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A half-dragon! Olte
"The human is lying, or he is mad," the half-dragon stated.
"No doubt you're right, Tincheron, but as we've nothing more entertaining to do at present, we might as well hear him out."
Olte
"And how much of that land remains to you?" the elf asked, his eyes skimming Olte
"Little," he admitted, "and attacks from sea creatures last year wreaked havoc among my remaining tenants. This device offered me a chance to rebuild my fortunes."
"By cheating at games of chance?"
"By altering magic," he corrected firmly, and launched into a long and highly detailed explanation of the mechanisms involved.
The elf held up one hand to cut him off. "Enough," he said flatly, and there was something in his voice that chilled Olte
Olte
"Certainly, if it strikes dry brush or a thatch roof," Elaith said impatiently.
"So one type of power can be transmuted into another, if the conditions are right. Is it possible to know that lightning has struck, even if your eyes don't perceive it nor your ears hear the thunder?"
"Of course. There are subtle changes in the air."
"Deviations on a constant!" Olte
The elf conceded with a curt nod.
"Just as your senses can perceive lightning, fluctuations in the Weave-magical items and spells, if you will-can be perceived by a device of sufficient sensitivity."
"Impossible," the half-dragon repeated.
"Why so?" argued Olte
"Let us say, for argument's sake, that it's possible to detect magic with a gear-works device. What then?"
"When magic is present, the device can absorb some of that power and change it to another form. Compare it to spellfire, if you will."
"So it perceives and alters magic. To what end?"
"Whatever I choose," Olte
Elaith considered him for a long, silent moment. "How many people know of this new magic?"
The man huffed in exasperation. "It's not magic. Only few gnomes of great age and high clerical rank know of the Gondblessed quest. I am the only living person to know its workings."
The elf glanced at half-dragon, who promptly pulled up his hood and glided back into the festhall.
The probable meaning of this crept over Olte
"An ugly corpse to dispose of?" Elaith suggested. "That's hardly an appealing prospect. Tell me: If you were provided with sufficient materials and funds, a pleasant place to work and nothing to distract you, could you make one of these devices for me?"
"You… you would be my patron?" faltered Olte
"A very generous one," the elf assured him.
Pride warred with practicality, but the battle was brief and the victory never in question.
Olte
The third bell after midnight sounded before Elaith had opportunity to open his safe box. It held the usual assortment of oddities-trinkets and trifles from far corners of Faerun. Elaith tossed them aside to get to the weapon he'd stolen from young Lord Melshimber. That, at least, had real value. The scabbard Melshimber had been waving around was of elfish design, and even the simplest elven blade was a joy to wield.
The weapon was a long sword, very old but well kept. Elaith lifted it and took a few practice cuts, pleased with the weapon's exceptional balance. The new leather wrappings on the hilt were clumsy, but those were easily removed-
Elaith froze, and the leather wrappings fell to the floor unheeded as he stared at the smooth, milky gem set into the sword's hilt. A mixture of wonder and sorrow suffused him as he realized that, for the second time in his life, he held a dormant moonblade.
He turned the blade over and studied the seven runes marking the shining length. He stroked them with tentative fingers, noting that they did not mar the smoothness of the blade; they were not carved into the metal, but seemed to gleam forth from the heart of the sword. He had not taken time to closely examine the Craulnober blade, so stu
The elf set the moonblade carefully aside. Come morning, he would make arrangements for it to be sent to Evermeet. The swords that had a part in choosing the royal family were not for such as Elaith Craulnober.
Nor for likes of Camaroon Melshimber.
A wave of rage, pure and primal, swiftly followed this thought. The elf tossed aside his best sword and thrust the moonblade into its sheath. Snatching up his cloak, he stalked out into the cold autumn night.
It didn't take him long to find the Melshimber manor, and less time to bypass the magical wards on the ornate iron fence. Determining which bedchamber housed the drunken, snoring lordling needed only the sort of spell Elaith had learned in the royal nursery. His rage still burned white-hot when he dragged Camaroon Melshimber from his bed and flung him against the wall.
The elf drew the moonblade and leveled it at with deadly intent. He might not be worthy to wield a living blade, but elven law and tradition were clear on this matter. Anyone who knowingly used a dormant moonblade as a common sword, or in any other way deliberately dishonored it, was to be slain with that weapon in fair combat.
"Arm yourself," he snarled at the groggy, sputtering man.
Incredibly, a sly grin curved the young lord's lips, and he lifted one hand to preen his short black beard.
"Aha!" he crowed. "I knew you were keeping the trifles we brought in!"
Trifles!
"And this knowledge," Elaith inquired coldly, "is worth dying to possess?"
Young Melshimber's smirk faltered, then twisted into his usual arrogant expression. Even now, he considered himself untouchable.
Elaith drew his second sword and tossed it at the man, who reflexively grabbed for it. Elven steel flashed, and an expression of profound astonishment crossed the human's face as blood poured from his slashed throat. His mouth worked for a moment, but only a few choked, gurgling sounds emerged.
The elf waited until Melshimber was quite dead, then he carefully cleaned both weapons and tucked them into his belt. The next cut required a special black knife, one Elaith kept tucked into his left boot for just such occasions. He worked quickly, chanting softly as he carved a necromancer's rune into the man's forehead, an ugly mark that would prevent priest or wizard from inquiring into this man's death.