Final Resting Place

It was time.

Although her world was one of perpetual darkness, Rodel navigated the small house she lived in easily, and as she sat down at the table, her hands reached out knowingly for the small leather card case that rested there.

”Wise Savras, long have I walked as one of your faithful, and never have I used the gifts you have granted unto me for personal gain. I ask that you now grant me your sight so that I may discover what has happened to my Uncle Kai. I know that I can not
enter the High Moor myself, but perhaps through you, I can find those that can.”

Rodel paused for a moment, breath held involuntarily, as she waited to see if perhaps Savras would indeed send her a sign of his blessing this reading, but there was no tingle in her fingertips, eruption of fire all around her, or a sudden chilling of the breath that the bards often sang of, and as she let her breath go, she smiled ironically into the empty room.

”Uncle Kai always said that the gods favored those who helped themselves.”

Sliding the well-worn cards out of their case, Rodel shuffled them quickly and smoothly until she felt that the balance had been reached. Stopping, she turned the first card over, traced her fingers across the corner of it, and felt the symbol etched there.

Knight of Swords. A watcher over those who are lost, and a guardian to protect the weak.

Rodel felt a sense of relief at the positive card she had drawn and mentally thanked Savras for the boon. Taking two cards and setting them aside, Rodel drew another card and placed it to the knight’s lower right, representing the one the knight would depend on the most for the journey ahead.

Eight of Staves. The card of strength, one whose might will be given only to one strong enough to harness it.

A neutral card in the deck, Rodel knew that while it was not a harmful card to draw, only time would tell if it was a beneficial one for the Knight. Discarding four cards this time, Rodel placed the next card to the upper left of the Knight and flipped it over.

Queen of Pentacles. The predator’s card, representing those who live only for the hunt.

Feeling a knot form in her stomach, Rodel knew that only those who had little to lose would bring this card into play, as the predator was often known for biting the very hand that offered it food. Quickly discarding the next three cards, Rodel placed the top card in the upper right corner and wondered who it would be that the Knight would come to fear the most.

Four of Pentacles. The Emperor, representing one whose veins ran with the blood of nobility.

Gasping as she realized that the card was upside down, Rodel knew at once who the card represented and her blood ran as cold as the artic wind.

~But he is not one of them…Savras let this be wrong…do not condemn him before he can choose…~

Even as her thoughts threatened to sever the tenuous link she had with the cards, Rodel discarded the next five cards and placed the last card she would draw in the lower left corner, the position of hidden balance of all the forces.

Two of Cups. The Magus, representing one who can call upon the Weave to do their bidding.

While normally seen as a positive card, Rodel no longer knew if she could trust her own reading. Could the cards that lay before her truly represent the ones that would be sent to help her? Would they even agree to do so? Could she trust them if they were?

Reaching out, Rodel gathered all the cards together once more and began sliding them back inside their holder. As she pushed them in, one card caught the edge of the case and fell to the floor beside her, and as she picked it up she felt the all to intimate and familiar marking on the card.

Ace of Pentacles. Death approaching.

The mists of the High Moors roiled around the heavily cloaked elf, his only cover in the mostly barren wasteland. The sun was low over the horizon but still he kept his hood drawn over his face. Billowing fog parted before him as he moved swiftly across the rocky outcrops, closing in on his prey. He despised The Hunt; much like the bulk of his existence. There wasn’t much he did not despise; he realized bitterly, his expression hardening. It was a necessity to his survival. He did what he was good at to support his lifestyle and that was hunting… killing. He was more than that, so much more. Though only his Dark Lady took notice.

Shar, the name whispered through his thoughts. My Dark Mistress, he prayed, silently in his thoughts, as he stalked. I give thanks to you for this bounty I am about to collect. For without you, I am nothing.

It was then that the wolf leapt from over the ridge.

Wolves, one of the creatures in short supply in the High Moors. Their rare pelts fetched a hefty price though and only that brought Shadowleaf out here this day. As it leapt for the dark ranger, fangs bared, ready to kill, the elf deftly pulled back tight his bow string and let fly. The arrow flew fast and true, piercing the animal through the heart as it yelped in pain. The ranger side-stepped quickly, as the wolf hit the ground and skidded to a halt. It did not get up. Shadowleaf went about his work, silently skinning the creature where it fell. As he laid the pelt out to dry his blood went cold as he heard a sound from behind. Twirling around in alarm he saw the lumbering mass of a troll before him.

