By Keith Francis Strohm, Kevin Kraft, Audible Studios
They're the half-bloods, the damaged, the unforgiven.They failed themselves and their people.They are outcasts.Then, within the sour wilds of Rashemen, they obtain a determined plea they on my own can solution. in the event that they be successful, it will possibly suggest their redemption. but when they fail, a bothered prior would be the least in their problems.About the writer Keith Francis Strohm is the present leader working Officer of Paizo Publishing, LLC, and the writer of Dragon and Dungeon magazines. ahead of that, he used to be the vice chairman of Pokemon®, the Director of the Roleplaying and Miniatures different types, and the emblem supervisor for Dungeons & Dragons®--all at Wizards of the Coast. he's the writer of the Greyhawk® novel The Tomb of Horrors, and he has written 3 brief tales for the Forgotten nation-states. this can be his moment novel.
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Additional info for The Fighters Book 4: Bladesinger (Forgotten Realms)
Waves of amber energy emanated from the hag's clasped hands, surrounding the goblin chief. Giznat began to gibber mindlessly, shrieking out his fear. Behind him, his two companions watched as the amber energy passed through Giznat's skin, forming a hardened shell. The goblin chief stopped shrieking and turned to run. His lithe form seemed ungainly, however. He stumbled once then stopped, frozen in mid run. The amber shell faded completely, revealing smooth gray stone. "You," the hag called out to one of the remaining goblins.
The spirit's presence departed. Marissa remained on her knees, stunned by the intimate communion she had just experienced. Truly, the gods had crafted a land of wonders when Rashemen came into being. Even the wilds of Cormyr, the land of her youth, couldn't compare to what she had experienced here in such a short amount of time. Thoughts of her childhood came back to her. Raised in Waymoot, near the heart of the King's Forest, she had spent many years wandering the deer trails and hidden paths of the woodlands while her father toiled away at his trading business, burying himself in work to forget the fog-shrouded day he had buried his wife, Marissa's mother, an elf bard from Evereska.
His prayers were interrupted by the sonorous booming of a drum, struck in time to a measured beat. Silence descended upon the assembled elf community. Immediately, Taenaran and the other candidates fell to their knees as the el'tael processed in solemnly, the cowls of their rich, green robes cast deeply over their heads. Centuries of slow earth magic and patient cultivation had shaped the arael'lia from three separate trees. Now, with their trunks united and their leaf-filled bowers intertwined, they formed a massive chamber open to the gentle spring wind that blew across the length of Avaelearean.