Helaena DuFarran

Noble born, follower of Lathander, she joined the Circle of Seven to defeat a great evil. But now Ebondeath has returned to the world, and she must once again confront it. With Shahariel's blessing, and her friends at her side, she is cleric-turned-paladin and fueled by holy Vengeance.

Born in Neverwinter, 966 DR, to Lady Sefranka and Lord Tecwyn DuFarran. Lost to the world in 997 and brought back in 1492.

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Age

Birthplace

Neverwinter

Children

Current Residence

With her friends

Gender

Female

Eyes

Gray

Hair

Blonde

Height

5'8"

Related Reports

Known Languages

Celestial, Common, Elvish, Primordial

The Hope of Prayer

Tears of frustration built in her eyes, but the weather was so cold that they froze before they could fall. Her vision remained as crisp as the wind that snapped through the mountain range, and her rage was as sharp and towering as the peaks themselves. She simmered with such anger that it was a wonder the frost did not melt from around her. Everything moved too quickly and yet not fast enough. She felt almost powerless. Pip had been swallowed whole. Amarille was captured in the dragon's grasp. She was trapped behind a damnable wall, and though her adrenaline remained piqued, she felt worn. She had limited magic left, she knew, for there was a growing emptiness inside, and accessing those powers was becoming a strain. Only enough for a few small stunts, or one big show. She held onto a flicker of hope as she watched Keth mount the wall. And Flicker. She heard Flicker behind her, talking to...by the gods, what business now? A ghost? As if there was not enough to contend with. Perhaps it and its allies might be swayed to refocus on the dragon. Perhaps...perhaps a greater power could be called. Perhaps Shahariel would hear her, through the gusting wind and frigid air, all the way into the heavens.

Cryohate

It was this. This was the reason they were here, this monster that called itself Cryovane. It was the reason Flicker and Keth and Eethyl had arrived to Phandalin. And they were the reason she had been awoken from that fel slumber. It was all for this moment, this chance to rid the world of a terrible foe. And they would. She held a hatred in her heart for this monster that matched the angel's. She could feel Shahariel's power in her, and it burned to be unleashed upon the dragon. This was not the soft healing magics of Lathander. This was righteous vengeance. This was celestial wrath. Live or die, she - they - would see the dragon dead this day.

Storm

The sky is lit with the frequent flash-quick glare of lightning, always followed closely by the almost deafening boom and crash of thunder. The ocean itself rages with the sky. The air is oppressive with elemental violence. (Flash! Flash-boom!) They make it across the causeway. It was not safe but no one is seriously injured. (Crrrack!) The forceful wind, the slick rock and seemingly endless noise pounding pounding pounding all around them… . Careful. Must be careful. One wrong step… . (Flash!) Safe. Sort of. Keth seems distracted. He must focus. This is no time or place for hesitation. (Boomcrash!) It is just as bad inside. Gloomy. Wet. Loud. And…alive. Somehow, it is alive. She hears the beating heart. She sees the others do too. It must be made silent. Go. Through the door. Let Wolf go in first. He is quick and– “I think we need to do something about the shrine. You’re like a cleric or something, right?” (Flash! Flash!) “Ebondeath-” he begins. She feels herself grow pale. She stumbles, trying to catch her footing as the floor tilts. That fiend. That monster. She will never have rest until it is put to rest. She almost does not hear anything after the name is spoken. But she does, grasping fragments. A war rages within as fierce as the storm that lashes without. Ground it. Destroy it. This is Ebondeath’s advice. Why would he lend aid? Because he is lying and this is a foul trick. Or because he wants her to survive this darkness that they might meet again. What is truth, what is lie? Either way, she wants to destroy the altar. Lathander would want the altar destroyed. The tension that comes with indecision is too much and she breaks. Destroy it. (Boom!) She is blinded. This heat is unlike anything she’s felt from Lathander. There is cold at its core. It fills her lungs and grips her heart. Her heart. Is it still beating? Buhbump. Buhbump. Yes. It beats. In time with the tower. She hardly notices. She opens her eyes and she sees…she’s unsure what it is. She sees Keth, and she can see the details of his features so sharp and clear and concerned, but she sees more than that. She sees energy pouring off him, around him, not entirely unlike the way Lathander grants her vision but more electric. A different kind of force. And then she feels. (Flash crash!) Such power! She is a little god with such power. Sometimes there is a flare of it inside, and it hurts, but she quickly discovers she does not mind that internal sting. She finds that she wants to unleash it. And she does. She kills with it. (Flash!) There is a voice. It is an unfamiliar voice, at first seductive and then dangerous. She feels it groping and grabbing within, seizing control. No, she thinks. No no no. Too late. She feels her muscles tighten as she swings an attack at Wolfaen. Thankfully he is quick. He dodges. And then strikes back. Did he hit her? She is too overwhelmed to notice. (Flash!) She is flying. It is wonderful and terrifying. The feeling doesn’t last long. The voice returns, tempting, alluring. It is a voice devoted to Talos. She wants to hate it. So badly she wants to hate it. It whispers of destruction. It promises vengeance. Though now she is atop the tower, the tumultuous weather is nothing compared to the battle inside. The temptations crash against the bulwark of her faith in Lathander. They splinter each other. The voice knows Lathander alone could not defeat the dracolich. The voice says that Talos can. And maybe he can. Maybe that is why they couldn’t before, she and her companions. Maybe they relied on the wrong powers. Maybe the only way to defeat the evil is to be– She tries. She tries so very hard to hold onto Lathander’s light. But the sky is dark. She reminds herself that she is Lathander’s champion. That she had been deemed worthy to fight against Ebondeath, if only for the strength of her faith. Surely, surely she can stave off this threat. The sky darkens, lit only in fierce flashes of lightning. Enough for her to see her friends. Her vision and half her face are obscured by some vile little octopus creature. The sky is dark. She feels her own fingers sinking against the flesh of her chest. She cannot stop herself. “Help me,” she gasps. Could they even hear her in the storm? (Boom!)

