I was always the restive sort. Can't be helped, I suppose, that I was born with a bit more wanderlust than desire to settle down and wait for a crop to come in, rather than be out in the open spaces of the world, seeing and smelling and feeling the world around me. I suppose I was a bit of a natural for the druids to come to, to teach the ways of the Goddess.

Those were a wonderful four years. My "lessons" were wandering through the woods of my home on Moray, south of Dynnegall, often accompanied by Fearghus, my master in the Druidic arts, and always by Ru, my father's old moorhound. Learning the baby-talk in the language of the oaks was my first step, progressing on to the teachings of the Goddess, and then to Her secret words and prayers that would cause the land to aid me, or allow me to give her aid to the land. I guess I got a deeper respect for my father from this. His hard work achieved the same things I'd seen the greatest druids do: bring life to a place once barren. It was a beautiful thing to see his fields spring up green where there had only been brown earth the night before, and he appreciated having a druid in the family to aid with the labors. We grew close, then, and I guess Da no longer blamed the Goddess for taking my mother when she gave him me.

Five years ago, though, the trolls came. Da and I fought them as best we could, he with torch and long-forgotten sword, I with spells and a blade of the Goddess's flame. The yard was a mass of screaming and squeals of pain, panicked animals stampeding through, roars of injured trolls and enraged bulls… blood and pain and noise. When my leaden arm stopped hacking, and the blade of flame disappeared from my fingers, four scorched troll carcasses lay at my feet… along with the half-eaten body of my father, his blade still buried in the troll who killed him, his torch smoldering on the rotten hair that covered it's body.

I don't remember much of the next few days. Fearghus came, along with some druids who I had met at the Festivals of the Goddess, and they helped me bury my father and butcher the stock that had been killed, and light a pyre for what couldn't be butchered, including old Ru. When the work was done, Fearghus and I walked off into the night. This is the first clear memory I have of that ten-day, and it still rings with clarity.

"I'm tired, Fearghus." I remember saying this as I sat on an old rock, still holding the warmth of the sunken sun.

"We're all tired, Cormac. It's been a rough few days, and then the battle before. But I sense that you mean something more… something that doesn't have to do with sore arms and," at this point he yawned, "weary eyes."

"I need to get away for a while, to stop being a druid. I'm too weary for it, now. Do you think I could still be one, still come back, if I'm ready later?"

Fearghus dropped his head, his shoulders sagging. I'd never realized how old he was, until then. The Goddess had always kept him so strong. "Aye, you could come back, so long as you keep her ways in the meantime. You did have that in mind, didn't ya?"

"Aye, that I did."

"Then take yerself to a friend o' mine in Dynnegall, Kirwan. He's a bard, and they keep the ways of the Goddess well enough, and you should have a fair hand at that kind of work. Learn that trade fer a few years, and see if your heart still years to be with the Goddess after that."

"I will. Thank ye, Fearghus."

I set out the next day, walking with the shillelagh that Fearghus had given me and a pack upon my back. It felt odd not to have Ru with me, and I kept turning to talk to him. However, the day was beautiful, the Shannyth blue, and the Goddess and her Sun were there to soak up my worries and sorrow.

I found Kirwan soaking in ale at Dynnegall's Red Stag Inn. I quickly sobered him (much to his displeasure) through use of my magic, and passed on Fearghus's recommendation. He eyed me carefully before speaking.

"Sing for me, boy. Tell me the tale of… of the Maiden of Highpeak"

I sat still for a bit, trying to remember that one. Kirwan sat impatiently, slamming his glass on the table, stomping, shuffling his feet… distracting me, as an audience would. I forced my thoughts into the story, weaving a subtle charm spell around him as I spoke. He listened to my words as I sang the sad song of the lonely Maiden in her castle of glass, and I soon had the entire inn standing around, eyes full of tears for her loneliness. A mug of ale was brought to me, and a handful of coins dropped on the table next to me.