Not pausing to think how the creature managed to sneak up on him, Shadowleaf rolled to the side and got up at a run, his blades out of their sheaths in a flash as he quickly sought equal footing to get his bearings. Thinking the troll must have been attracted by the scent of the wolf’s blood, Shadowleaf cursed himself for being so careless. The creature, not far behind, lunged for him with an outstretched claw, which was sliced off with a quick slash from the ranger’s enchanted long sword. Seeing the creature’s hand already starting to regenerate and without the proper means to dispose of it Shadowleaf looked around wildly for an escape. He was not leaving without his prize though. Reciting another silent prayer to his goddess as he wheeled around towards the pelt Shadowleaf leapt for the wolf skin as the troll tried to tear at him, only managing to trip the elf up. Scrambling for balance the ranger grabbed the skin and ran; the fearsome creature in pursuit.

Spying Shadar up ahead where he had left him, the ranger ran harder, trying to put as much distance between him and the troll as possible. When he reached the horse he tossed the pelt up over its back and leapt up as quickly as he could manage and sped off, not bothering to look behind him as he left the disgusting creature in his dust.

Arriving in Secombar early the next afternoon, Shadowleaf rode towards the wagon of his client; a merchant who collected rare pelts and having heard of the scarcity of the wolves on the Moors had hired the ranger to obtain one for him. Sitting his horse in such a way as to allow the black silvered dapple to lead him through the city at its own pace Shadowleaf stared out from under his hood, red eyes squinting at passerby distrustfully. He did not care much for cities and all their people, but he cared little more for the wilderness he had learned to survive in for years after his escape either. There was nowhere Shadowleaf felt safe. Only in the confines of Shar’s dark embrace did the ranger feel at home.

[sblock]Colors I will be using:
Speech - Red
Thoughts - Silver[/sblock]

The sound of galloping hooves could be heard for leagues across the plains; the wind in the low grass harmonizing the eerie noise of the near-death young green dragon’s ragged breathing.
The mounted caviler in green and brown on the left of the choking beast signaled to his companions to move around and cut-off its retreat.
"Come about! Get around it before it makes the river!" the leading horseman yelled in a voice loud enough to rise above the clamor of stomping and clanging.
Three fellows broke from the main column pursuing the dragon in a stream of primary colors; one of blue and yellow dropping behind to catch its flank, one of red and yellow to surpass the group and do as the leading horseman said, and one of red and blue to follow suit.
With the sweaty horses and riders now blocking its escape, the green dragon halted in its tracks abruptly and turned on the lagging horsemen, who were now closing for a kill. The three remaining figures, the one of green and brown leading, were foiled in their plans as the dragon let out a blast of burning gas from its mouth. The horses, in reply, reared in protest, sending two of the men from their saddles, leaving only a champion in gray and white to face the slavering beast.
Maintaining his balance and readjusting himself on his mount, the young horseman lowered his lance and charged at the now near defenseless serpent. A flawless victory.
"Excellent kill, Errant Idomeneus!" the knight with the green and brown tree sigil on his shield exclaimed with a clap on the still mounted young man’s side.
"Your praise is too much, Sir Magon," Idomeneus replied humbly.
"Nonsense, son of Deucalion, that was your first dragon; you should be proud," the other grounded knight quipped.
Since the dragon was dead and their companions were chatting idly, the other three outlying horsemen cantered up and congratulated their mate on his kill.
"Hail, Dragonslayer!" the horseman of red and blue teased. The others raised their voices in similar cries.
"In honor of this feat, I shall compose a hymn in your honor, son of Deucalion. Let us make haste to the nearest town. I am more creative when I have a few drinks in me!" the grounded knight, Sir Rabon the Musician, said in earnest to be off his feet and in a tavern where he is most at home.
"Yes, let us celebrate. The head goes to you, Errant Idomeneus. Errant Saldor, Errant Maudilion, and Errant Bryndon are to make the corpse ready and follow after us to Secomber. There is no hope of us catching up to the rest of the battalion today."
Sir Magon of Magondry, Sir Rabon, and Errant Idomeneus left the three errant knights to bear the dragon and headed towards the small town to the north. Upon entering, they made their way to an inn and waited for the arrival of the others, sharing mead and song alike.

