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Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story
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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 1384" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Part 5</p><p></p><p>The common room of the Wayfarers’ Rest was busy, which was unusual for the sole inn in the quiet frontier village of Danderion. A wagon train of Sembian merchants willing to brave the difficult road to the Sword Coast had stopped in for rest and supplies before hitting the long stretch of road that wound through desolate country before breaking into the sparse farmsteads of the region still known as the Fields of the Dead. The merchants and their guards all but filled the long chamber, driving most of the locals away this night with angry mutterings about outsiders taking their establishment away from them.</p><p></p><p>In one corner of the busy inn, four men crowded around a table built to comfortably accommodate two. The table was far from the warmth of the fire and the light of the three flaring oil lamps that dangled from chains from the ceiling, but the shadows suited the four travelers, who were content not to draw extra attention to themselves. </p><p></p><p>“I suppose it’s time to share with us the tale of why those bandits were after you,” Calloran said, pausing to wipe some foam from his tall ale from his chin. “We’ve respected your silence on the road, Benzan, but it seems after what we went through, you should come clean with those who fought beside you.” After the briefest hesitation, he added, “If, that is, you would like to remain in our company. I suppose that goes for all of us, without saying,” he said, glancing at each of his companions in turn.</p><p></p><p>It was hard to believe that only the night before they had fought the battle at the old ruin beside the crossroads. A day of hard marching had brought them here, to the very edges of the lands under the protection of Lord Dhelt. They had taken a fair haul from their efforts, starting with the weapons and other gear possessed by the late bandits. Their equipment was not top notch, but what they had bundled into an old cloak, carried by Lok with little apparent effort, would fetch a fair pile of coins in a town. </p><p> </p><p>And that wasn’t even considering the jewelry. Once the undead ogre had been slain, none of them had been that eager to approach its vile and stinking corpse. Benzan, however, had been the first to notice the faint gleam of metal around its neck and wrists. The ogre wore totems that had been cut into its flesh, which Cal explained were proof that the thing had probably once been a witchdoctor or tribal shaman. Why it had been buried here, and how it had transformed into such a monstrosity, he could not fathom. But he had an easier time appraising the necklace and bracelets of pounded silver plates, set with small chips of lapis, that it had been wearing. The workmanship was crude, but the items would likely fetch several times over all the other gear combined. If they could find a buyer, that is. </p><p></p><p>And so they were here. They’d elected to remain together, and after a brief discussion agreed to travel southeast, to Elturel. There they would find a merchant or artisan willing to turn their hard-won loot into cold cash, and then they could travel on their individual ways, with a full coin purse paving the road ahead. </p><p></p><p>There was one other reason they had wanted to travel together, but they did not speak of it on the road. When the magical darkness had finally lifted, and they had poked around through the disaster of the ogre’s passage, the cleric of Mask was not among the dead. </p><p></p><p>Benzan cleared his throat, a gesture that was all but lost in the bustle of the common room. “I admit, I have been guilty of the odd bit of thievery here and there,” he said. “I seek neither approval nor condemnation from any of you,” he added, defensively, “but before you offer any, consider what you would do, if you were birthed with a taint that all on the face of Toril saw as a mark of inborn evil and corruption.”</p><p></p><p>“I think some might understand the challenges of living with an unusual birthright, more than others,” Cal said, and he glanced meaningfully first at Lok, and then at Delem, who did not meet his eyes. </p><p></p><p>Benzan saw the looks, and for a moment he looked a tad humbled. “Anyway,” he said, his voice more level now, “I ended up here, in the Western Heartlands, about six months ago. I did some mercenary work, but after a while people seem to figure out that there’s something… wrong with me, and I have to go on my way. I encountered Guthan through a back-alley deal in Iriaebor, and went with him and a few other rogues into the open country of the west, to live off the land, as they say. It was a mistake—I guess I knew it even at the time. I didn’t stay with them long, not even long enough for them to stage a raid on one of the passing caravans. Once I made up my mind, I waited for a dark night and went on my way.”