"I've got myself an apprentice, then."

It took me a year to learn enough lore that he no longer called me "apprentice". We traveled a lot in that time, ranging across the Moonshaes, dealing with Northmen and the Synnorian elves, the dwarves and halflings, and, of course, the Ffolk. Each time we stopped, he'd tell a new tale, and expect me to know it by the next morning. Slowly, he taught me my letters and daily had me bloody my fingers on this damn harp. He coached my voice… he taught me everything a bard needs to know, and a few things he thought might be useful, then drilled me until I got it right.

After that year, we went to up the Sword Coast, sharing tales and more than a few fires. Though it still ached my heart to think of Da, I was slowly gaining in confidence, and didn't think about him as often. I suppose I was growing slowly as a bard, though I didn't really notice. I spent a lot of time keeping all of my skills honed, and honored the Goddess on each of her festivals. I always remembered who I was.

About a year ago, Kirwan and I parted ways. He wanted to head back to Moray, but I was still anxious to see the world. I traveled the river between Baldur's Gate and Berdusk, carrying messages for the mainland druids and other folks as I went, entertaining with words, songs, and magic. I was thinking of returning home to Moray when the local Grove reached out to me, asking me for aid. Always happy to help fellow druids, I'm setting off after this tale to speak with them. And, since I've brought you up to this morning, well, I suppose I'm done. Thank you for listening to me and… thank you ma'am, those coins will come in handy. And yes, miss, I'd like a refill on my ale, and take this for yourself.

The air is cool as Cormac, called the Wanderer, steps into the shade of the grove to the north of Elturel. He feels the quiet touch of Eldath's presence, the fatherly eyes of Silvanus, and the warm, earthy embrace of Chauntea as he walks to the well at the center, a brief prayer to the trio who rule this grove leaving his mouth, along with another to his own Goddess. The white robed druids step out from amidst the trees, and the forest is silent for this council.

"Cormac, we have need of you." The voice of the head druid is gentle and feminine, and her blue eyes glitter as she lowers her hood and approaches. Age doesn't line the elfin face, and no gray touches the golden glory of her hair, but the depth of her eyes speaks of more decades than Cormac has years.

"Of course, I will aid in any way I can, Lady. What is it that you require?" His voice has the forced clarity of one who has lost his heart in that instant. In his mind echo the words "I have never before, nor never again, seen a woman of such beauty."

"The balance is threatened by the actions of a few. As such, the Great Druid has decided to ask for the repayment of a favor, rendered long ago to a great dragon. We, the Council, require a man of courage to carry this message for us."

"Who is this dragon, and where does he lair?"

"It is the Red Wyrm, known to men as Firebrand, who lairs in the Storm Peaks. A map and supplies will be provided, of course."

"And the message?"

"That will also be provided."

"It shall be as you ask, lady. Before I leave to prepare, may I beg a favor of you?"

"Of course you may ask." The ghost of a smile touches her face, her teeth gleaming like ivory against her golden skin. "Whether or not it will be granted, however, is another matter."

"I ask, lady, what is your name?"

"Selanine of Eldath."

"Thank you, Selanine." Cormac takes her small hand in his, kissing the fingertips lightly, then pressing them to his chest. "I shall do as you, and the gods, ask."

The warmth of the sun washes over him as he steps from the grove, caressing his flesh and evaporating the coolness that had clung to him beneath the trees. As he walks back to Elturel, his heart is filled with the word "Selanine", and his mind with the painful knowledge that he has just fallen in love with an Archdruid.

Three days into the future that is now part of his past, Cormac will find himself picking through the through the Storm Peaks, the heat of a merciless sun will pound upon his skull. He will look at that map for the hundredth time that day, trying to follow the path he was told of. Naught will be growing in the barren land save rocks and dust, and they shall fill his boots and his mouth. Towards sunset, just as the harsh light disappears on the far side of the mountains, he will stumble into a cave, and the heat of the day will be replaced with the cold grip of fear; fear known to mice before owls, of sheep before a wold. Fear of that which preys upon creatures far below it. He will feel his breath catch in his breath, and be aware of every clack of two pebbles, and the sound of his own breath.

