Real_Heroes

                                                                                                                                                                                               Harrowdale Town
                                                                                                                                                             10 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons
                                                                                                                                                                                                          (1373 DR)

                                 A small detachment of marines doused the ballista tower on Two Rocks with oil and set it aflame, the pall of smoke rising to meet
                                    the new dawn. They scrambled aboard a keelboat and rowed to meet the Black Scourge, the last Zhent ship in Harrowdale.
                                         Without a signal of any sort, the dark ship raised its anchor and sailed north. After two months of unmitigated terror, the
                                           Zhents packed up and left in the small hours of dawn, like a coward slinking away in the twilight.

                               Llewyn Aspenwold was exhausted, but a brilliant smile broke across her face as she watched the black warship disappear behind
                               the cliffs of Harrow Point. She stood on the threshold of the House of Mystra, watching Harrowdale Town, is if breathing a huge sigh of relief, poured its people into the lanes and alleys. It had been only two months, but the Zhentilar occupation had stretched into eternity for her, like a nightmare that refused to end. Such a short time, but it had taken a heavy toll: over one hundred citizens executed for petty crimes or �fostering rebellion,� including a score of Oghman clergy that had been beheaded every few days without warning or explanation; four Grey Riders, three retired adventurers, a dozen other brave resistance fighters and a brave Harper lass�all had died to bring about this day.

Liberation Day.

Filthy, haggard, and exhausted, Llewyn slumped to her knees watching the celebration, choked with emotion. She had not bathed in days, and she couldn�t remember the last time she had eaten or slept. There had been no time, it seemed�the sick and abused had flooded into her small chapel, begging for aid, as well as those made homeless by Zhentilar demanding quarter. Day after day those branded as outlaws crept into her sanctum, having heard that she could arrange their escape into the forest. She ran her fingers through a tangle of greasy hair, and thought dreamily of an empty cot. She let out a wry chuckle: It was Liberation Day, and all she wanted to do was sleep!

�Spell-priestess?� asked the mousy voice of Shishendyra, one of the acolytes. The waif of a girl sat behind her, resting her head on Llewyn�s curved back, the girl�s hands on her shoulders. �It�s finally over.�

Llewyn patted the acolyte�s thin hand, her eyes tearing up. �Yes. I�ve contacted Kathtan Dawnhorn; she and the Riders should be here soon.�

�Then you had better get ready.�

�Ready?�

�For the party, Spell-priestess.� Shishendyra stood and helped pull Llewyn up. �You smell awful.�

Llewyn glanced up and down at Shishendyra, taking in her tousled hair, the vestments that had been torn to make bandages, stained with bits of food and blood, and let her gaze wander back into the girl�s chestnut eyes. �Wouldn�t want to miss out on all the dancing, now would I?� They both laughed as they staggered towards the baths.

Less than an hour after the Black Scourge left the harbor, a column of cloaked men and women on their grey stallions rode into town at the vanguard of a small column of Resistance Fighters. Dirty, unkempt figures in tattered forest leathers, they looked more like beggars than soldiers, but they bristled with weapons and brandished the unmistakable expression of victory on their dirt-streaked faces. They were a mixed bunch: guards from the Watch, perhaps a half-dozen young lads who had run off to join the fighting, a cordon of hooded figures on foot, and a handful of retired adventurers who had crawled out of their glasses in the Fall of Stars in order to defend their adopted home, ancient and wrinkled but bristling with eldritch magic and weapons plundered from ancient tombs.

The Grey Riders rode into town like heroes�and like heroes, they declined the adulation of the people for whom they had fought. Their leader, the burly ranger Altheen, cried out as he rode through the streets, �Give no thanks to us, my people! We just cooked the fires and kept the tents warm.� The crowd erupted into laughter. �The real heroes of this day are the brave men and women of the Watch. They were trained to be keepers of the peace, but instead they brought Zhentil Keep to its knees!�

Women threw themselves into the arms of the watchmen, flowers and fresh herbs dusted the streets, children ran to their parents, their uncles, their older brothers and sisters, hugging them and asking them about their adventures; musicians sang old ballads and victory dirges, and dancing broke out among the very young and very old; Kathtan Ellarion Dawnhorn�infamous for her frostiness�shocked the entire town by grabbing every man that came within reach and kissing him.