</p><p></p><p>“One of them said you stole something from him,” Cal prodded him. </p><p></p><p> “Yes, I did,” he said, not dodging the question. “I’ve stolen my fair share of things in the past—more than my share, probably—but I don’t take things wantonly, and I don’t steal from my friends. Guthan was no friend of mine, and he deserves whatever happens to him, you can trust me on that count. I take it that everyone here is familiar with the concept of taking that which doesn’t belong to you?” He looked around at the others, a hint of challenge in his eyes. Cal shrugged, Lok simply returned his look with his stoic and unreadable expression, and Delem huddled within himself, not venturing to lift his eyes to meet Benzan’s challenge. Satisfied, Benzan turned to his shoulder bag, slung within easy reach across the back of his chair, and withdrew a small package wrapped in several layers of heavy burlap. </p><p></p><p>Benzan carefully unwrapped the object and set it on the table—and each of the others observed how he placed it so that it would be difficult to see from the main part of the room. It was jet black, and difficult to see even right in front of them. </p><p></p><p>It was a small statue, perhaps eight inches long, fashioned from a thick piece of a shiny black rock that seemed to absorb the faint light coming from the far end of the room. Its features were difficult to make out in the shadows, but it seemed to be the bust of a well-built, handsome man of middle years. The carving depicted his head and upper body from the waist up, with a flat base so that it could stand upright. He bore an unusual weapon in one fist, a long-bladed sword with a twisting blade that undulated in smooth curves down its length. </p><p></p><p>“What is it?” Delem asked. </p><p></p><p>“I don’t know,” Benzan said. “I only caught a glimpse of it, before, enough to see that Guthan valued it. If I’d known how much he treasured it, I wouldn’t have stolen it.” He did not seem remorseful for the theft itself, but he did not share with the other something else, something he himself had yet to fully understand. In some way, the statue had seemed to call to him, urging him to take it. He’d experienced the tug of valuables before, but never had the lure to steal been so… well, so unsubtle. </p><p></p><p>“It’s careful craftsmanship,” Cal said, examining the fine lines carved into the stone. </p><p></p><p>“I don’t even know what it’s made of,” Benzan admitted.</p><p></p><p>“Obsidian,” Lok said. He was staring at the thing, his brows furrowed so tightly together that they nearly obscured his eyes. </p><p></p><p>“Do you know who it is supposed to be?” Cal asked. He, too, was looking intently at it, but with an obvious hint of wariness in his manner. </p><p></p><p>“No,” Benzan said. He added quietly, almost inaudibly, “but it seems somehow familiar…”</p><p></p><p>Cal reached out a hand toward it, not quite touching it as he softly murmured a soft singsong phrase. He regarded the item for a moment, and then drew back. “It is magical,” he said. “Strange—it’s almost like what I feel is the afterimage of a greater power, almost like a memory.”</p><p></p><p>Delem interjected, “There’s something dark about it… uncomfortable… put it away!”</p><p></p><p>The others looked at him in surprise; the last words had been loud enough to draw some curious attention from nearby tables their way. Their attention was quickly drawn to the outer door of the inn, however, as a tall figure entered, letting in a gust of cold air in his wake. He was an aged but still hale figure who was quite obviously a warrior, even without the longsword he wore at his hip. He wore a surcoat that bore the sigil of Lord Dhelt of Elturel, which failed to hide the coat of chainmail he wore underneath. Cal overheard someone at an adjacent table whisper the man’s identity to his neighbor; he was Kevrik Telwarden, the sheriff of this small community. </p><p></p><p>Telwarden took advantage of the dramatic stir caused by his entry, drawing the attention of the room to him. “I have an announcement to make,” he began, his stentorian voice easily filling the crowded room. “I need all able-bodied men of fighting skill to join a posse, to ride out before first light. Just a few hours ago, a group of raiders waylaid a small caravan along the South Road just a few hours from the walls of Danderion. The attackers were a mixed force of men and hobgoblins, at least a score in number, by the description of the few who escaped the initial attack. Most of the rest were taken prisoner, from what they could see as they fled.”