He will stumble in the darkness, his flesh feverish even as his soul freezes, until he will finally stand in the room that the dragon calls sanctum. To his mortal eyes, the dragon will stretch for leagues, a creature of such might that he will be sure that his mortal mind will break rather of comprehend it. In a wavering voice, he will address the beast, mindful of his own insignificance.

"Great and Powerful Firebrand, I bring you greetings from the Druids, who aided you so long ago!"

One awful eye will open, and Cormac will see in the depths of this beast's soul, where there is naught but flame and hatred. "BEGONE, MORTAL, LEST YOU VEX ME INTO DESTROYING YOU!"

Deep within, Cormac will find his voice... the voice that has called out to the Goddess, that has cut through the chatter of a thousand barrooms, the voice that belongs only to a man who knows his own strength, and is not ignorant of his weakness. That voice will speak out, saying "Great Firebrand, the Red Wyrm, I am sent to invoke your aid in the name of the oath that you swore to in your youth! I invoke the name of Eldath, whose waters soothed the burns of lightening upon your hide! I invoke the name of Silvanus, whose broad branches sheltered you from those that would have destroyed you! I invoke Chauntea, whose bounty sustained you in your recovery! In their names, I bind you, and demand that you perform a service, as you swore upon your life and hoard!"

Firebrand will feel the oath, so long ago sworn, clamp down upon him, and he will feel it work its way beneath his magic-soaked scales. compelling his obedience. He will rise up, screaming his rage, his wings brushing against the walls as he tries to deny that which cannot be denied. "WHAT DO YOU DEMAND, MORTAL? THOUGH I MUST SERVE, YOUR SAFETY IS NOT LONG GUARANTEED!"

Cormac will stare into the eyes of the dragon, his fear placed far from the face and voice he projects, and delivers his demand. "The blue who so long ago wounded you, known as Raven's Death, has been raised to the status of dracolich. We demand his destruction, so that his existence, which is an affront to life and thus the Gods of the circle which sent me, will trouble us no longer. The messenger is to accompany you, both to insure your compliance, and to release the oath which binds you."

The profanity of the dragon will be a terrible thing, and will shake the chamber until the entire mountain will seem to move. Cormac will struggle to breathe as he is clutched tight within the claw of the great dragon, and the rock walls will rush by him as the dragon forces his way to the surface. Above the Mere of Dead Men, Cormac and the dragon will meet with their foe, and Cormac will be hurled to the swamps below, his fall and ribs broken by the branches of a great cypress. He will be insensible to the battle raging above him, between the awesome evil so full of life, and that which is a mockery of life. When that mockery ceases, and the flaming corpse cloaked in tattered blue scales extinguishes itself in the Mere, Cormac will speak the words of release. He will feel the fire of an enraged dragon envelope him, and then he will feel no more.

He will be found, then, floating scarred and almost lifeless. The Druids of the Mere will coax life back into him, calling upon their Gods to soothe his burns and repair his scars. Health will return to him, but there are limits to what even the Gods can do. His face will remain scarred on the left side; healthy, pink flesh that looks as though it has been boiled to bursting, thick cords of leathery skin disappearing into his shoulder. His mind and spirit will repair, though he will long recoil from the sight of himself in a still pond or a sword blade.

All this will happen in a future that Cormac knows not as he steps from the Grove. All this has happened, in the past that he cannot forget, for only a handful of tendays have passed since he left the care of the Druids of the Mere. A bard without a face, a Druid without a grove... tempered by a fire hotter than even Kossuth can dream of.

