My dearest:

You will never see this, but as I write it, you are all i can think of. From the day you were taken from me, I have felt nothing but incredible emptiness inside. An emptiness that will only be fulfilled when my final place of rest finds me, and we can be together again.

I managed to escape the drow, and the captivity that was almost certain to define the remainder of my very being. It wasn't where I was going to die, at the hands of the cruel "elves" who would likely make me suffer in undeath the same servitude. I struggled through the underdark, surviving any way I could. I did things I am not proud of, my love. But I heard of this place. This Sanctuary where I could find a home, a place to live out my days in relative peace.

But that it were so. A dwarven exile pointed me towards it, and as I approached, it was despair, not relief, that washed over me. Ever since you left, my life has been defined by death. Now that I have a new home, it is defined the same way. This city has been attacked over and over again by militant lizardmen. A putrid funk hangs in the air, and this is the best I can find. I almost wish I didn't trade the certainty of the drow with this, but I will make the most of the situation.

Love,

Wheyland Sark

*Shivering and cold, Wheyland Sark curls up on a cot at the Seeker facility, cluthcing at a ragged blanket. As his eyes close, he is a hound, desparately chasing the quarry of sleep. As images of his previous life dance inside his eyelids, without a warning, he falls deep within a trance like slumber. Not having a proper sleep in months, his mind sets to dreaming*

A voice calls to him.

"Wheyland! Time to get up honey, the grain harvest holiday is tomorrow, and we have so much to do!"

Sark rolls over on his pillow, a sleep-caked eye half opens, and the rising sun fires an errant ray into his pupils. He winces, and closes it again. Noticing his reluctance to rise, a tall, raven-haired woman, clothed in a full length nightgown of a gauze like substance, approaches the bed

"Hey! Get up lazybones! It's time to work. I'll have breakfast ready in a few minutes, but we have to get going soon!"

A smile rolls across Sark's lips as he faces away from the woman. She starts nudging him softly, then more forcefully with her forearms.

"Come on Sark, we dont have time for games. I know youre up and.."

In a whirl, Sark rolls with the nudges, spins completely around, and grabs the woman with both arms, then rolling her underneath him on the bed in a flurry of sheets, pillows, and laughter. Sark has the woman pinned underneath him, a lascivious smile on his face.

"You sure about that, honey?" He says with a forced accent and an eyebrow raised.

"Trying to put the moves on me...this morning, are you?" She wryly responds.

The two break into peals of laughter, as their bodies writhe through the sheets. The work would be done eventually, but for the morning, love was the chore of the day.

The echoes of a woman's voice resonate in Wheyland Sark's mind. Small needles prick at his face, the slight irritance building into a warm heat, heightening to a crescendo of blazing agony, and he shoots up in his cot, face covered in sweat. Next to him, a refugee child jumps back. He is no longer in his home with his loved one.

"Sorry Mister... they wanted me to check on you. Seeker said you weren't breathing.."

"You don't want to go in there alone," the old man said, his worldly belongings tied to the edge of his stick. He points across a bridge, from the safe side of a kobold-guarded sign indicating "Now Leaving Sanctuary." As Sark and the old man head off to the right from the guard station, and up a hill, Sark notices more of the occupied kobold zone from on high. A few lizardy pairs of eyes dart up at them, accompanied by hisses. The kobolds are hoarding around a silhoutte, difficult to see initially in the dark.

"And over there.. forget it. That's drow country. You don't want to go there," the old man mutters.

Wheyland Sark peers intently at the figure. The silhoutte slowly becomes more obvious, and he draws in a deep breath as he acknowledges the huge statue depicting a ferocious dragon, poised to attack.

***

The sun is setting on an expansive field. Stalks of wheat have been harvested, and at one end, a shirtless man is threshing the grain into huge sacks next to him. He looks up at the setting sun, and a bead of sweat stings his eyes. He wipes the sweat from his brow, looks down at his scythe, then back at the small farmhouse. For a moment, all is right with the world.

"Wheyland!" "Wheyland Sark! Hail!" a voice calls from the road. Sark drops his work, grabs a towel and wipes his hands and face clean.

"Who calls?" he yells out.

A man approaches from the road. He is of median height, but carries a large midsection too many have assumed is fat. His face is worn and tanned, his hair receding, and his smile warm and unassuming.

"Elder Gregath!" Sark acknowledges the man with admiration, "What brings you here?" Sark asks as he quickly shoots some erstwhile glances at the farmhouse for movement.

The older gentleman laughs heartily. As he ambles over, he deftly produces a small box from his right pocket.

"You know why I'm here, you old dog." Gregath says. He edges over to Sark, and turns both their backs to the farmhouse. "I have it right here. Fine piece of work, you know. Probably the best I've made in ages."

