Ivas, the Unwilling
Threadcutter[edit]
As Ivas slept, the piece of divine light growing inside of him, he dreamt. Amidst dreams that he cannot remember and others of which he will not speak, he dreamt of a clearing. In that clearing, a figure moved, alternately beautiful and horrifying to behold, gathering up the weapons of the three Hounds that Ivas had slewn.
As he watched, skillful hands stripped the weapons apart, separating leather, wood, bone, and gem from the metal beneath. To one side stood a forge, where all gilt was melted away, leaving six bare pieces of steel gleaming in the light of the fire and the unblinking eyes of the stars above. With hammer and tongs, the metal was beaten and shaped in the forge, the three weapons becoming a single massive blade, double-edged and with the barest hint of a curve.
As the blade was pulled, hissing, from the quenching trough, the smith unwound a leather cord from her long hair and bound it about the finished hilt. With this single adornment, she plunged it point first into a root of the tree beneath which Ivas lay, disappearing into the forest while the quivering blade still hummed, bearing the bodies of the fallen Hounds on her back.
So it was when Ivas awoke: the clearing lay bare, empty of all but himself the blade he now bears. (Magical Dagger +3)
The Weight of Truth[edit]
Ivas' thin robes were ash within moments. He ignored the alternately blistering arcane fire and freezing mountain-top cold that seared his flesh. He did not know the name of the eladrin warmage he fought, but the Weaver's directive coiled around his mind, goading him on despite his foe's protests that this was a mistake, that she was guilty of no crimes against the gods or anyone else. He would fight or he would fall; reason had no bearing here.
Finally driven to her knees by a blow from his sword, the wizard locked eyes with her executioner, fear and fury mingled in her gaze.
"Your Mistress is crazed. She will drag you to hell with her, drow."
Though a great power in their own right, true words spoken cannot turn aside a blade already in motion. When the eladrin lay dead, Ivas felt the cold again, his bare form shivering. The only clothing on the mountain to protect him from the driving winds and building snow was the leather armor encasing the corpse at his feet.
As he struggled down the mountain, Ivas shrugged uncomfortably at the armor on his shoulders, trying not think of what was to come. (Feytouched Drowmesh +3)
The Bones[edit]
The guards had meant to isolate him, placing Ivas in the deepest cell beneath the city, leaving him there with no light and no companions. But he was not alone.
When he slept, his mistress spoke to him. She whispered of things to come and showed him glimpses of her grand designs. Behind her, the stars pulsed quietly, their lights undimmed by the earth and stone that sought to hide him from their gaze. Each night, just before Ivas woke, she showed him a pattern, and bade him remember it when he woke.
When he was awake, the bones spoke to him. They too had been locked here in years passed, and though life no longer dwelt in them, they too longed for freedom. The bones promised him aid if Ivas would take them with him. The bones reminded him of the pattern he had seen, explained to him that they could be shaped, molded to meet that pattern, if it would mean escape.
In darkness that even elven eyes could not pierce, Ivas worked, scraping bone against bone with his hands to match the pattern in his head: a field of stars strung together with threads, a watching eye centered among them. When it was finished, he felt the spark in his chest flair and the stars of bone in his hand responded. He smiled softly in the darkness. He knew that the guards were not ready to see him dead yet. Soon they would return, and when they did, he would be free. (Symbol of Divinity +1)