A Memory on Memory

It had been only since the morning that she’d last knelt in worship of Lathander. It had been only minutes since the thought of him had crossed her thoughts. She’d gone inside to warm two pots of water, as requested by Eethyl, and she’d been staring into the flames, her mind bubbling as the water itself would soon be doing. Partly, she was preoccupied with memories of the battle. By his light, it had been glorious. Keth had been a glory to behold, his natural prowess enhanced by Flicker’s magic. The druidess herself had been a force to be reckoned with. Not for the first time. But it was the first time Sef had seen her unleash such a tidal wave of destruction upon their foes. Amarille had looked as an angel amidst the orcs, with her wings unfurled. A furious, terrible angel. Wolf had certainly done his share of damage, and it made her think his name was apt, though instead of fang and claw he downed his prey with sword and arrow. And Eethyl…ah, that poor gnome. She’d had a difficult time keeping track of him. Once when she had glimpsed him, he’d been laid low. She’d not worried so badly about it only because Flicker had been near him. As she sat, remembering, an odd thing started to happen. Different faces began imposing themselves over her friends. Keth’s orcish features warped until he looked merely human (Kelin). Flicker’s face melted, reformed, shaped into another’s more elven, more refined (Mairi). It was unnerving, but she didn’t push away the thoughts and images. Eethyl’s transformation came with his limbs stretched, his torso elongated, his ears pointed, even more than Flicker-Mairi’s. The beard shrank to reveal handsome but hard features. A true elf, a high elf. Different from Mairi. This was Sul. Sulonious Elverion. Such power with that one. When she saw Wolf in her mind’s eye, he became different too. Shorter. More stout. Solid. Like he could push over a tree by himself. Owain. It was Owain, with similar red, wild hair. And when she saw Amarille morph into a human face with kinder eyes, it took her time to fetch the name. The woman she saw now smiled at her with warmth and compassion. And maybe…maybe something playful. Mischievous. “You know,” she heard not-Amarille say. She did. Of course she did. “Jo,” she whispered, nearly choking on the sound. “Josette.” “There’s one more,” Josette Desai told her, and Sef knew it was true. Who? Which one of them was missing? Kelin, Mairi, Sulonious, Owain, Josette and…and… “Pari.” Another barely-there breath. And then the vision exploded white, and her long-gone friends burned to ash, returning to memory. Her fingers twitched to reach out to them, but that was silly. This wasn’t real, even if it hurt like a fresh cut. In their place were her now-friends, just as they had been after the battle. Tired but victorious. But then there was another explosion, this time black and green. This time more agonizing. It made her want to cry out to them, for them, but her voice was too thick and she couldn’t utter a sound. For the better, really. Her eyes flew open and she breathed a gasp as if coming up from water. How long had it been? The one pot was boiling furiously. Quickly, she returned to herself, returned to the present, dashed off a tear from her cheek and exchanged the one pot with the other. Her heart raced. Fortunately no one was there to see her hands shake. They became steady after several calming breaths, when the task was done and she could come to kneel and cast her mind and heart to Lathander. It was how she might be found, no more unusual than any other time she could be found in prayer.