The procession traveled down Lancegallop Lane, past the shattered ruins of the Council Hall and the expanded Watch Barracks (used by the ?????? these last months), down Dendever Street and the massive Fall of Stars club, onto the Heart of the Harbor, the pier that floated fifty yards off the coast. Ellarion leapt off her horse and onto one of the docked fishing vessels, climbing on its elevated deck to speak to the crowd. �My friends, we have proven that every Harran has the heart of a hero�the real heroes of this fight are not us, but you!. We few in the Resistance did nothing more than practice openly what each of you did in what way you could: fight the Zhents, resist their lies, and defy their will!� A cheer followed, but seemed to falter; the Harrans were still debating whether the proclamation had been in earnest, and some believed that the Zhents had only been trying to help. �But we could never have continued to fight without the aid of our allies in the woods. As I said, every Harran is a hero�but there are more Harrans today than there were yesterday.�

She gestured to the party of heavily cloaked figures that the crowd had either ignored or thought to be adventurers. All eyes turned to the dozen grey-clad figures, expecting elves�talk of the Return, and the fair folk flooding into Mistledale, had been swirling around the town for several tendays. When the hoods came off, in near unison, the crowd gasped as one, for they were indeed elves, with sharply pointed ears, almond-shaped eyes, angular faces�and skin the color of obsidian, silver hair, and burning crimson irises.

Before the crowd could falter, Ellarion jumped down from her perch and embraced Ki�nnil Instre, the High Priestess of Eilistraee. They stood arm in arm, sun elf and dark elf, like inverted versions of each other. Ellarion cried, �You all have heard stories of the Witches of Velarswood, and the Dancing Drow, and all the other fanciful tales told in the Fouled Line,� naming the popular fisherman�s tavern. �They are no mere story, but flesh and blood�the real heroes of the Harran Resistance, and friends to us all.�

�Did they kill any Zhents?� one man cried from the crowd.

Before Ellarion could reply, one of her lieutenants shouted, �Dozens!� and the crowd cheered. The Eilistraean drow barely had time to bow before being swept up by the tide of bodies, hugging them and peering at them as though they were legends that had sprung from the bard�s ballad suddenly into their lives.

It was Liberation Day: a time when all races joined together in freedom.

Llewyn sat at a small table tucked in the corner of the vast Fall of Stars banquet hall. It was late, and most of the celebrants had gone home to prepare for tomorrow�s hangover or to get amorous somewhere private. The fire was dying down low. Llewyn nursed a glass of wine, her head still swimming from all the drinking and dancing. She glanced over at the table to her right, where several young men and a pair of retired adventurers were face down on their plates, snoring loudly. She smiled, sipped, settled back into the plush chair. She was no less exhausted, but for now she was content to savor the sensation of a wholesome fatigue�one that would correct itself after a long, uninterrupted sleep.

She spotted Breeandra from across the room, still gleaming in her skin-tight leather dominatrix outfit, sporting several whips at her belt. Ever the hostess, the proprietor of the Fall of Stars was traveling from guest to guest, making sure that those still awake were enjoying themselves and helping those that were not to change their fortunes. Crinkling with every sinuous movement of her leather-clad body, Breeandra moved catlike to Llewyn�s table.

�You look exhausted, Wyn. Care for a bed for the night?�

Llewyn knew that she was in earnest, and yet Breeandra could not help but put a hint of suggestion in her seductive purr. Llewyn smiled inwardly; what else would you expect from a devotee of Lovitar? �I�ll tell you what I�d care for, Bree,� she said, a twinkle in her eye. �Some good company and another drink.� She held her wineglass between two fingers and rocked it back and forth.

