The motley group fell strangely silent as Na’keya began – the campfire casting shadowed light upon her light Elvish features. Her voice took on a lilting timbre that no one knew she possessed for never in the years they had traveled together had she taken to telling stories.

“The tradition of my people upon the creation of a new bow is that the tale of Archer’s Way must be spoken. Bear in mind I tell this not lightly, for it lays forth the worst shames and greatest triumphs of my race.”

She placed her newly crafted long bow upon the earth with a reverence unknown to most and sighed. “This is a history of my people, told to me one hundred and twenty-three years ago by my father, and to my father even longer before that. In the time when time yet had no meaning, Elves were as immortal as the land itself. Life was celebrated and we took it upon ourselves to awaken living things to the beauty of intelligence. One of us, new according to the ways that are ours, began speaking the ancient tongue to the boughs of an lofty tree. This was not a strange thing in those days. He taught it many things, and it being older than he, taught him in turn. Many a year passed as he spent learning from its honeyed wood. It sustained him, and he gave it purpose.

“Incidentally, these were also the days of the great religious descent that divided the elves forever. High elves, Lesser elves, and worst of all the ones who would be known as Drow, were forced to violence in defense of their beliefs. It was the first time elf had ever killed elf. The dark ones were driven from the highlands, beaten. Their dejection caused them to hate all that was naturally Elvish, and they would mercilessly slay any that they found who practiced the ancient ways. In their flight, one of them spotted him in his tree.

“The wood protected its friend from their evil swords which cut its ancient skin shedding the first sap in hatred. The cursed ones left frustrated that the tree would protect him. They smote it with their darkness. The poor elf watched in horror as its lofty branches began to wither, blacken, and fall. His heart welled with loss as its voice faded, begging him to help. Not even his Elvish magic could save it.

“Alas the final branch fell at his feet - cold, black and harder than any other wood. Anger poisoned his need for retribution. Within him awoke a terrible rage, and the design of a weapon to extract his justice. He took up the fallen branch at his feet, and his Elvish thin-blade. He began the long process of tillering, possessing his creation with malice.

“The perfect truth was then brought to life. The first longbow, twisted and black, strung with strands of his own hair strengthened with the fallen sap.”

Na’keya continued on uninterrupted as she strung her new bow. The bronze hues of her own hair reflected the firelight where it was interwoven in her string.

“He at last was able to hunt his enemies with the power of his hate. They had fled, taking sanctuary in beneath the earth, long forgetting their time in the sun. They were the Drow. Dark were their ways, evil their deeds. The trees about their lair distrusted them, for they had forsaken the old ways. They gladly granted concealment for any who were against the dark ones.

“He lay in wait until he finally saw one of those responsible for the evil wrought upon his friend. As he drew back is bow he made started the tradition of the name-pact. ‘from henceforth I shall be Shevarsh – for I shall not rest till I or those who follow put an end to these hated enemies of mine.’ With that he let the first arrow fly and well passed the test of his bow.”

She fell silent and closed her eyes feeling the silent spell her story had woven this night. No one knew exactly how to react to her silence. Then she arose and removed her bow of many years from her quiver of Ehlonma.

“It is time for my own name-pact. A time I have longed for with all my being.” She glanced at each of her strange assortment of peers. Na’keya paused when she reached Dolwrath. “It is you I choose for the honor of holding my bow. Do you except?”

Everyone held their breath while they waited to see him kill her for even suggesting that he take part in such a solemn occasion. The gleam of chaos crossed his eyes as he began casting a spell upon himself. Suddenly he levitated over their campfire and floated evenly with her. Saying nothing, he shocked everyone by inclining his head in acceptance. She explained his duties to him briefly.

Na’keya pulled two red fletched arrows from her quiver and stated, “I am no longer Na’keya Salogel…” Gripping one arrow in her teeth, she let the other fly. She shot high and far. Then handing her bow to Dolwrath, she took up her new bow. “Na’keya Nordstomidoda Salogel of Archer’s Way I shall be called, for deeply is the only way I feel.”

With movements more deft that the eye, she let the second arrow fly. There was a brilliant flash of light as the two arrows collided in mid air. In the light of the next day, the truth of her shot rang clear as they found her arrows deeply embedded in an old log. The second arrow had pierced the first, nary splitting the shaft, yet pinning it firmly to the wood all the same.

Nordstomidoda had chosen its Archer… and accepted Na’keya as its servant.