Fear Leads to Anger

What have I done? What am I doing? To think that it could reach me like that…I became so, so angry. Scared. I threatened it. What an idiot thing to do. I should have said nothing. But I couldn’t. The anger, the rage…I wasn’t thinking. What have I done? Did I even mean it? Yes. I did mean it. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend forever with that thing. I don’t want to spend another 500 years. I do not want to spend a single day or hour or minute with it. I want to never see it again. I want it to just go away. But it won’t. I know it won’t. The others are gone. Where else can it reap its revenge? I hate being scared like this. I need to be strong. Stronger. I am Lathander’s light, damnit! I will do whatever I must to destroy that thing, come what may. It is the promise I made to the others. Kelin. Mairi. Sulonius. There are three more names. I will remember them. I must. It might be they passed some knowledge to their descendants, some way to defeat it. I just have to be strong.

Journal Entry 1

I have, on occasion, glimpsed the others writing in a personal journal and have decided to do the same. It has been a long…long time since I’ve kept such a possession. But I believe it is a good practice, and mayhaps it will help me “polish the rust” from my memories, as I explained it to Amarille not long ago. She is intriguing to me, the elf named Amarille. She is a monk that came to us to aid in combating that evil called Ebondeath. She is reserved and yet can say so much with so few words, or no words at all. I was not surprised to learn she is a follower of Selune; she has a look about her that speaks to me of mysteries, much as the night conceals secrets. Plus her robe is embroidered with phases of the moon, so. I told her that she reminds me of someone I once knew. A sister figure. Aubryn. A blood sister? A cousin? She had dark hair as Amarille does, and a more serious disposition. I have some vague recollection of getting into trouble together, some childish adventures the grownups did not approve of. But she is dead, is Aubryn, as are they all. It is good to remember them, as I can, but not to dwell. My family now is Eethyl and Flicker and Keth and Wolfaen, as well as Amarille (whether she like it or not). I took to Eethyl quickly despite myself. I find him easy company and interesting conversation. He is at once absent-minded and also very thoughtful. And his curiosity is insatiable. I must admit I find it endearing. He is endlessly surprising though I fear I can hardly keep up with him half the time. Fortunately he does not often require much to maintain a discussion - usually just another set of ears. And even then…well. When you have lived as much as he has, I imagine you become accustomed to creating your own entertainment. I’m not sure that Flicker is similarly charmed by the gnome. The first moment we met she moved to the defensive and summoned flame to the ready, as I took them off-guard (a mutual feeling at the time). Upon reflection, I think this is the most appropriate way to describe the druidess. She is as a flame, and passion is her fuel. She is compelling in the way that fire may mesmerize and enchant the onlooker. I also feel she shares some qualities with Amarille, namely in the way they are both protective of themselves. If I may speak in generalities (who is here to deny me), I would say Amarille is guarded and Flicker is mistrusting. Of course, we all share elements of these within ourselves to some degree, but it is a distinction between them. And I’m not sure I am in the mind to properly express it beyond this at present. Perhaps Keth would understand what I mean. Keth. I have spent the least amount of direct time with him, aside from our elusive Wolfaen. And yet I appreciate him greatly. To say true, I was initially uncertain of his character, and this based only on the fact of his blood. I am not proud of my reactionary prejudice, and it is an instance that I am so glad to have been so wrong. I am of the opinion that our half-orc companion is much deeper than he presents. And I believe the others sense it too, for we have pushed the lad into the position of de facto leader, and for all his inelegance and insecurity, he bears the mantle admirably. We would be less without him. This is my family now, and I shall not forget.

