Disclaimer: I don't own D&D and I'm making no profit from this story. I do own the world and characters presented here.

AN: Ok, like I said in the summary this is the same story I formerly had up here under the title 'Heroes' Quest', only I have found a new title for it and rewritten the prologue to a) be much better (I hope) and b) to fit the new title (which I know is much better). I've also introduced a framing narrative, and one or two other little bits and pieces which will come out later in the story. It's not that original, but I am hoping to be able to give it my own twist. I hope you enjoy it, and please read and review!

ps – happy now, Kar? ;-D

PROLOGUE: At the Sign of the Orc and Rose

The boy did not yet know that he was an artist. He had not reached the stage of being able to look at his love of stories and of songs and to consciously use it to make beautiful things, to entertain and to amaze. What he did know was that when he sat in the parlour at old Tobin's and stared into the fire, listening to the voice of the bard who was staying out the long winter at the inn, it gave him queer shivers up his spine and sent him on delicious journeys into the past and the realms of imagination.

That was why he had begged his father to let him go out into the dark of the long nights before New Dawning, with the snow billowing through the streets so that the torches fixed to the house walls flared and guttered and were extinguished and the soft flakes piled up into great drifts in the gutters. His mother had been afraid, and not wanted to let him leave the little dark enclosed space that was their house on a winter night, but his father had laughed at her fears.

'If the boy gets in trouble,' he said, 'why, there's any number of places 'e could find 'elp. We're all friends in this neighbour'ood, and the Rose isn't but a step. He couldn't get lost, and old Tobin knows 'im. They'll look after 'im there.'

So the boy had been allowed to slip out through his front door and embark on his own journey of adventure through the violent and changed winter world, forging his way like a ship to the sanctuary of the old inn on the corner. Snow crystals were resting in his eylashes as he stopped to look up at the inn sign. Old Tobin had had it repainted just this summer past, and the boy thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The Rose swung proudly above the dark oak door, each petal formed out of billowing and leaping golden flames. In the glow of the lantern that hung above the door, rocking and swinging with the force of the snowstorm, the painted flames seemed to leap like the flames of the torches. But unlike the torches, this fire did not go out; it remained forever, forming the perfect rose. The distant figure of the cloaked orc in the background of the sign was barely noticeable beside the blazing flames.

The boy smiled and pushed open the door. It needed both of his hands, for the wood was old and warped, and he could see his own fingers blue with cold as he pressed down on the icy cold iron latch.

The door swung open suddenly, flung by the wind, and the huddle of people inside turned at this sudden intrusion of the cold outdoors into their cosy and sheltered world.

'What poor fool's out in this weather?' called old Tobin from behind the bar. He came hustling across the room to see and to help drag the door shut against the howling and raging wind, which did not seem to want to be shut out now that it had found its way into this warm sanctuary. 'Why, what are you doing 'ere, youngster?'

The boy grinned up at the innkeeper with his red nose and tuft of white beard, for they were great friends. 'Please, I've come to see if Master Orland will tell a story or two.'

'And what better time for it?' called a rich, deep voice from across the room. The bard stepped out into the firelight. He was fat and jolly, convivial company, as all the Orc and Rose's regulars had quickly discovered. His voice was the truly magnificent thing about him; it rolled and boomed as though he was announcing something momentous and important with every word. 'What can we do on a dire evening like tonight but huddle around the fire and tell stories? What would you like a story about, young man?'

Almost immediately, before the boy had a chance to speak, the bard corrected himself. 'Of course, stories are more complex than that; it's hard to say that they are about any one thing. Let's make the choice easier – where should our story start?'

'The Islands,' said the boy, promptly. All the best stories of heroes and adventure began in the Islands. 'In summer,' he added as an afterthought, remembering the icy night outside.

The bard smiled. 'I have just the thing for a night like tonight. Listen, my friends!' His voice gathered resonance and he drew himself up. 'It begins with a vision.

'Imagine a ball rolling through space. It looks tiny, small enough to be blown away in one gentle breath, but this fragile sphere has withstood the breath of gods and the storms of more than a million years. It has known wars and kingdoms, famines and feasts. Since the dwarves were first born in its darkness it has borne the weight of fear, of hope, of cruelty and of love. And in its timeless immensity, this little ball has rolled steadily onwards through all.

'Even the gods are not as old as this blue and green ball rolling through the vast emptiness. They shaped it, moulding hills and valleys, mountains and oceans. They gave it colour and life, loved it and caused it to grow, and it grew and flourished and bore fruit. But it was here before they came and when the gods and all the races of the world are no more than a memory it will be here still.

'This is the world of life and light, the world of anger and courage and of loyalty and despair. This is a world held in the balance, the world of choices, the battleground of the gods. And this is also the world of freedom, where all may choose who and what they are. This is Iluen.

'If you look closely at the rolling sphere you can pick out the shape of oceans and continents, and the shoreline that bounds the two. Look closer yet and you can spot the Islands, sheltered beyond a great sweep of coast from the northern winds. If you strain your eyes until you can make out their individual shapes, you can pick one out from the mass: Goldisle.

'Like all the Islands, Goldisle is a seagoing place. There's not a coastal village which doesn't have its fishing fleet drawn up on the sandy beaches. But people can't only eat fish, and if you turn your glance away from the sea you will see that Goldisle's scant flat land is patchworked into fields, and farm buildings dot the landscape.

'Look at one such building. It is a small farm, and might be farmed by two or three men, but all save the very closest field is going back to the wild. The fields are unploughed, and thistles and saplings are claiming them once again. This is a farm which cannot survive much longer. There are no animals any more, and the crops in the field close to the house are scanty. Although it is midmorning there is no one moving around the farm.

'Inside the building it is dark. The shutters are open, but they do not seem to light up the little bedroom at the back of the house. It is a tiny, cramped room, but unlike the rest of the house it has been meticulously cleaned and repaired. There are no spider webs in the corner of the ceiling or damp stains on the walls, though the large, old kitchen of the house has both these things in plenty.

'On the bed in the dark bedroom lies an old woman. Her pale face is lined and the white hair spread across her pillow highlights the dark purple shadows under her closed eyes. Her face is cavernous and gaunt, skin drawn tight against her bones, and the only sound in the room is her ragged, gasping breaths. The shadows of the Grey Path are gathering close around her, clustering round the bed so that they seem to dim the light of the sun.

'Beside the bed a young man is sitting. He is holding one of the old lady's hands in both of his own, and against his large brown hands her fingers are fragile and so pale as to be almost translucent. His eyes, full of pain, are fixed on her face, but she can't see him any more. His broad shoulders are firmly set against the misery, and a stray sunbeam gleams on his pale hair, the only bright thing in the room.

'His name is Emlyn Ulmer and he is waiting for his mother to die.'