Breeandra grabbed a chair, spun it around so that its back faced Llewyn, and sat. �Aerker,� she called softly, and within seconds a beautiful young man emerged from somewhere with a barmaid�s tray in his hand.

�Yes, Bree?�

�Two dragonsblood whiskeys, if you please.�

Aerker grinned rakishly. �Feeling feisty at such a late hour, are we? Coming right up.� He came back within seconds, two small glasses filled with a thick vermillion liquid on his tray. He placed it down on the table and stepped back. Llewyn reached for one of the glasses, only to have Breeandra catch her outstretched arm and push it gently back.

�Ahem,� said Aerker mockingly. His body suddenly twisted, his skin reforming into a man-sized crimson dragon. He reared back as if for a mighty breath, then plugged one nostril daintily with a claw and blew. A thin jet of flame emerged from his free nostril, igniting the two glasses of whiskey on fire. Twirling the tray so that it balanced on his ivory horns, he promptly flew into the recesses of the huge festhall.

�Bottoms up,� said Breeandra.

�I�ll never get used to those doppelganger barmaids,� Llewyn muttered, tossing back the flaming drink. It was like being punched in the gut. Her throat burned and her breath was gone; she reflexively slapped the table twice, as if that might somehow help her to get a handle on the liquor. Face flushed, tears in her eyes, she finally caught her breath just enough belch a tiny gout of flame.

Breeandra watched in amusement, her glass already emptied, as regal and composed as ever. She turned her chair around and crossed her legs expertly as Llewyn recovered, calling to Naolos and Ellarion as they passed, arm in arm, through the hall. Llewyn smiled and tried to call them over, wheezing with effort. �Nheehh...oloh, hheell!�

The Harper and the Kathtan of the Watch jaunted over, very drunk and giddy with merriment. Naolos was double-fisting his drinks, a black stout in one hand and a glass of throatslake in the other; Ellarion looked like the ice queen melted, her face flushed with drink, a rare smile plastered across her thin face, her movements uncoordinated but uninhibited. �My friends!� she cried, launching herself over at the table and embracing both Llewyn and Breeandra.

�Well, Ellarion!� said Breeandra, imitating the voice of a scandalized noble matriarch, �Whatever has gotten into you?� She punctuated the question with a smile, to make sure that the inebriated Kathtan understood that she was jesting.

�Celebrating freedom, Bree!� she cried happily, hugging her again. �Freedom from the Zhents, freedom from the war, and freedom, for one night, of all the responsibility of being Kathtan of the Guard.� She giggled at her impersonation of her more serious self. �Naolos and I have been drinking to freedom!�

�To freedom!� sang Naolos, and took a big gulp from both of his drinks. �The greatest gift the gods ever gave to humankind, or elfkind, or any other kind!�

Llewyn sipped the dregs of her wine, and noticed that Breeandra had not joined the toast. She looked distant, lost in recollection of the sacrifices she had made to achieve that freedom. Llewyn had seen the Zhentilar march into the Fall of Stars and practically take over the place; since the day after their arrival it had been little more than a Zhent brothel and an arena for the off-duty soldiers to brawl. Breeandra, of course, welcomed them and did her best to make the soldiers happy, satisfying their every request. Many of the townsfolk had resented that, calling her a collaborator or even a traitor. Few of them understood that every time Breeandra took to a soldier to bed she was saving a life; every fight that she allowed to rage, destroying her property, was diverting violence from the helpless Harran people. She plied the soldiers with drink, opened up gambling tables, welcomed soldier after soldier into her intimate embrace in order to keep them calm and satisfied.