"Once, ye see, about half a year ago, I was carryin' a message between two groves… one just outside Beregost, the other over around Corm Orp. Now, even when you've spent as much time as I have in the Western Heartlands, and the Goddess takes all the brambles out of your path, you can't make a trip like that in one day. So, I was spending the night, bedded down in a little copse of woods ta keep the wind off o' me back. Now, the wind was blowing something fierce… one of those freak storms that flies down out o' the Anarouch on occasion, full o' wind and lightning and not much else… so I was hunkered down, knowin' that not even a druid was gonna light a safe fire that night, eatin' cold meat and a bit o' bread, and wishin' ta tha Goddess I could snap me fingers and make this storm disappear."

"Now, through this storm I've been hearing a keenin'. At first, I figure it's just the wind whipping through the trees, makin' a sound like this, but soon enough I notice that it's stopping an' starting, and the wind ain't doing nothing but blowin' an' blowin. Knowin' that I'd hate ta be lost on a night like this, I go out, hopin' I kin see somewhat of the person makin' the keenin'."

"Stickin' my head out o' the copse, I get blasted with near enough wind ta knock me off my feet. Off in the distance, though, 'bout a mile off, I see this glowin', like one of those wizard lights, so I figure must be someone needin' a bit of help. So, I hunkered down real low, hopin' the wind wouldnae carry me off, and damn near crawled that entire mile. Soon as I get within ten paces o' that light, though, the wind stops dead as can be. I stick me head up, an' see that the light I been followin' all this time ain't no wizard light 't'all, but rather an elven woman, her skin lit up like a she were that lighthouse south o' Candlekeep."

"Now, my years o' walkin' with the Goddess hae given me a bit of a sense for when something ain't right, and this here woman sent that sense reelin' like I just drank from the bottom o' a barrel o' dwarven spirits. I see her kneelin' over a cairn, screamin' an' cryin', and I knew I was right lucky to be alive this close ta' a banshee. 'Course, being the fool I am, I coul'nae allow her ta go roamin' free, for the unlivin' ain't nothing but a threat ta the balance o' life, so I grabbed a blade o' the Goddess's flame an' prepared ta put an end ta her. It was then, in a moment tha chilled me blood worse than jumpin' naked inta a snowbank, that she looked up at me, tears rollin' down her face. She open'd her mouth, and instead o' screaming like I thought she would, she just said ta me 'Please help me… I cannae stand ta be like this'."

"Now, the Goddess knows I ain't the most upright o' men in the world, an' one o' me many failings is I cannae stand ta see a woman cry, e'en if she's a creature o' pure, unlivin' evil. So, when she see's me blade and starts ta beggin' me ta help her, what kin I do but try? So, I says ta her, 'What kin I be doing ta help ye, lass?'"

"Now, she bust out sobbin' again, an' all I want ta do is scoop her up in me arms and hold her to me chest, but I know ta do that woul' be the death o' me, so I have ta calm her from afar, holdin' me sword up ta remind her ta keep a distance, as well. She tells me, between sobs, tha' she's been cursed, an' is in need o' a piece o' jewelry ta be laid ta rest. Now, 'course this cannae be just any piece o' jewelry, or I wouldn't be wearing this ring right here, but she needs a specific one, her weddin' ring, stolen by her husband's lover who killed an' cursed her."

"Now, I know the smart thing was ta just drive that length o' flame inta the banshee an' be done with it, but smart don't always enter inta the mind o' a heroic man like myself. So, I get the woman, for that's how I'm thinkin' o' her now, if for no other reason than ta ignore the fact that I'm helpin' one o' the undead, ta calm down an' tell me 'bout the ring an' what it looks like, an' where it might be. Turns out that the Goddess were watchin' o'er me that day, for the spirit had the most accurate picture o' that ring, an' she knew that the woman had lived in Corm Orp when the spirit's husband had been dallying with her. I promise the spirit I'll be back in less than a tenday, and she'll be free just as soon as I can manage it. She thanks me with a lot o' wailin' an' moanin', which I put a stop to right quick, lest she make a mistake in what kind o' wail she made, an' I go back ta my copse to sleep out the night."