[sblock]Speech - Gray
Thoughts - Italics
[/sblock]

The albino was late, and tardiness was a trait that Salvatos despised in people, regardless of their race.

Wiping a silk rag nervously across his sweating brow, the thin, some would
describe him as ferretish looking, man looked out across the marketplace once more hoping to catch sight of the cloaked ranger.

Salvatos did not know what disturbed him most about the hunter, as there were many things he admitted to himself, but what he did know was that the sooner he got the pelt and could leave this backwoods town, the better.

~Why Master Brockton did not come here himself to get this pelt is beyond me. Surely his skills with the bow match any simple hunter that makes his living here.~

Raising his rag once more to his brow, Salvatos' nervous eyes finally came to rest on the slowly approaching hunter.

~He acts as if all of Faerun is on his schedule. If Master Brockton did not need my services so quickly, I would school this upstart in proper etiquette. He should thank the gods for his good fortune.~

Forcing himself to remember that to the ranger he was nothing more than a simple merchant out to gather rare pelts, Salvatos cleared his mind and when he spoke, his words were those of a hopeful merchant, not the personal valet of a baron.

"Good afternoon Master Tracker, were you able to acquire the pelt?"

Shadowleaf directed his horse to stop in front of the man, his eyes locking onto him from behind the dark confines of his hood. Without taking his gaze from the merchant he reached around the back of his saddle and grabbed the pelt, before tossing it to Salvatos. ”Here is your pelt, merchant,” he spat. ”Now there is only the matter of reimbursement to speak of…” he added, his eyes squinting daggers at the man.

Sebak looked at the Unicorn Run with mingled anticipation and reluctance. How he had ended up here again was beyond his knowledge. Just north of here lay the abode of the only person who had seen past his numerous masks, past his deceptions and lies, and had seen the one within. It frightened him, even though he enjoyed being with Rodel. She was kind, she cared for him without reservations, she was not afraid of him. Even so, she made him uneasy. Being around her was like living with his skin off, exhilarating and painful at the same time. He knew he should stop and see her, he promised he would.

Damnit! I will not be afraid of a blind woman! he snarled at himself. Kicking his horse back into walking again, he paused at the edge of the woods and looked down into the tiny town below. He was still two days' ride from Secomber, and he didn't care to break out precious gold and silver for the sub-standard quality inns of these little country towns. At least I can prove I'm not losing going soft, whether or not I'm returning to see Rodel, he decided, and delved into his horse's saddlebags.

Most people expected the worst from someone like him, considering what he was. One look at his red eyes and six-fingered hands and people had him pegged as a thief or killer. Not that he hadn't been both before, but he was far more elegant than that. He was an accomplished liar, a smooth deceiver, and with a little care, even his heritage could be concealed. He couldn't quite pose as a beggar if he wanted to believably keep his horse, but he could look far less prosperous than normal. His Mulan heritage gave him sallow skin, which this far north and west could look sickly instead of normal. Dust rubbed into his horse's coat made the beast look far less valuable and healthy. Sebak exchanged his red and black finery for worn and tattered traveler's clothes, including a broad-brimed hat. Bandages with spots of dried blood he tied tightly around his hands to make them look wounded, and drops of belladona made his eyes large and dark, instead of red. Dust and grease in his hair made it dark brown instead of black, and a shift in posture made him look weary and down on his luck.

Riding into town, he managed a pitiful performance for the innkeeper that he was a poor tradesman, wounded by wolves, tired and sore, and desperately needing charity to survive. A dash of copper offered from a nearly-flat purse was turned away, and stew and a room were given to the "poor lad." He "gratefully" left behind a few copper coins the next morning, so that they would remember him as being polite, and he rode out with the dawn. Better three copper than five silver, as he often said, and being a down-on-his-luck tradesman granted him food, quiet, and a warm bed with no questions asked, particularly from pretty wenches and sympathetic matrons.