</p><p></p><p>A murmur spread through the crowd. Most present were merchants or caravan guards, who understood all too well the dangers of the western roads for even well-armed caravans. Even before his words had sunk in, though, Sheriff Telwarden added another bit of information. </p><p></p><p>“Among those taken was Lady Dana Ilgarten, daughter of the fifth house of Iriaebor.”</p><p></p><p>The murmur became a babble, as everyone present started talking at once. The four companions at the corner table exchanged a look, but none of them did anything more at that point. The statue had vanished back into Benzan’s bag, so subtly that none of them had seen it happen.</p><p></p><p>Telwarden let the clamor continue for a few moments, then hushed the crowd again with a raised hand. “I need volunteers—”</p><p></p><p>“What about the Hellriders?” someone in the crowd interjected. “That’s what they’re there for!”</p><p></p><p>Telwarden’s return look could have cut glass. “A rider has already been sent, with the best horse in the village, and I’ll send another with the coming of the dawn in case the first befalls ill on the road. But even risking riding at night, Elturel is at least a full day away if the weather holds, and another day back. Unless he’s lucky enough to encounter a patrol on the road, that’s several days at least until help can arrive. Do you want to wager on the girl, or any of the prisoners, still being alive at that point?”</p><p></p><p>No one offered a response to that question. Telwarden continued, “There’s good money—gold coins of Baldur’s Gate, not the local silver—and the thanks of two lords in it for those who volunteer. Plus the chance to rid the trade routes of some of the scum that threatens all who travel the roads.”</p><p></p><p>“All right then, who can I count on?”</p><p> </p><p>There was some grumbling and some more discussion, but ultimately a half-dozen of the caravan guards came forward, some ‘volunteered’ by their masters. Telwarden offered to cover the costs of any merchants who elected to remain in the village until their guards returned, and the innkeeper bolstered that with a promise of free ale for those who agreed to go. </p><p></p><p>The four companions exchanged another long, meaningful look. Finally, Cal stood, and walked over to the small knot of men surrounding Telwarden. The sheriff did not notice him for a moment, but when he did, he nodded politely. </p><p></p><p>“Balander Calloran, at your service, sir. I wish to join this expedition, and be the one to record its tale of righteous vengeance,” Cal said. </p><p></p><p>A few of the guardsmen looked askance, but Telwarden’s face betrayed a hint of respect. “No offense, my little friend, but we will be traveling swiftly, and into great danger. What can you offer to this mission?”</p><p> </p><p>Cal squelched his rising indignation with an obvious effort. He was used to the big folk giving his kind short shrift, an attitude that often came around to haunt them. He sensed a presence behind him, and glanced back to see Lok approaching, his face its usual unreadable mask but impressive nonetheless with his heavy mail and battle axe at the ready, as always. Benzan and Delem, he noticed, were still at the table, although Cal thought that they were following the course of the encounter. </p><p></p><p>The support from the genasi was welcome, but Cal was determined to speak for himself. “Well,” he said to the tall human, “I am a bard of no small talent, and my rousing songs will bolster the morale of this small company of would-be heroes.”</p><p> </p><p>“And secondly…”</p><p></p><p>He trailed off as he muttered something softly under his breath, and then, to everyone’s amazement, began to grow! He swelled up quickly to twice his size, then continued to grow to dwarf even the sheriff, who stepped back in alarm along with the other guardsmen and everyone else close by. In a moment, he was touching the rafters, it seemed. He stretched his arms out, his grasp now an eagle’s wingspan across, and when he spoke, his voice filled the chamber even more than the loud hail of the sheriff, as loud as the voices of four men speaking together. </p><p></p><p>“WHAT CAN I ADD? WELL, I KNOW A BIT OF MAGIC!…”</p><p></p><p>And then he was gone, or rather, he was once again standing there, an ordinary—or not so ordinary, as was now evident—gnome.</p><p></p><p>Telwarden just looked at him for a moment, his jaw hanging, but then he laughed, a warm belly laugh that was quickly picked up by most of the onlookers. “Well, I’ll be a half-orc! So you do, and welcome indeed!” </p><p></p><p>Cal glanced back over his shoulder, and saw that Benzan and Delem had finally joined Lok in quiet support. The gnome smiled, inwardly relieved that his new friends had elected to join him—if reluctantly. He turned back to Telwarden, and said, “And I can offer you the potent aid of my companions, Lok, Delem, and Benzan. I can promise that their skills will prove as valuable as mine, and that we’ve faced the odd bandit together as well.”