If Dreams are Wishes

The dreams. They’re so vivid in the moment but never linger into her waking hours. She’s only been able to hold onto a few details. She can remember darkness and then light. She can remember a voice…or voices. And a name. There’s a name. She can close her eyes and see a mouth making shapes and forming sounds. But she can’t hear it. Ever since that first night of the dream she’s felt different. Not bad. Actually the opposite. Actually pretty good, all things considered. The light in her dream. The voice. They had been soothing. Reassuring. She could remember that. But something was different.

Help

The day had been a nightmare. When they’d first arrived at the seemingly abandoned camp, she had thought Flicker was being overly cautious with her suggestions to hide, to send a lone scout ahead of everyone else while they sat, idle. It had taken everything in her not to dash the plan and walk boldly into the open to investigate. After all, she’d already spent so much time of her life sitting, waiting. . .doing nothing. But she had restrained herself, allowing caution to prevail. Though no amount of caution could have prepared them for the inevitable encounter. And it was inevitable, she knew in hindsight. Unless they had left immediately, they were going to be set upon by those horrid insectile monsters. There’d been no avoiding it. At least they’d had a fighting chance. She shuddered thinking about the poor men that had not been so lucky. She shuddered thinking about Flicker disappearing into the earth, caught in that thing’s deathly embrace. And she nearly wept as she remembered the feeling of helplessness that had cast dark shadows in her as she only stood, stupid with surprise, just watching. It was a feeling that persisted from that moment to the present. She had done so little for these people that she had quickly grown to consider her friends. After all, she had nothing, no one else. Sister Garaele had confirmed it. They were all gone, decayed with time. As she should’ve been. But she wasn’t. She was here and now. Seeing Keth and Flicker talk quietly to one another, she gave them privacy and found some of her own in a pale patch of faded sunlight. There she knelt and bowed her head, folding her hands beneath her chin. She closed her eyes to pray. This time of day was not Lathander’s strongest, but it didn’t matter. Her heart was hurting and she needed her god’s comfort. If he would offer it. If he still favored her. She wondered if he did. She wondered if she had spent too long underground with that creature, buried and hidden from the Morninglord’s light, so that Lathander forgot she was there. Out of sight out of mind. And why would he smile upon her? She had failed. True, it was due to circumstance as much as anything, but also true that Ebondeath was free. She had failed. They all had failed. Was her baldness the sign of Lathander’s disapproval? Her hair had always been her pride, her mantle, proof that she was beloved by the sun god. Now it was gone. What other meaning could it be? “When I walk in shadow, thy light guides me. When my heart turns cold, thy light warms me. When I am weak, thy light fills me with strength,” she whispered. “Lathander, shine thy light upon me that I may know-” her throat tightened with suppressed emotion, “that I have not failed thee. That thou will forgive me if I have. Shine thy light and thy mercy upon me, O Morninglord, that I may feel the love of a new dawn.” And on she went until it was time to sleep, oblivious to the world unless directly disturbed by it. When asked, she would, of course, volunteer to take the final watch, that she might sit and observe the new dawn, and offer more prayers to her Morninglord.

Dreams

She parted from Sister Garaele reluctantly, practically afraid to leave the only safe, familiar thing anchoring her to a world that felt like a scattered jigsaw puzzle. But the Sister had seen the exhaustion in Sef’s bleary, red-rimmed eyes, and promised again and again that they would speak the next day. With a final desperate embrace, she’d said goodnight to Garaele and went to the room she rented with Flicker’s money. Sef couldn’t help but notice how spare the furnishings seemed. She’d lived a comfortable, modestly rich life in that town. Or at least she thought she had. She breathed a mirthless, unsmiling laugh as she sat on the bed. No, she had not lived comfortably or rich. She had barely lived at all. Not, at least, until they had shown up. She’d told Eethyl that she wanted to hate them, which was true enough. She wanted to hate them for destroying the perfect world that had been crafted for her. In that world, that place, she had been content. But it was not real. And she could not hate them for saving her from a death trap, no matter how beautiful it had been. Looking across the room from where she sat was a tarnished mirror. In some way she had known her appearance was different, but this was the first chance she had to gaze upon her reflection. If her throat was not so sore, if her eyes were not so dry, if she’d had a scrap of energy left in her, she might’ve cried again. Full of lethargy, she reached a hand as if she would catch a ribbon of hair between her fingers. But of course she caught only air. Unbidden, she heard her father’s voice. "Touched by the Light of Lathander, this one!," he had beamed, and though she couldn’t recall his eyes just then, in that moment, she knew she’d thought his smile was as beautiful as the dawn itself. They had all fawned over her hair, she remembered, even before it had all grown in. Family, friends, strangers, even the clergy. Another memory pressed on her. She was but a child, and she was with her father and mother, uncles, aunts, and a few cousins older than she. They were in a serious conversation, speaking gravely as adults do, tense with debate. What the debate was, exactly, she could not recall. But there was a problem that needed a solution. She remembered…it seemed they had forgotten she was even there. As young as she was, she had been quiet and gave avid attention to the conversation. At least until there was a lull, at which point she leaped from her seat and brandished her amulet! “Don’t worry,” she had declared, full of a child’s untainted conviction. “As sure as the Morninglord’s glorious dawn, I will vanquish our enemies!” This announcement was initially received with stunned silence. Indeed, they had forgotten she was there! And then the tension broke as smiles came to nearly everyone present, and she was scooped up by her father. “Indeed you will, little sunbeam,” he had said, pressing a kiss into her hair as he carried her to the door. “I have no doubt.” The memory faded to nothing as Sef closed her eyes. She had lain upon the bed without realizing it, too heavy to stay awake another moment, and was soon asleep.

