. As the sun set on her final day of traveling she could see the tower clearly. Forboding and black it called to her to take her test. She set up camp at the edge of the cold forest, her stallion eying the trees with quiet suspicion.

In another lifetime she had died at age thirteen, when a young wizard-to-be had not been quick enough to free her from a black robe's curse. He had lived in this land, so far from her home. She knew not of this, for it had happened because of the branching threads of fate. She remembered the boy from her youth, his thin hands and gentle voice, his large blue eyes and auburn hair that fell soflty around his face and onto his shoulders. Sighing she doused her camp fire and fell asleep.



The next day she entered the tower and watched in anticipation of her own name to be called, but the others left and she stood alone, the head of the Conclave approached her and told her that her test was unique, as was she. She would be sent out to slay a lich, and she had three months to do it. They told her the name, and told her the man whose body the lich possesed. Smiling she left the tower and found her way out of the woods to where her horse still stood waiting.

She found a forge in an abandoned town, its anvil waiting for the strike of a hammer. She drew from her pack her hammers, a gift from a friend back home and her recently purchased bar of silver. Remembering all the forgemasters of home had taught her she forged a blade of shinning silver and cooled it in a dilution of hre blood and spring water from the nearby mountains. The finished sword lay gleaming beside her, never had so great a blade been known in Anasalon, silver and curved, cooled in diluted Silver dragon's blood, it was ready for her assassin's quest.



The next morning, and many mornings after that she woke and rode the whole day, each day bringing her closer to the city of Solace; where she was once saved from death, and where she would become a tool of death. When she arrived many cast their eyes to the white robed wizard with a longsword on her back, her gleaming green eyes and strangely cut black hair made her unapproachable, however, even as she entered the Inn of Last Home.

Her target sat on a chair near the fire, and with her gift of true-sight she saw the black robed lich's spirit roving near the man's tired frame. The lich drew strength from the poor mage's spirit, and controlled his body, but the mind was still there, still wary of the lich. No wonder then that the spirit of that dark mage did not linger in the red robe's body, but pulled away, robbing him of what little physical strength he had.

Talashar pitied the poor man, but her quest, her test, was simple. Destroy the lich, at any cost.



Walking, seemingly without purpose towards the fire, she watched as the lich, alerted to her purpose by the blade at her side, returned to the man's body. The man stood from his chair and turned to her with the slightest of smiles on his face.

"May I help you?" he asked innocently, but behind his cursed eyes she could see the lich smiling at her.

Not wanting to be delayed in her task by the lich's attempts at pleasantry she looked sorrowfully at the man's eyes, knowing that this was the same man who once saved her life and she spoke: "know this, Raistlin Majere, this blade is not meant for you, it has but one purpose, and that is not taking your life. But know this also, that you may be killed by it for somethings must happen for the greater good, and if taking your life is what is required to stop the lich within you from desroying the world, then so be it. I am just a tool in this plan, my friend, do not begrudge me your death."

Raistlin's accursed eyes grew wide and he stumbled backwards as she drew the blade. Caramon, Rasitlin's dear twin, saw the blade and charged her, only to encounter a spell that locked his legs. As he fell screaming in rage, Talashar ran the silver edge along her hand, bloodying the edge. Saying a prayer to any god willing to listen she focused on her target and swung the sword, embedding it in the wall an few inches from his face. He slumped down to the floor unconscious, but the lich stood. She pinned the silver cord that bound him to Raistlin, to the wall.

Cursing and screaming the lich readied a spell that would level the inn, but was unable to finish, as a long blade was plunged into his throat, trapping his soul within the blade and burning the hand of its wielder.



Talashar, her job finished, knelt by Raistlin to check his pulse, slipped a note in his robes and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. She turned to Caramon and smiled releasing him from the spell. All eyes were on her as she left.



Sturm stood by Caramon as he lifted his unconscious brother off the floor. "Ever seen a wizard that daft?" he asked laughing, "What ever that wall did to her, I never want to know." Laughing as they walked up the stairs to lay Raistlin down on one of the inn bed that Otik had quickly offered. They hoped to never see that daft wizard again.