"Now, I wish I could tell you I went on some grand quest for that ring, an had ta fight off scores o' monsters just ta pluck the ring from some clever trap that woulda squashed me like a bug had I made a mistake… if ye like that kind o' story, I kin make one up if ye give me a moment… but I'm an honest enough man, so I'll tell ye the whole, borin' truth. As I'm walkin' back inta Corm Orp after deliverin' my message, I see an old woman arguing with a man who hae more than a drop o' elf blood in his veins. She's screamin' worse than the banshee ever did, 'bout how he's leaving her now that she's ol' and grey, despite all she's done for him. As 'e walks off, slick as ye please, she pulls somethin' off her 'and and throws it at him, beanin' him in the head. He turns around, an' raises 'is arm as if he's gonna hit her, but I whispered a word an' wiggled me fingers, an' he laid out on the street, fast asleep. I scooped up the ring from out o' the street an' slipped it up my sleeve, then took the knife from the ol' woman before she could run it 'cross his throat. Since I dinnae want to explain all this to the constable that was comin' by, for I dinnae believe it myself, so I took this opportunity ta slip behind the house an' head across the plains ta where the banshee was rooted."

"Now, I get ta the banshee's cairn right about nightfall, an' so I only hae ta wait a few minutes before she shows up, singin' softly ta myself in case she comes up screaming. She slides up from the groun' still glowin' like she swallowed a firefly or twenty, an' looks me right in the eye. She's been sobbing the whole time I've been gone, I kin tell, so I kneels before her, the best o' me grins on me face. 'Milady,' I said, thinking she might like it back proper-like, 'I bring ye a ring that looks like the one ye wanted. Could this be it?'"

"As I show her the ring, the tracks o' tears disappear from her face, an' she looks as beautiful as any elven maid ever did. She holds out her hand, like a shy little girl, an' I slip the ring upon her finger, brushing me lips across the back of her hand as I do so. Just like that, she disappears, gone to whatever place awaits elves that hae lived a good life, leavin' me holdin' the ring. Now, I look good an' hard at that ring, tryin' ta remember what I'm supposed to do with it now. When I look inside it, though, it says 'For Cormac, who would care for one beyond caring.'"

"An' that, ladies an' gentlemen, is why I wear an elven woman's weddin' ring on my little finger. Thank ye for yer time. Any other stories ye want ta hear…"

"I once spent nearly a year, living with a dryad. This was way back before me 'accident', which left me with these scars, before I left Moray, e'en. Couldnae hae been more than fifteen or sixteen. For some damned fool reason, they had a young man carryin' a message to a dryad, one known for not letting the messengers come back if they caught her eye. 'Course, I was young and more than a bit stupid, so when the Druid Oenghus asked me ta take a message, I agreed ta go. I was thinkin', if you can call it that, that this would help me in Druid circles ta be known as one who's not afraid o' things he has every right to be afraid of."

"Now, I wandered like a bloody idjit across the moors, hoping that the Dryad would be as beautiful as I'd always heard they were. Fortunately, it was after harvest, so Da could spare me for the tenday, and was likely damn glad ta have me away, an' not botherin' Bridget, our neighbor's daughter. Now there was a fine lass… but back to my story. I kin reminisce about Bridget later. Anyway, I spent a couple nights out on the moors, eatin' cold food and sleepin' on a colder ground an' thinkin' it high adventure, then swam the Shannyth so I could reach the marshes where her oak was."

"Now, walkin' through the marshes is miserable at any time o' year, but I will hold ta my dying day that autumn is the most miserable of all. It gets warm enough during the day for a man to be covered with insects o' all sorts, and cold enough at night that not e'en the thickest blanket will keep out the chill, an' never, ever, does it get to a truly comfortable temperature. Winter, at least, it will freeze over in places, so yer not sloggin' through cold mud all the time, and spring can be right nice, as yer likely to meet a fen man huntin' eels or eggs, but you'll find none o' that in autumn, after the harvest is in. I spent three days lookin' for that copse of oaks, an' when I found it, I was surely a sorry sight."

