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Khorne and Alundra

In a quiet glade deep in the forest sat a simple house built around a great oak tree. The house was unassuming amongst the first snows of winter, with just the faintest flicker of firelight visible through the windows. Inside, General Alexander Khorne (retired) sat hunched over a desk, poring over archaic scrolls and maps from an age when this forest was known by other names. Behind him on the mantle sat the remaining legacy of his centuries of service: a worn suit of chainmail, pitted and scarred from many battles; a collection of ribbons and medals for battles long fought between empires long forgotten; and in the place of honor, a worn longsword with a simple inscription in elven along the blade: This is my longsword.

Looking through the window and into the clearing below, Khorne could see his young ward, Alundra, returning from the forest with a satchel of herbs and vegetables under her arm and a bundle of firewood strapped to her back.

Stepping into the house, she shook the snow from her pale cloak and hung it on a peg near the door. The firewood was dumped near the hearth, and the satchel of goods on the small wooden table in the center of the room.

"It's miserable out there," she began, "Even the crows have enough good sense to stay out of this snow. It would be so much easier if you'd just let me use magic on my own."

"We've had this discussion before, child" Khorne replied.

"But Uncle Xander..."

"That's enough, Alundra." Khorne looked up from his papers and sighed. "Bring me some of that emeralian lichen. I wanted to show you something." She dug some moss out from the satchel and delivered it to his desk.

"During snowfall, many of the wild animals seek refuge from the cold, and a soldier bivouaced in the woods may find himself with very little food and drink. Let me show you how to start a small fire with this lichen, and how we can remove the enough bitterness from it to eat..." Khorne began another lesson, and the quiet afternoon melded into the early evening.

Morning came, and as the sun broke over the treeline the pair faced each other across the clearing, ankle-deep in the fresh snow. A low, thick fog had settled during the night, giving the scene an otherworldly feel. In her hand, Alundra wielded a gracefully curved sword, razor-sharp and well-balanced. She eyed Khorne warily.

"Excellent, erulissė", Khorne called out as she adjusted her stance nearly imperceptibly. "Remember the lesson of the Tannath Gap: even if your enemy appears stationary and unaware, anticipate his motion."

With a simple gesture, he bade her to advance.

The two stood in silence, the only motion their controlled breathing and Alundra's bright green eyes carefully looking about, seeking an opening. A light snow began to fall.

...

Yet elsewhere in the world, all was not so serene. The moonless sky of Faerun overlooks a land of strife and war. It has been one hundred and twelve years since the cataclysm and many once-great cities have never been rebuilt. The Great Stone Rain scarred the land, and a sickness creeps across Toril, a plague with no cure.

They say the gods have turned their face from Faerun.
They say the heroes of the last great age have vanished.
They say that Faerun needs new heroes...