How I Learned that Sleep is a Death Spell
I do not know how word from Mithral Hall had managed to reach the home of the Lórëlindalë in Arvandor nor why it was that I was selected to answer the call. That's probably from hitting my head after falling out of the portal that had opened ten feet above the floor of the stronghold's main receiving hall. Still, my rather abrupt and graceless appearance was not the biggest faux pas an outsider made that day before the shield dwarves. A random elf appearing out of nowhere unceremoniously is nothing compared to a goblin attempting to gain entry by passing himself off as a halfling. Whatever mercy stayed the dwarves' hands proved a godsend, as that goblin was a capable scout and more than willing to aid us. Nor was I alone of the faerie folk to come to the shield dwarves that day. No doubt the fair swordmaster would have wanted a better entrance to make him feel less out of place than he already did. I myself felt sheepish for other reasons: given the two dwarves who joined us -- both in heavy plate, one bristling with weapons of all descriptions, the other a devotee of Moradin -- it seemed a certainty that they'd wanted someone with more insight into the arcane than I had, and it's not like I'd made a good impression of my skills with that performance. As they say in Tethyr, c'est le vie. But beggars cannot be choosers, so despite our discomfiture we were quickly appointed to our task. It was overly simple: enter the Underdark and verify rumors of an impending incursion the drow and perhaps their allies were planning on Mithral Hall. Nothing in the Underdark is ever simple, which probably accounted for our group's great deal of experience relative to such a task. It took maybe an hour of spelunking before we came upon an advance party of hobgoblins; their leaders, one of sorcerous might and another whom I didn't have time to assess, rode their giant lizards high upon the opposite wall of the cavern. We were outnumbered two-to-one. As the dwarves charged, leaving us elves at the chamber's entrance, it became apparent that this was an ambush: our party divided, others set upon us, likely laying in wait. The dubiousness of the early incursion proved coincidental, as our roguish goblin didn't seem to be bound by notions of greatly extended kinship. I say this not because I recall specifically what the goblin did, just that he didn't try to stab us in the ensuing melee. The klink of the warrior dwarf's hammer as it split hobgoblin skulls and was quickly swapped for a variety of other weapons only barely managed to cover the prayers his compatriot intoned to the Forge Father as they held the front line, while my saber and the swordmaster's secret blade-twisting techniques were enough to fend off the few assailants on our end. It took one spell from the sorcerous goblinoid for me to realize we were in trouble. But it did give me an idea. I reached into the purse manpurse large, conspicuous pouch on my side for the only spell components I carry: rose petals. I grabbed a handful, whispered an incantation as I drew my hand up in an arc, and blew. The petals flew towards the ceiling on a swift breeze, forming a cloud around the hobgoblin, then stopped suddenly before imploding upon him. The hobgoblin blinked, shook his head a few times, then went limp as slumber -- and gravity -- took hold of him. He fell. His lieutenant and the lieutenant's lizard mount, being directly underneath him, were unable to get out of the way in time. They, too, fell. All three fell upon the front line, hobgoblin and dwarf alike. But the dwarves are a hale folk and surprisingly nimble for short men with short legs wearing large panels of metal over every inch of their bodies, so in the end were more than fine. Mostly. The same cannot be said for what had remained of the hobgoblin advance party, now a pile of limbs squashed beneath the broken remains of their commanding officers and a horse-sized reptile.
-From an account of an Underdark excursion written by Árëlómion, scion of the Lórëlindalë, moon elf bard.
This was my first Forgotten Realms campaign (though it turned out to be a one-shot), back in late Fall of 2005 (my first semester of undergrad). The DM was a friend of mine (whom I was crushing on hard at the time) and the other players were his suitemates (save one, a mutual; he effectively took the place of the remaining suitemate, who either couldn't or didn't want to play). The other noteworthy bit about the session was that I was experiencing my first bout of acute hyperglycemia: I was not yet diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, but had anyone recognized my thirst and trips to the bathroom for what they were, I would have been a textbook case. I still managed to pull off killing much of the assault squad and ending the combat with a single 1st-level spell (as a ninth-level character, though that didn't affect the spell's save DC or power at the time).
Árëlómion was meant to be the elfiest elf bard that ever did elf bard. "Fop" doesn't even begin to describe him/them. Yes, I dug through a Quenya-English dictionary to make those names. Surprisingly, no, Árëlómion is not a well-made character; I got lucky with the spell working. I have since made the character a cover identity for another, but in looking at the character sheet I'm tempted of rebuilding him/them.