"But, find it I did. As I spoke up, callin' fer Deionarra… that was her name… like there wasn't anything around that would eat a young man, a woman stepped out of the tree, just like she was walkin' through a door. I wish I could do justice to her with just words, but her hair was the color o' flame, with touches o' gold throughout it, an her skin was smooth as Calimshite silk, an' flushed like she was a maid hearin' a story I tell when I cannae find work in a fine establishment like this one. I hae only seen one woman more beautiful in all my life, an there are few enough among us mortals who ever will."

"When she spoke, I had trouble understandin' her at first, for it sounded like the birds singing an' the wind rustlin' branches high in a tree. Soon enough, though, she spoke in elven, her words so soothin' I can remember none o' them. I know for a fact I stood there like an idjit, a look of stupid wonder on me face. I yammered out the message I was supposed ta give her, an she asked me if I would like ta stay the night, before I left ta go home. Well, I didn't need no second invitation, an' she walked with me inta her tree." "Inside, ladies and gents, it was like nothin' I had ever seen. The wood around me was alive, an' warm to the touch, but polished smoother than any lord's table could ever hope ta be. While there was no meat at her table, there was fresh fruit and nuts a-plenty, an' mead that would bring an elf to tears. After the meal, she led me out to a hot spring, one blessed by the Goddess of the Ffolk herself, where a man can simply feel the aches of a day wash away along with the dirt an' stink o' the swamps. That night, we lay on beds o' hay an' leaves that felt like satin and feathers."

"As I think yer already guessin', I kept coming up with excuses not ta leave, an she provided ample reasons ta help me stay. For near onto nine months, I was doing whatever she wanted me to, and learnin' the lessons she taught as well as I could. In addition ta what ye usually hear about what happens ta men who stay with the dryads, though, I was learnin' the ways o' the Goddess from a different point of view, one not so tied up in the life o' normal people. It's a curious thing, sometimes. You go through your days, from season ta season, thinkin' about what ye have ta do ta stay alive an' keep the land ye work healthy, without knowing what's really goin' on beyond your own little world. Now, I dinnae suggest goin' ta search out a dryad ta teach ya these things… but thinkin' about it don't hurt, an ye may learn something."

"Enough with the sermonizing, aye. I can see it in yer eyes that ye want ta know how I managed ta get away from such a pleasant prison, so I could be with you fine folks tonight. It happened that Deionarra's copse came inta trouble. Seems some firbolgs… nasty brutes… came outta the mountains, lookin' for wood ta build a hall with, an havin' a preference for old oaks. Now, I knew that she was gonna need help, an' so did she, so she sent me ta find the local Druids an' warriors, so they could drive 'em off. Ran like the wind I did, until I found one, an' she passed along the word to the others an' the King's Militia to drive 'em out. I fought along with 'em, though I'm sad ta say I had little more to show for it than a bump on the noggin from when a firbolg flung a man at me 'an I dived out of the way an' inta a tree. Fearghus, the Druid who was trainin' me, had me brought back ta me Da's house while I was still unconscious, an' apparently he broke the spell that had kept me there."

"Now, when I woke up, free o' Deionarra's spell, I was a might annoyed at Oenghus for sendin' me on that trip, so when I saw him at Midsummer, I walked up to him an' started a fight, punchin' him so quickly he couldn't get a spell off. He thrashed me good, of course… age and skill will usually beat youth and enthusiasm… but you can be damn sure he wasn't anxious to send another young Druid off ta live with a dryad."