</p><p></p><p>Telwarden took them all in, frowning slightly when he looked at Benzan but ultimately welcoming them all and promising them the same glory and rewards he’d already offered the men-at-arms. Benzan shrugged, and said, “Oh, well, my ma always said, the really famous heroes never pass up a chance to help a pretty girl in distress…”</p><p></p><p>He eyed Telwarden, and added, “But wait--she is pretty, isn’t she?”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 1384, member: 143"] Part 5 The common room of the Wayfarers’ Rest was busy, which was unusual for the sole inn in the quiet frontier village of Danderion. A wagon train of Sembian merchants willing to brave the difficult road to the Sword Coast had stopped in for rest and supplies before hitting the long stretch of road that wound through desolate country before breaking into the sparse farmsteads of the region still known as the Fields of the Dead. The merchants and their guards all but filled the long chamber, driving most of the locals away this night with angry mutterings about outsiders taking their establishment away from them. In one corner of the busy inn, four men crowded around a table built to comfortably accommodate two. The table was far from the warmth of the fire and the light of the three flaring oil lamps that dangled from chains from the ceiling, but the shadows suited the four travelers, who were content not to draw extra attention to themselves. “I suppose it’s time to share with us the tale of why those bandits were after you,” Calloran said, pausing to wipe some foam from his tall ale from his chin. “We’ve respected your silence on the road, Benzan, but it seems after what we went through, you should come clean with those who fought beside you.” After the briefest hesitation, he added, “If, that is, you would like to remain in our company. I suppose that goes for all of us, without saying,” he said, glancing at each of his companions in turn. It was hard to believe that only the night before they had fought the battle at the old ruin beside the crossroads. A day of hard marching had brought them here, to the very edges of the lands under the protection of Lord Dhelt. They had taken a fair haul from their efforts, starting with the weapons and other gear possessed by the late bandits. Their equipment was not top notch, but what they had bundled into an old cloak, carried by Lok with little apparent effort, would fetch a fair pile of coins in a town. And that wasn’t even considering the jewelry. Once the undead ogre had been slain, none of them had been that eager to approach its vile and stinking corpse. Benzan, however, had been the first to notice the faint gleam of metal around its neck and wrists. The ogre wore totems that had been cut into its flesh, which Cal explained were proof that the thing had probably once been a witchdoctor or tribal shaman. Why it had been buried here, and how it had transformed into such a monstrosity, he could not fathom. But he had an easier time appraising the necklace and bracelets of pounded silver plates, set with small chips of lapis, that it had been wearing. The workmanship was crude, but the items would likely fetch several times over all the other gear combined. If they could find a buyer, that is. And so they were here. They’d elected to remain together, and after a brief discussion agreed to travel southeast, to Elturel. There they would find a merchant or artisan willing to turn their hard-won loot into cold cash, and then they could travel on their individual ways, with a full coin purse paving the road ahead. There was one other reason they had wanted to travel together, but they did not speak of it on the road. When the magical darkness had finally lifted, and they had poked around through the disaster of the ogre’s passage, the cleric of Mask was not among the dead. Benzan cleared his throat, a gesture that was all but lost in the bustle of the common room. “I admit, I have been guilty of the odd bit of thievery here and there,” he said. “I seek neither approval nor condemnation from any of you,” he added, defensively, “but before you offer any, consider what you would do, if you were birthed with a taint that all on the face of Toril saw as a mark of inborn evil and corruption.” “I think some might understand the challenges of living with an unusual birthright, more than others,” Cal said, and he glanced meaningfully first at Lok, and then at Delem, who did not meet his eyes. Benzan saw the looks, and for a moment he looked a tad humbled. “Anyway,” he said, his voice more level now, “I ended up here, in the Western Heartlands, about six months ago. I did some mercenary work, but after a while people seem to figure out that there’s something… wrong with me, and I have to go on my way. I encountered Guthan through a back-alley deal in Iriaebor, and went with him and a few other rogues into the open country of the west, to live off the land, as they