“Davian! Davian, where are you going?” Selusis called after his friend, chasing after the warrior.
Davian did not reply. He simply kept moving towards the edge of town. Onlookers watched as their champion stormed angrily towards the outskirts.
Finally, he stopped at the very edge of the city’s boundary. Davian turned around. “I have more stomach for the plight of goblins than I do anymore for these people.”
“Surely, you don’t mean such a thing. Come now, Davian. Be serious. Trogs and half-breeds are below the selumari.”
“Do you now claim to speak for Ghaeial, mother of the gods?”
Selusis defended, “Well, no, but…”
“But you murder the offspring of her children’s creation,” Davian interrupted. Passion flooded his voice. “I am no friend to Death and his worshipers. The cart in your square and my reputation among the trogs attest to that—but there is an inherent value to all life, and to see it mistreated thusly by those claiming to be its defenders…” he trailed off with hot words lingering heavy between them.
“Are you finished?” Selusis asked. “Your words would have carried more weight if you had taken my earlier suggestion, years ago. You could have been seated on the council. You could have steered public opinion a different direction, but you claimed it was no place for a warrior and instead chose the sword.”
“I am a warrior!” he howled. His nostrils flared, and he snatched his sword and shook it in his friend’s face. “But perhaps you are right. This is what I know, and the sword is bound to my fate, but I vow to you and all the gods that I will not take up the sword again for any purpose—not even if willed by the three goddesses of fate.”
No sooner had he uttered those words than a peal of thunder split the sky like an omen. Selusis looked up after the thunderclap, but no clouds marked the horizon.
“I would be wary of defying the gods, my friend, especially not the daughters of Turambar; the other gods are more fickle than Ghaeial’s children and they may very well answer your challenge. Why would you make such a rash vow? Please, take it back while the god-sisters of fate might still forgive it.”
Davian shot his friend a wild look.
Selusis knew his friend would not recant. “Fine, but, please, come back with me. Surely the bath is drawn and supper is ready. I promise to listen to your thoughts on the matter, only let us get back.”
Instead of a response, Davian turned and began heading south. “Davian? Davian!” Selusis called after him.
Clouds began to form ominously, now. A storm seemed likely.
The elf kept waking, undeterred. He grumbled below his breath, “Maris-ta-Sehlim. Ha. The city does not deserve her name. It might as well be Maris-ta-Morehlimar.” He shook his head. City of the wicked elves.
“You can’t be serious,” Selusis scoffed, refusing to chase him any further. He called after his friend. “After all, you made that vow and you’ve still got your sword.”
Davian did not look back. Instead, he held his sheathed blade out and made a show of dropping it. Davian continued walking until he was out of sight.
Selusis hung his head and collected it in hopes that his friend would some day retrieve it, but that day never came.
Thus, Davian Whisperwynd left Maris-ta-Sehlim and never returned, only reporting the rest of his tale to a wandering sage shortly before his death, some years later.