Satisfied that his skills were still sharp, he rode into Secomber with less foreboding than two days ago. He dropped the bandages and skipped the belladonna, though he kept a concealing cloak and hat on. Sooner than he liked, he found himself at Rodel's door. Almost he road away, just to prove that he could if he wanted to, and finally settled for walking backward around the house. There, he could be contrary if he chose to. Feeling better about himself, he tugged his hat low and knocked on her door.

The sun was just going down when the three errant knights joined their companions in the inn. The crowd around them, gathered to see the dead beast and its slayer, stretched out the doors.
"They are here to see you, Dragonslayer Idomeneus," Errant Bryndon stated in a bored tone.
"Have a care and guard your envy, young Bryndon. Your chance to prove your mettle will soon present itself," Sir Rabon chastised.
"With this deed done, Errant Idomeneus, your knighthood is certain. When we return from Waterdeep, you will be initiated into the Order, have no doubt."
"And your trophy, what will you do with it?"
"He'll tie it to his shield, like any braggart upstart knight!" Errant Saldor jested.
"I will send it home to father," Idomeneus replied severely. "It would be an insult to my lord otherwise."
"It will do his heart good to see his son is on the path to being a great champion. I wonder if there is room enough for such a trophy in his study, with all the beasts he has slain?"
"Mayhaps the lordling will need his own trophy room by the end of this tourney."
"With the head of Lord Terrace himself!"
"And where would you hang it? It would be embarrassing to flaunt such an ugly thing."
"You all speak as if the boy has done something great. If it were not for us, the dragon would be the one celebrating," the quiet Maudilion hissed.
"Here now, there is no need for that!"
"What he says is true, Sir Magon. I respect that my accomplishment is due in part to everyone," Idomeneus replied, trying to quench the fire before it went ablaze.
"In part!?! All you did was finish what we started, kill-thief!"
With the insult made, the usually tranquil Idomeneus rose in angry defense of his honor. Sir Magon rose as well to stop the coming conflict, but too late, as Idomeneus had scored a solid hit to Maudilion's jaw.
"Enough! Errant Idomeneus, control yourself!"
The crowd parted for the young dragonslayer as he turned to the door for the open air that waited to calm his nerves. The sound of Sir Magon rebuking Maudilion could still be heard as he turned the corner and headed down the street towards the still-boistrous market in search of a weapons smithy.
"Hail, mastercrafter! I am in need of a new lance, as my old one has been bent beyond repair by the hide of a green dragon," Idomeneus said to the owner of a fine-looking establishment.

Majin said:

Shadowleaf directed his horse to stop in front of the man, his eyes locking onto him from behind the dark confines of his hood. Without taking his gaze from the merchant he reached around the back of his saddle and grabbed the pelt, before tossing it to Salvatos. ”Here is your pelt, merchant,” he spat. ”Now there is only the matter of reimbursement to speak of…” he added, his eyes squinting daggers at the man.

Click to expand...

Reaching into his cloak, Salvatos pulled out a small leather pouch that held the albino's payment. While he personally felt that the five platnum was a fortune to pay for a wolf's pelt, even one of the rare High Moor wolves, Baron Brockton could not risk having the druids looking too closely into his affairs.

"I trust the kill was a clean one Master Tracker, those I sell to care little for ruined skins."

Tossing the pouch to the shrouded ranger, Salvatos watched as the ranger's hands seemed to move in a blur as he snatched the pouch out of the air and held it for a moment, as though he was testing the weight of the coin pouch before tossing the bundled wolf skin to him and placing both hands back in the folds of his cloak.

~He is fast, perhaps I will mention to Master Brockton that we consider using him again, but only if he learns to be on time...~

"My thanks Master Tracker, perhaps if there is a demand for other prey I can call upon your services again? Trustworthy help is hard to find these days.

