After

The war was over — so it was said. The destruction of Saradush had been a mere taste of the chaos which came later. The nations had panicked: legions of war marched across the land determined to end the Bhaalspawn threat. Any village suspected of harboring a Saradush survivor was razed, torched to the ground with its screaming inhabitants still inside. Those who fled met death by the sword. The armies of the Five obliterated the landscape as they fought to claim Bhaal's empty throne. What survived the fire giants' passing fell to drow hordes; those that escaped earthly demise met their death from draconian skies.

Eventually the armies retreated. Soldiers limped their way back to shattered homes with shattered minds, and their nighttime screams became routine. Some joined the refugee bands which roamed the countries; others never truly left the war behind. Make-shift guerilla squads carved out viciously-defended territories and became the very brigands they'd once helped route. Huge swaths of land had been blasted and charred beyond recognition and beyond restoration; once-fertile fields now so magic-tained that even the dirt itself was diseased.

Already people drew their calendars from it. Marked dates from it. "It" — not "the Bhaalspawn conflict," not "the war." Just "it," and it was understood. There was no longer a "Time of Troubles" nor a "Great Iron Shortage." The roll of years had lost its meaning. There was only "before" and "after" — before the Five had shattered the Realms, and after the last had died. Nothing else mattered to the maimed survivors who now struggled to continue day to day.

And in the end, when it was over, the Throne of Murder had lain empty still.

It was a cold day. Since the end all of the days had been colder, the skies darker, the days shorter. No one really knew why, but Imoen had her suspicions. Magical contamination, she thought, but some disagreed. Had the Bhaalspawn been able to alter the world's very orbit, its tilt, its distance from the sun? Had the gods withdrawn and abandoned the lands in disgust? She'd heard every theory imaginable, but some were hard to believe, even with all she'd seen.

She paused in her labors and drew her ragged coat more tightly around her. Once, before, she'd had the wealth of kingdoms: rare magical artifacts, literally more gold than her sacks could hold. Now her heavily mended cloak with its fur-lined hood was one of her better pieces of clothing — valuable, in this strange half-winter. The nanny goat raised her head from the sparse grass and bleated softly. It brought a sigh and affectionate smile to the red-head's tired lips.

"I'm almost done, girl," she promised, giving the goat a gentle rub between her short nubby horns, and finished the last of the milking.

Pail full, Imoen rose and gingerly walked back to the house. It was a shack, really — a remnant of a guardhouse that she'd found standing firm amidst the rubble of a once-proud estate. But it was solid, and within contained the meager furniture scrounged or crafted by now-calloused hands. Over time and with care it had become home, complete with a fenced-in yard made from the fallen stones. In the front lay a modest vegetable garden, and in the rear lived the nanny goat and two young kids. The billy had been slaughtered after breeding season to provide much needed meat and skin.