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Once upon a time, there were two heroes: an elf and a man. One was as pale and cold as death, and the other burned with the kiss of the hells. They had helped one of Mystra’s Chosen save the city of Baldur’s Gate from the great mind of the Absolute, but their paths separated. The Pale Elf was banished to the shadows, while the Hell-Kissed Man took his place in the sun, following in the footsteps of his noble father. Despite this, the Hell-Kissed Man did not completely lose sight of his pale friend, for he often met with his maker. For you see, the Pale Elf had been born twice, once into life and again into unlife. The maker of his unlife had proved to be a cruel master, and the Pale Elf had not known a moment of tenderness or kindness in his unlife, until he was pulled from unceasing darkness and thrust into the light. The maker seethed with rage that his creation had been torn from his claws, and he waited, with bated breath and tensed muscles, looking for the right moment to pounce.
Several years passed, never mind how many. The Hell-Kissed Man settled into his role, defending the city with a quill rather than a rapier, but always with an eye to the maker, who was at work on plans of his own.
One day, as the Hell-Kissed Man dressed, he was surprised by the appearance of the Glint of Lathander, another comrade from his mind-slaying days, carrying an infernal contract. The Glint of Lathander used their holy light and set fire to the contract, which the Hell-Kissed Man had made, for the Pale Elf was not the only one with a maker. The Hell-Kissed Man became the Hell-Touched Man, his infernal magic wiped away.
The Glint of Lathander told the Hell-Touched Man that he had done this to strike at the Hell-Touched Man’s maker, who swiftly made an appearance. The two heroes fought bravely, but the devil was pulled back to the hells before they could land a killing blow. Distraught at his new weakness and furious that the Glint of Lathander would use him without any sort of prior explanation, the Hell-Touched Man bargained with them: he would help them attack his maker, in exchange for the doom of the Pale Elf’s maker. For the Hell-Touched Man had nursed some affection for the Pale Elf, and he wished to help him in any way that he could, especially after years of enduring the maker’s presence.
The Glint of Lathander was unsure; their god abhorred unlife, and they had never been too fond of the Pale Elf during their adventures. Their lover, the Ever-Burning Heart, was sure; despite the nature of the Pale Elf, despite his abrasiveness, despite everything, their group could not lose another. Not another gone like Mystra’s Chosen.
So, the three heroes entered the palace of the Pale Elf’s maker. All was empty. No screams, either of pain or pleasure, echoed through the halls. No blood, fresh or dried to a flaky crust, lay on the floors. They didn’t see so much as a bat, let alone the Pale Elf or his maker. After empty room after empty room, they came to a greenhouse. Amongst the trellises and pots, through stems and leaves, they finally caught sight of the Pale Elf, lying in a coffin made of glass.
He himself was tangled in vines, so tightly that it was impossible to tell where the vines ended and he began. The pale white flowers clustering around his hands and face served only to highlight the deathly pallor of his skin.
The Hell-Touched Man went to his side and was able to discern that he was still alive, whatever that might mean for one who lived in unlife. There was some sort of magic keeping him asleep, but there was little that they could do about that in the maker’s home. The three heroes resolved to pull him free from the vines and carry him to freedom, only to discover that the vines grew from the Pale Elf’s own skin. They removed as many of the vines as they could, watching as the Pale Elf twitched as each vine was carved away. Then, they ran.
Even outside of the maker’s home, the Pale Elf still slept. Hoping that the magic was contained in the plants somehow, the heroes removed the roots from his skin. The Glint of Lathander used their god’s radiance to shrivel the roots down to nothing, and the Hell-Touched Man plucked out the remnants. Weak as they were, these remnants did not come free without taking some of the Pale Elf’s flesh with them, and the Hell-Touched Man despaired at the pain he could be causing his once-companion. Still, that was what must be done, and the Hell-Touched Man was never one to shy away from duty.
Even with their ministrations, the Pale Elf remained asleep. Remembering the effect that the maker could have on the bodies of people that he shaped, the Hell-Touched Man suggested that they send for a potion that would allow them to communicate mind-to-mind, free of any restraints placed on the Pale Elf’s body. Both the Glint of Lathander and the Ever-Burning Heart said that the Hell-Touched Man should be the one to drink the potion, and he did.
The Pale Elf’s mind was a chaotic place, as dark as the shadows that he had returned to. The Hell-Touched Man felt flashes of recent memory: the sharp pain of knees against cobblestones, a knot of wood on the inside of a chest, the feeling of trying to speak without a tongue. He pleaded with the Pale Elf to let him further inside his mind, as he was no closer to direct speech with the Pale Elf than he had been before he drank the potion.