Gregath places the box in Sark's palm. He opens the tiny box, and inside the glint of gold pierces the dusk sky, reflecting the remaining light rays of the day. Sark removes the ring and cups in in his hand, as gingerly as he would a newborn. He is speechless, and Gregath cannot help but stifle a chuckle as a tear comes to Sark's cheek.

"She's going to make a great wife. The village hasn't had wedding in 2 years. It's going to really help raise the spirits here," Gregath claps Sark on the back as they both admire the wedding ring, "Now. You better finish preparing the grain for the festival. I need to get back to my own," he nods as he taps his index finger on the side of his nose.

"You're amazing," Wheyland admits, "I.. i can't possibly thank you enough. Alright, Gregath. You get going, I will see you at the festival, and hopefully I will still have the guts to propose to her."

"You will. Everyone's expecting it. Well, except Shannon. I'll see you around, Wheyland."

With that, Elder Gregath ambles off the farm, back to the road. Sark holds the ring up close. The gold ring twists together at the top, into the shape of two tiny dragons intertwined, holding a small emerald stone in their claws.

"Honey! Dinner's on!" a soft voice calls from the house.

He quickly wraps the ring in the small cloth inside the box, and shoves it into the right pocket of his trousers. The last of the grain is threshed and bagged for the festival, and Sark jogs over to the house for dinner.

"Hey you mind if I have the next match?" Sark calls into the pit, where a Watchman and another man with unusually scaly skin and dreadlocked hair engage in a friendly spar.

The watchmen tries valiantly, and his opponent counters with several well-executed parries. Wheyland Sark watches on intently, as the watchman feints one way, then spins the other, his flail generating centrifugal force as the end of it sails over the shield and connects soundly with the neck of the other man, knocking him to the ground, winded.

"Give?" calls the watchman.

"Yeah" the dreadlocked man says. The watchman helps him to his feet, and runs a healing rod over him as he sulks off to the side of the arena.

"Ok stranger, come on down."

Sark bounds down the ramp into the arena, excited. As the watchman magically tends his own wounds, Sark stretches on one side, talking over his shoulder.

"Okay, it's been a while since I had a friendly fight. Go easy on me, okay!"

"Sure thing, stranger. You too," utters the watchman, tightening the grip of his shield, "When you're ready, go."

Wheyland lifts up his scythe. "Here goes nothing!" as he bounds towards the watchman. He swings, and his scythe is easily blocked. The watchman counters, and Sark blocks it with the polearm end. The two exchange jabs, neither scoring a hit. Then, without warning, the watchman goes low, ducking Sark's swing, then catching the head of the flail behind his knee and pulling, throwing Sark on his back, temporarily knocking the wind out him.

The watchman closes in on Sark and takes a swing at his midsection, Sark rolls out of the way, jumps to his feet almost instinctively, tightens his grip on his Scythe, and lets out an unusually gutteral yell as everything turns to white.

***

"Rrragh!" Wheyland grunts as he heaves a much large man over his hip and into the mud. Surrounding him, a small crowd of onlookers, drinking ale and calling out bets, erupts in noise. The thrown man lands in the mud with a resounding splash, and the bout is over.

"The winner, and wrestling champ of the harvest festival! Wheyland Sark!" calls out an older gentleman clad in worn leather, holding Sark's hand aloft.

Exhausted, with a smile the only viisble thing on his mud-caked face, Sark reaches down and helps the bested man to his feet. The two shake hands, and Sark leaves the mud ring towards the suspended water bucket shower.

"You got lucky, farmer boy," calls a voice from behind the shower as Sark pulls the cord, running the water down on his face. From out of his corner, Sark notices a full plated figure.

"Well, if it isn't the town hero, Swordcaptain Blake, what's the matter, running out of conscripts?" The sarcasm is palpable as Sark runs his hands through the soaked hair, washing away clumps of mud.

"You better be glad Tilverton is there to save your ass. You have no idea what the Barbarian Hordes are plotting. If they were to come down the Thunderpeaks now, this village would be flattened in a matter of hours if we weren't around," hissed Blake.

"You're blowing it out of proportion, and you know it." Sark glared. "You're spoiling for a fight with them, and who knows why."

"How can I expect a simple farmer to understand security. The crown needs protecting all across the land. You just be glad it's not on your shoulders, you ungrateful prick," as Blake turns and leaves, Sark gives a crude gesture.

"Asshole."

****

Roaring in an intense rage, Sark whirls a complete circle, absorbing a blow to the side from the watchman. Almost in slow motion, the scythe cuts across the watchman, leaving a mighty gash in its wake. The watchman is sent flying back 10 feet, and is knocked unconscious from the blow. It takes a moment before Wheyland even knows what happened.

"By kelemvor, are you alright?" He rushes over, pulling a healing rod out of his pack, and a healing potion. He administers to the watchman's wounds as he comes to.

"Helluva swing, stranger!' he gasps.

"Sorry, I don't know what came over me," Sark apologizes as he pulls out a medical kit.