say. It was a mistake—I guess I knew it even at the time. I didn’t stay with them long, not even long enough for them to stage a raid on one of the passing caravans. Once I made up my mind, I waited for a dark night and went on my way.” “One of them said you stole something from him,” Cal prodded him. “Yes, I did,” he said, not dodging the question. “I’ve stolen my fair share of things in the past—more than my share, probably—but I don’t take things wantonly, and I don’t steal from my friends. Guthan was no friend of mine, and he deserves whatever happens to him, you can trust me on that count. I take it that everyone here is familiar with the concept of taking that which doesn’t belong to you?” He looked around at the others, a hint of challenge in his eyes. Cal shrugged, Lok simply returned his look with his stoic and unreadable expression, and Delem huddled within himself, not venturing to lift his eyes to meet Benzan’s challenge. Satisfied, Benzan turned to his shoulder bag, slung within easy reach across the back of his chair, and withdrew a small package wrapped in several layers of heavy burlap. Benzan carefully unwrapped the object and set it on the table—and each of the others observed how he placed it so that it would be difficult to see from the main part of the room. It was jet black, and difficult to see even right in front of them. It was a small statue, perhaps eight inches long, fashioned from a thick piece of a shiny black rock that seemed to absorb the faint light coming from the far end of the room. Its features were difficult to make out in the shadows, but it seemed to be the bust of a well-built, handsome man of middle years. The carving depicted his head and upper body from the waist up, with a flat base so that it could stand upright. He bore an unusual weapon in one fist, a long-bladed sword with a twisting blade that undulated in smooth curves down its length. “What is it?” Delem asked. “I don’t know,” Benzan said. “I only caught a glimpse of it, before, enough to see that Guthan valued it. If I’d known how much he treasured it, I wouldn’t have stolen it.” He did not seem remorseful for the theft itself, but he did not share with the other something else, something he himself had yet to fully understand. In some way, the statue had seemed to call to him, urging him to take it. He’d experienced the tug of valuables before, but never had the lure to steal been so… well, so unsubtle. “It’s careful craftsmanship,” Cal said, examining the fine lines carved into the stone. “I don’t even know what it’s made of,” Benzan admitted. “Obsidian,” Lok said. He was staring at the thing, his brows furrowed so tightly together that they nearly obscured his eyes. “Do you know who it is supposed to be?” Cal asked. He, too, was looking intently at it, but with an obvious hint of wariness in his manner. “No,” Benzan said. He added quietly, almost inaudibly, “but it seems somehow familiar…” Cal reached out a hand toward it, not quite touching it as he softly murmured a soft singsong phrase. He regarded the item for a moment, and then drew back. “It is magical,” he said. “Strange—it’s almost like what I feel is the afterimage of a greater power, almost like a memory.” Delem interjected, “There’s something dark about it… uncomfortable… put it away!” The others looked at him in surprise; the last words had been loud enough to draw some curious attention from nearby tables their way. Their attention was quickly drawn to the outer door of the inn, however, as a tall figure entered, letting in a gust of cold air in his wake. He was an aged but still hale figure who was quite obviously a warrior, even without the longsword he wore at his hip. He wore a surcoat that bore the sigil of Lord Dhelt of Elturel, which failed to hide the coat of chainmail he wore underneath. Cal overheard someone at an adjacent table whisper the man’s identity to his neighbor; he was Kevrik Telwarden, the sheriff of this small community. Telwarden took advantage of the dramatic stir caused by his entry, drawing the attention of the room to him. “I have an announcement to make,” he began, his stentorian voice easily filling the crowded room. “I need all able-bodied men of fighting skill to join a posse, to ride out before first light. Just a few hours ago, a group of raiders waylaid a small caravan along the South Road just a few hours from the walls of Danderion. The attackers were a mixed force of men and hobgoblins, at least a score in number, by the description of the few who escaped the initial attack. Most of the rest were taken prisoner, from what they could see as they fled.” A murmur spread through the crowd. Most present were merchants or caravan guards, who understood all too well the dangers of the western roads for even well-armed caravans. Even before his words had sunk in, though, Sheriff Telwarden added another bit of information. “Among those taken was Lady Dana