"One last story, and I'll have ta call it an evening, for me throat is dry an' the road here was long. Now then, what do we want ta hear?" A groan comes up from the audience, who long for more stories and songs, ones different from those the elders sing, from places farther than any have been. After the initial complaint, though, a flood of requests comes up; for love songs, for Northman epics, for tales of far away lands. The clamor raises, waking children who have started to drift off in the smoky, crowded common room of the tiny village's only inn.

"Woah, now, folks, I kin only tell one of the stories that yer all wantin' ta hear." A little girl, towheaded and tired, walks up to Cormac and climbs on his lap, bold as can be.

"Please, Mr. Bard Sir," she says in a tiny voice, "tell me a bedtime story."

Cormac smiles down at her, then out at the crowd. "How can I resist a request like that? Very well, then, I'll tell you a bedtime story."

Cormac settles back into his chair, lightly stroking the little girl's head. His voice is quiet, but carries clearly in the stilling air. "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Cormac. He lived on a farm with his daddy, who had once been a mighty warrior, a dog named Ru, and all sorts of goats and cows and sheep."

"Didn't he have a Mommy?"

"No, Cormac's Mommy went to live with the Goddess when he was just a baby. He still talked to her, though. Every time he was scared of the dark, or found a new fishing pond, he told his Mommy about it, because her spirit was always with him."

"Now, it so happened that Cormac was a special little boy, and the Little People who live in the hills knew this, and, since they wanted special little children, they took him away from his daddy and the dog named Ru, to live beneath the hills with them."

"At first, Cormac liked it under the hills. No one told him what to do, or when to go to bed, and he was given candy to eat whenever he wanted it. He got to play all sorts of neat games; not just hide and go seek and tag, but also games that used toys of pure gold where he always won no matter how hard the other people tried to beat him. The only problem was, though, that he missed his Daddy and Ru, because the Little People wouldn't let him visit them. He would play all day, and then cry at night because he missed them so much."

"Now, it so happened that Cormac's Mommy heard him crying one night, and came to him in a dream. 'Why are you crying, my sweet little boy?' 'I miss Daddy and Ru, Mommy, and the Little People won't let me see them.' Cormac told her. 'Well then,' she said, 'you'll just have to make them, because no one should keep a child away from his Daddy and his dog.' She told him how the Little People were all afraid of iron, and that if he could find that, he wouldn't have to do what they said anymore, but that they also wouldn't let him come back."

"Now, Cormac was even sadder than before, because while he loved his Daddy and Ru, he liked the games he was playing, too. Cormac thought about it and thought about it, but he finally decided he wanted to be with his Daddy, no matter what. He searched the Kingdom of the Little People from top to bottom, every day for three whole tendays, finally finding a piece of iron, bent just like this a little horseshoe. He remembered his Daddy giving it to him, to protect him from the Little People, then taking it off when he went swimming in the creek, even though his Daddy had told him not to. Cormac, however, wanted to be back with his Daddy again, so he put the piece of iron back on, and walked right out of the Kingdom of the Little People, and none of them could stop him. He went home to his Daddy, and though it seemed like he had been gone for almost a year, his Daddy thought he had seen him only that morning. Cormac lived with his Daddy and Ru happily for many years, until he was all grown up, then he went travelling, to tell little boys and girls all about living in the Kingdom of the Little People, and make sure they were never stuck there."

Cormac looks down now, seeing that his main audience has fallen asleep in his arms. He stands up carefully, reaching into a pouch to draw forth a bent iron nail, hooking it to the little girl's tunic, then handing her over to her mother. He stays for a bit as people file out, passing out the iron charms to those with young children, thanking those who give him coppers or a bit of food for their generosity, and assuring people that he would be there for at least one more night. When the last patron leaves, he collects his fee from the innkeeper… a warm meal and beer drawn from the keg… then spreads his blanket on the floor before the fire. The life of a bard is not rich, but it is rewarding.

"Goodnight, Mother. Goodnight, Father." And then he is asleep.