If one was, let’s say a wizard, scrying just south of the High Forest on the banks of the Unicorn Run, one would see a gently flowing river; birds making their nests in the trees, and the less pleasant sight of a band of four weary and leaderless goblins making there scraggily camp for the night. Although not such a pleasing sight as the passage of the gentle river, it’s not something one would remark upon. If all this nature did not calm your nerves enough, so that you could get on with your work, and fill-out that order of 20 enchanted swords for the local hero’s band, you could follow the river a bit more north, and you would see what appears to be a donkey tethered to a small smelly tree stump. If you would wish it, although I advise you not to, you could take a closer look and see that the tree stump in question is in fact not a smelly tree stump, but a smelly and spike covered dwarf.

The stage has been set; enter our main protagonist, Barronar Warcrown of the noble Warcrown clan.

“Get ye moving, ye stupid bloody Dog, me wants to have a nice bloody fire started before night falls. Don’t be telling me that ye have become bloody scared of them bloody trees now.” What Berronar does not know is that his donkey, named Dog for some mysterious reason, can in fact smell the small band of goblins making camp not too far from where Barronar himself wanted to camp. “Fine have it your bloody way stupid dog, I should have never bloody taken ye, bloody useless, never wants to bloody walk any where.” After securing Dog to a nearby tree stump, yes a real tree stump this time, he unknowingly sets of in the direction of the goblin camp in search of some firewood and maybe a nice rabbit or seven. Now that our hero is himself closer to the goblin camp, he too can smell them, well he would be able to smell them is his own oder was not so overpowering. This being the case, Barronar does not notice the goblins till he is right on top of them, so much on top of them that one of them squalls out in pain as the 152 pound dwarf inadvertently places a steel caped boot right in the middle of his groin. “What! ...bloody goblins stealing me bloody firewood and bloody rabbits.” Giving the goblin under foot a good hard kick, sending it head-first crashing into a nearby tree, Barronar faces the castrated goblin’s three companions and squares himself up for a devastating charge.
“For the glory of Moradin!”
Screaming his war cry, Barronar leaps for the closest goblin, and systematically impales it on the spikes of his armor. As our hero struggles to get up and simultaneously dislodge the now dead goblin from the front of his armor, he does not notice the two remaining goblins teaming up for a counter attack. (At this point you might ask yourself: ‘why did they not runaway, were they scared stiff, stupid or just extremely brave?’ I fear we will never find out.) After a some struggling and tearing of flesh, Barronar finally manages to free himself of the goblin and get back on his feet, just in time to get hit on the front of his head by one of the unlucky goblins, the force of the blow was enough to send the smelly dwarf back down where he landed with a loud squish and crack. Squish and crack? Forests don’t go squish and crack when you land on them? As Barronar struggles to get up he sees the expression of terror on the goblins face. “What are you bloody staring at?” As the remaining goblin flees, our spiky protagonist tries to follow but he finds himself strangely incumbent. Turning around, trying to face the last remaining foe, Barronar sees an arm move out of the corner of his eye. Thinking an attack imminent, the stubby dwarf jumps and rolls to the side, in the process tearing off the head of the last goblin that was, in contradiction to what Barronar thought, not flanking him for a attack, but was in fact stuck on the spikes on the back of the dwarf’s full plate armor. “Oh… so that’s where the squish-crack came from.” Chuckling quietly to himself, the hero of the day walks to a nearby tree and starts rubbing his back against it, trying to dislodge the now quite dead goblin. “It seams these bloody trees do have a use.”

His armor free of goblin, well mostly free of goblin, and standing in the middle of a cleared goblin camp, complete with firewood and dead rabbits, Barranor settles down for a good night’s rest. “Ye take the fist watch Dog; I need bloody sleep if we want to make it to Secomber on the morrow.”

With a restful nigh behind him, Barranor and his donkey find themselves entering Secomber the next day. “See, I told ye these bloody humans respect Dwarfs, they all get out of our way and wave. Waving your hand in front of ye nose must be some queer human way of showing respect.”

"As are trustworthy people in general, merchant," the ranger replied, his voice a harsh whisper. "But if you wish to contract my services again," he went on, "I am not too hard to find, when I wish it to be." Deeming that the end of their transaction, Shadowleaf quickly turned Shadar around and began moving back the way he had came.