Ilgarten, daughter of the fifth house of Iriaebor.” The murmur became a babble, as everyone present started talking at once. The four companions at the corner table exchanged a look, but none of them did anything more at that point. The statue had vanished back into Benzan’s bag, so subtly that none of them had seen it happen. Telwarden let the clamor continue for a few moments, then hushed the crowd again with a raised hand. “I need volunteers—” “What about the Hellriders?” someone in the crowd interjected. “That’s what they’re there for!” Telwarden’s return look could have cut glass. “A rider has already been sent, with the best horse in the village, and I’ll send another with the coming of the dawn in case the first befalls ill on the road. But even risking riding at night, Elturel is at least a full day away if the weather holds, and another day back. Unless he’s lucky enough to encounter a patrol on the road, that’s several days at least until help can arrive. Do you want to wager on the girl, or any of the prisoners, still being alive at that point?” No one offered a response to that question. Telwarden continued, “There’s good money—gold coins of Baldur’s Gate, not the local silver—and the thanks of two lords in it for those who volunteer. Plus the chance to rid the trade routes of some of the scum that threatens all who travel the roads.” “All right then, who can I count on?” There was some grumbling and some more discussion, but ultimately a half-dozen of the caravan guards came forward, some ‘volunteered’ by their masters. Telwarden offered to cover the costs of any merchants who elected to remain in the village until their guards returned, and the innkeeper bolstered that with a promise of free ale for those who agreed to go. The four companions exchanged another long, meaningful look. Finally, Cal stood, and walked over to the small knot of men surrounding Telwarden. The sheriff did not notice him for a moment, but when he did, he nodded politely. “Balander Calloran, at your service, sir. I wish to join this expedition, and be the one to record its tale of righteous vengeance,” Cal said. A few of the guardsmen looked askance, but Telwarden’s face betrayed a hint of respect. “No offense, my little friend, but we will be traveling swiftly, and into great danger. What can you offer to this mission?” Cal squelched his rising indignation with an obvious effort. He was used to the big folk giving his kind short shrift, an attitude that often came around to haunt them. He sensed a presence behind him, and glanced back to see Lok approaching, his face its usual unreadable mask but impressive nonetheless with his heavy mail and battle axe at the ready, as always. Benzan and Delem, he noticed, were still at the table, although Cal thought that they were following the course of the encounter. The support from the genasi was welcome, but Cal was determined to speak for himself. “Well,” he said to the tall human, “I am a bard of no small talent, and my rousing songs will bolster the morale of this small company of would-be heroes.” “And secondly…” He trailed off as he muttered something softly under his breath, and then, to everyone’s amazement, began to grow! He swelled up quickly to twice his size, then continued to grow to dwarf even the sheriff, who stepped back in alarm along with the other guardsmen and everyone else close by. In a moment, he was touching the rafters, it seemed. He stretched his arms out, his grasp now an eagle’s wingspan across, and when he spoke, his voice filled the chamber even more than the loud hail of the sheriff, as loud as the voices of four men speaking together. “WHAT CAN I ADD? WELL, I KNOW A BIT OF MAGIC!…” And then he was gone, or rather, he was once again standing there, an ordinary—or not so ordinary, as was now evident—gnome. Telwarden just looked at him for a moment, his jaw hanging, but then he laughed, a warm belly laugh that was quickly picked up by most of the onlookers. “Well, I’ll be a half-orc! So you do, and welcome indeed!” Cal glanced back over his shoulder, and saw that Benzan and Delem had finally joined Lok in quiet support. The gnome smiled, inwardly relieved that his new friends had elected to join him—if reluctantly. He turned back to Telwarden, and said, “And I can offer you the potent aid of my companions, Lok, Delem, and Benzan. I can promise that their skills will prove as valuable as mine, and that we’ve faced the odd bandit together as well.” Telwarden took them all in, frowning slightly when he looked at Benzan but ultimately welcoming them all and promising them the same glory and rewards he’d already offered the men-at-arms. Benzan shrugged, and said, “Oh, well, my ma always said, the really famous heroes never pass up a chance to help a pretty girl in distress…” He eyed Telwarden, and added, “But wait--she is pretty, isn’t she?” [/QUOTE]
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