And�if the rumors were true�that wasn�t all she had done. Llewyn was a servant of Mystra, and she knew how to recognize a spark of the divine; the Mistress of the Fall of Stars was not simply a devotee of Lovitar in the bedroom, but also a servant of the Maiden of Pain in the temple, and in her innermost heart. Of course, she was a good woman: her loving exploration of the realms of pain was indulged strictly with willing partners. But the religion of Lovitar was not solely about pain, it was also a heavily matriarchal philosophy of the sexes and their relations to each other. Broad-minded priestesses such as Breeandra, who did not engage in mindless tortures of innocents, opted instead for a nuanced examination of the dichotomy of domination and subordination�one that taught women how to influence men, whether overtly with stern commands, or through the more subtle machinery of feminine manipulation. Some said that Breeandra had been seducing Zhents; not the grunts of course, but the officers, using sex and seduction to destroy the cohesiveness of the occupying garrison, driving a wedge into the normally cohesive Zhent military machine. Were the rumors true? Llewyn wondered. It didn�t really matter. True or not, Breeandra had sold her body and risked her life to help buy Harrowdale�s freedom. She leaned over and placed her hand on Breeandra�s hand; their eyes met, and for a moment it seemed as though the two women understood each other, joined together in their sacrifice.

They were both heroes�risking their lives for the sake of others, noble in spirit even if depraved in deed. They were heroes, like the Grey Riders who tirelessly patrolled the edge of Cormanthor to keep the Harrans safe, like the brave Watchmen went above and beyond the call of duty to fight off a foreign incursion, like the retired adventurers in this old mansion who put on their old armor to fight the good fight one last time, like the drow priestesses that gave to the Harrans without any thought of reward; like the missing Father Alton, who disappeared with the Singing Harp, willing to spend his own life in defense of a divine artifact, who would suffer for the rest of his life knowing that his unwillingness to give it up had cost over a score of his priests their lives; like those priests, who faced the executioner calmly, without rancor or regret, willing to spend their lives in defense of that sacred relic.

Heroism is sorrow, thought Llewyn, as she and Breeandra gazed at each other with infinite compassion. Heroes fight for what they hold dear, sometimes fighting without even knowing why, just that it must be done, fighting and knowing that they will lose and choosing to fight anyway.

Then the moment ended, and they became aware that Ellarion and Naolos were watching them with barely suppressed giggles. �Ooohh...� moaned the inebriated Kathtan, an unsubtle insinuation that quickly degenerated into laughter.

"Yeah, get a room, you two!� said Naolos in between monstrous gulps. �Or perhaps you�d prefer a strong man to��

Llewyn kicked his shin under the table, grinning fiercely. Breeandra looked around at the nearly-empty hall, giving a great sigh as if grateful that her role as hostess had been fulfilled. �I just wish that this mood could last. We�ll wake up tomorrow and realize that we�re still without a council.�

Naolos slammed his drink on the table, sloshing throatslake all over the burnished wood, laughing as he said, �Oh them! They�ll be here in a few days.�

Breeandra glared at him with eyes like daggers. �That�s not funny, Harper.�

Llewyn laughed, and said, �No, Bree, its true. Sage told me a few days ago that the Council had survived. Something about a portal accident, I�m not sure; he had to relay the message through a sending spell, so he couldn�t give too many specifics. They�re somewhere off the coast, I think.�

Breeandra and Ellarion stared slack-jawed at their companions, simultaneously bursting out, �Why didn�t you tell anyone?�

Naolos shrugged. �Can�t say. I�ve been sworn to secrecy.�

�What are you talking about?�

Naolos ducked his head, looking from side to side as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping, the whole time trying to suppress his mischievous grin.
"Well, the Zhents didn�t just up and leave one day for no reason. It sure wasn�t us, running around in the forest!� He grabbed Ellarion by the waist, making her laugh. �Let�s be honest; we were nothing more than a nuisance. And you all know that proclamation was manure.� They all nodded in agreement. �Let�s just say that the Hand of Valor are the real heroes of the Harran Resistance�and no one can ever know.�

The Real Heroes