Suddenly, the Hell-Touched Man found himself beside a river, one that he and his companions had spent many nights sleeping beside. The Pale Elf was with him. They joined hands and spoke with the other heroes that they had adventured with. All was well; even Mystra’s Chosen was there, alive and hale. The Hell-Touched Man could tell something was wrong. Mystra’s Chosen had perished; how could he be here? His heart ached. He turned to the Pale Elf and told him that this wonderful party was not real but that he the Hell-Touched Man was, that the Pale Elf was safe, taken away from the maker. The Pale Elf ignored his words, told him that he was lying.
Now the Hell-Touched Man found himself trailing behind the Pale Elf. They passed through dark hallways and cages filled with wretched figures, until they reached a large stone platform. The maker stood there, surrounded by red light and the suspended bodies of the Pale Elf’s “siblings” (as the maker liked to refer to them). They fought, blade and infernal magic against the maker’s own weapons, until at last the maker fell, downed by a blast of magic from the Hell-Touched Man. The maker tried to bargain for his life. He promised his blood, to free the Pale Elf from his control. The Pale Elf did not care for that. The maker then promised a ritual, powerful enough to let the Pale Elf walk in the sun once more. The Pale Elf did not care for that either, and he plunged his sword into the maker.
When the maker lay dead on the floor, the Pale Elf took the maker’s staff and slammed it against the ground. His “siblings”, and all the other people in the tunnels, collapsed to the ground. They did not move. The Pale Elf insisted that this was the right thing to do, that this was what the Hell-Touched Man would have done, and the Hell-Touched Man insisted right back that this was not right, that he would not have done this, that those remade by the maker had just as much right to live as any other being. With the maker’s second offer fresh in his mind, the Hell-Touched Man recalled his purpose. He once again told the Pale Elf that he was not imagining him and that he was safe. The Pale Elf humored him, and the two of them were once again beside a river. The Hell-Touched Man asked how the maker was able to leave the shadows, and the Pale Elf explained that the maker must have completed the ritual himself. The Hell-Touched Man then asked if there was some way to destroy the maker.
At this question, the maker appeared. He brought the Pale Elf under his power once again, and the Hell-Touched Man readied his blade. Only now, with the appearance of the maker, did the Pale Elf believe that the Hell-Touched Man was truly here, whatever “truly here” might mean when speaking of someone’s mind. The maker trapped the Pale Elf in the glass coffin once again, then turned on the Hell-Touched Man, wrapped him tightly in vines. The Hell-Touched Man called out for the Pale Elf to turn the maker out (this was his mind after all, and while the maker could master his body, the Pale Elf was the master of his own mind), but the Pale Elf remained trapped. The maker slammed his staff into the Hell-Touched Man, a mortal blow, but it roused the Pale Elf. He transformed the maker into delicate white flower petals, floating in whatever breeze might be found in his mind, then bid the Hell-Touched Man to bring him to true safety.
The Hell-Touched Man awoke from the Pale Elf’s mind and told his companions that the maker would be on them. The Glint of Lathander declared that they would fight the maker, once and for all. They and the Ever-Burning Heart hid themselves and prepared to fight, while the Hell-Touched Man waited to distract the maker when he arrived.
And arrive he did, as a cloud of mist that soaked the breath in the Hell-Touched Man’s lungs. The maker once again demanded the Pale Elf. This time, the Hell-Touched Man seemed willing to concede. He begged that his companion be spared the torment of the maker’s care, but the maker’s ears closed to his pleas. However, his distraction worked. The Glint of Lathander trapped the maker in a divine circle and let the light of their god crash down on him, while the Ever-Burning Heart darted her javelins into his flesh.
The maker then summoned the Pale Elf to fight for him. He and the Hell-Touched Man sparred, the Hell-Touched Man desperate to avoid harming his companion, as the Glint of Lathander and the Ever-Burning Heart stumbled in their fight against the maker. Disarmed and to avoid a strike from the pale-elf, he stepped into the divine circle. The maker pounced on him, holding him fast. The Hell-Touched Man consigned himself to dying at his companion’s hand, until he gave the Pale Elf one last look.
In that moment, the Hell-Touched Man decided that he didn’t want to die. He told the Pale Elf that this was all a dream, just as their earlier triumph against the maker, that all he had to do was act. His words must have carried some magic, not infernal, but something else, because the Pale Elf stepped forward and buried his sword in his maker’s chest. The maker fell once again, and the Glint of Lathander’s light burnt him to ash. The maker was dead. The Pale Elf was free.
All of them had much to talk about, and talk they did. The Pale Elf was still weak from his imprisonment, and the Hell-Touched Man fed him from his own wrist. When the Hell-Touched Man and the Pale Elf found themselves alone at last, they found they had yet more to speak about.
And all was well.