Transitions

None of it was familiar. And yet it was. There, just over there, that boulder with the disquieting shape. She had seen that boulder before. In a dream? Surely just so. It couldn’t possibly be the same, anyway, not if what the strangers said was true. That was too much time. What had the little gnome man said? A thousand years? More? It didn’t make sense. The world spun beneath her feet, and she could only barely keep her footing. But it must have made sense to some part of her, some part smothered deep inside, alive despite years (a thousand years? Truly?) of deprivation. Else why would she have gone with them? Why would she be on this madcap dash to…where? She didn’t even know. More than once the weight of too much knowledge too fast nearly made her knees buckle. Somehow she kept apace. Somehow she found her voice to shout at the angels (angels! There were multiple of them!), though she barely heard herself over the blood raging in her ears as if her head were thrust under a waterfall. It was surreal. And how surreal was it for them to witness their new companion shrivel down from the lithe, vital aspect she had been into something very nearly ghoulish. Indeed, her skin once radiant with an inner glow was now the pallor of near-death, haunted by shadows that sank into unflattering angles. Her golden hair, once lustrous and flowing, was gone, rendered to colorless stubble. She did not lose much if any height at 5’8”, and yet she seemed smaller. Her robes, though simple as they had been, tattered into flimsy rags. Truly she could have been a different woman entirely. Except her eyes. As wide and frightened as they were, they were still hers, a shade of gray that would match any tumultuous spring storm.

Just Before

She secured the bandage about Gilliam’s little hand with a deft and gentle touch. The silly boy had decided to take his juggling routine to the next level. A dangerous level. Fortunately he only suffered a shallow cut, though it had bled enough to scare him and his friend, Cole, into seeking The Healer - a title she embraced with pride and bore with dignity. It had always been her dream to carry such a responsibility, to be the fixer and the mender. To be honored and even revered. She was the shepherdess and this town, they were her flock. It had always been her dream… …hadn’t it? “Mistress?” Gilliam’s voice was tentative, as though afraid to disturb her. She looked up from her work, realizing she had been holding his hand even after the job was done. She smiled and saw him immediately relax. And maybe even blush a little. “There,” she said, releasing him and folding her hands into her lap. Even such a simple movement was possessed of elegance. “It will be healed before you know. Now go tell your mama what has happened, as thou promised. And spend more time practicing with fruit before you toss knives.” Gilliam was already on his feet and towards the door before she’d finished speaking, with Cole not far behind. Cole turned back to her with an impish grin. “Can’t change anything if you don’t try to change anything, Mistress.” The two boys giggled and scampered out of her shop. Her smile faltered as she watched after them, her expression gradually pinching with bemusement. What a nonsensical thing to say. Wasn’t it? Of course it was. Silly boys saying silly things for the mere sake of being silly. She stood, brushing her hands together as if brushing off the odd feeling that had briefly existed, as if it were dirt to be scattered, and set her mind to her next chore. She had a need to visit old Keeper.

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"The Party"

Helaena DuFarran