Cormac the Wanderer

Strength 11
-40# carrying capacity
-115# maximum press
-6 open doors
-2% bend bars/lift gates

Dexterity 18
-+2 surprise reaction bonus
-+2 missile attack bonus
--4 defensive adjustment

Constitution 11
--75% System Shock
-80% Ressurection Survival

Intelligence 13
-3 languages and bonus proficiencies
-Maximum of 6th level spells
-55% Chance to Learn Spells
-9 spells per spell level

Wisdom 15
-+1 vs. mind affecting magic
-2 First level bonus spells
-1 Second level bonus spell

Charisma 17
-10 henchmen
-+6 loyalty
-+6 NPC Reaction

Height: 5'9"
Weight: 130#
24 years old
Right Handed Male
True Neutral Alignment

Description: The most striking feature about Cormac is what he refers to as his "scar", which appeared after being severely burned by the Red Wyrm, Firebrand. It appears to be a port wine stain across the left side of his face, and resembles a stylized dragon, with the jaws reaching for Cormac's eye. If Cormac removes his shirt, the "neck" of the stylized dragon runs down his own, finally culminating in the full body of a dragon, it's wings spreading across his shoulder blades, and tail running disappearing between his cheeks. If one watches the "scar" long enough, it will sometimes seem to move (something that Cormac can feel beneath his skin, even though he never admits it), and what appears to be the "eye" of the dragon will sometimes emit a soft glow. Though apparently made of normal flesh, and appears smooth, the "scar" has a slightly scaly texture to the touch, and is slightly warmer than the surrounding flesh. All of these combine to make people slightly uneasy about him (or, at least, the "scar"), though his natural charisma more than makes up for it. Despite all this, Cormac insists it is "just a scar", and refuses to listen to anything to the contrary.
Aside from the "scar", Cormac looks to be a handsome young man of the Ffolk, with red hair that falls almost to his shoulders, and green eyes that usually dance with mirth. He projects an aura of friendliness and good nature, but beneath that there is an iron will, strong religious beliefs, and a highly ethical man.

Bard Level: 6
Bard XP: 20,000
Druid Level: 5 (frozen)
Druid XP: 12,500

Hit Points: 35
Hit Die Rolls: 8, 3, 6, 7, 7, 3
ThAC0: 18
Armor Class: 6 (Dexterity)

Saving Throws
Poison/Paralyzation/Death: 9
Rod/Staff/Wand: 12
Polymorph/Petrification: 11
Breath Weapon: 15
Spell: 13

Weapon Proficiencies
Club
Scimitar
Staff
Sling
Dagger

Non-Weapon Proficiency
Agriculture 13
Animal Handling 14
Survival: Moors 13
Hunting 14
Religion (Moonshaes) 15
Swimming 11
Animal Lore 13
Sing 15
Play Harp 17
Local History (Moonshaes) 15
Read and Write Common 14
Etiquette 15
Dancing 18

Languages
Common (Moonshaes Dialect)
Druid
Dwarf (Moonshaes Dialect)
Elf (Synnorian Dialect)
Troll
Firbolg
Dryad
Auld Wyrmish

Climb Walls 65% (+10% for no armor not added)
Detect Noise 35%
Pick Pockets 40% (+5% for no armor not added)
Read Languages 60%
Alter Reactions
Inspire Allies
Counter Song
Legend Lore 30%
+2 to save vs. fire and electricity
Identify Plants, Animals, and Pure water with perfect accuracy
5 First level, 4 Second level, and 1 Third Level Druid spell per day
3 First level and 2 Second level Bard spells per day

Silver bladed Scimitar with runed blade
-Magic, unknown plusses
-d8/d8 damage -Speed factor 5

Druid's Cudgel
-d6/d3 Damage
-Speed Factor: 4

Dagger, carried in boot
-d4/d3 damage
Speed Factor: 2

Sling and 6 stones
-d4/d4 damage
-8/16/24 Ranges
-Speed Factor: 6