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Travels through the Wild West: a Forgotten Realms Story
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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 1386" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Part 7</p><p></p><p>The water was cold, and Benzan didn’t like cold. He was a passable swimmer, but he’d learned that skill in the warm shallow waters off the coast of Unther in the summertime, not fording some river in the grasp of an early winter in the trackless wilds of the far west. He had to make an effort not to let his teeth chatter as he cleaved the water with sure strokes. To distract himself from his discomfort, he focused his mind on the teachings of Balisarius, an old friend of his mother’s with whom they’d stayed for a time in his youth. They’d been running, he recalled—it seemed he could recall little else but running, from his all-too-brief childhood—and the time with Balisarius had been little more than an interlude for them, one of many until he finally found himself alone for good. Balisarius had been a magic-user, and had tried to teach the bored young man some of the rudiments of his craft to keep his mind occupied. He hadn’t been much of a student at the time, but sometimes, since then, some of what he’d learned resurfaced, bobbing to the surface of his mind like an apple in a barrel of water. </p><p></p><p>The trick worked; before he knew it he felt the stony bottom of the river beneath his feet. Slowly, scanning the twilight shores of the far bank carefully first, he slipped out of the water. The evening breeze felt like a cold gale against his wet skin; his torso was bare and he carried little more than his long dagger and a few small odds-and-ends about his person. He’d had to leave his magical chain shirt behind, but even as he’d turned to go on this errand (which seemed more insane with each passing moment), Calloran had pulled him aside. </p><p></p><p>“It’s a brave thing you’re doing, lad,” he said. “I’d not like to see you head into any trouble completely unprotected, though.” The gnome felt around for a moment, then pulled a wand from another hidden pocket. </p><p></p><p>“I’m not injured,” Benzan said. </p><p></p><p>“Shut up and hold still,” Cal said, uttering a faint command phrase that Benzan could not quite make out. The gnome touched the wand to his bare chest, reaching up to do so. </p><p></p><p>Benzan felt a tingle pass through him. A glow surrounded his body, coating him from head to toe.</p><p></p><p>“This will protect you somewhat,” Cal said. “Be cautious though—it is not as durable as real armor, and it will only last an hour, so you’d better be quick.”</p><p></p><p>Benzan appreciated the gesture, but he saw the immediate problem. “This glow will give me away from a mile distant,” he said. </p><p></p><p>“It will fade in a moment,” the gnome said, and in fact, it was already dimming, its potency still there by the reminding tingle in the air. By the time he reached the water, the mage-armor was a second skin. Unfortunately, it didn’t keep out the cold of the river. </p><p></p><p>Benzan quickly scouted the far bank of the river. The riverbank gave way a steep embankment like a rampart ahead of him, its crest perhaps fifteen feet above him. The waterside was flush with thick bushes and water-reeds, giving excellent cover but forcing him to tread carefully lest he give his position away to any hidden watchers. He remembered Cal’s warning and tried to force a balance between speed and stealth. </p><p></p><p>He’d come some distance downstream with the current, so he started back up along the riverbank before heading inland. Within a few minutes he came across a cleft where the water gathered in a stagnant side-pond about thirty feet across. Inside the pond, carefully shielded by gathered brush, was a barge. </p><p></p><p><em>So there goes the mystery of where the wagons went</em>, Benzan thought to himself. The attack of these raiders was looking less and less the work of a chaotic band of brigands and more like the work of a group of skilled professionals. The thought added an extra measure of caution to his movements as he scouted the area. </p><p></p><p>There were no signs of any guards in the area, but he found tracks that led up into the cleft, rising along an embankment of packed earth to the higher ground inland. The wagon ruts, hoof prints, and boot prints that he found were fresh. He followed them carefully up the trail, where the riverside gave way once more to rolling hill country that led inland. A short distance beyond, Benzan knew, lay the borders of the Wood of Sharp Teeth—rough country indeed, if the stories he’d heard were true.</p><p></p><p>The trail turned and ran into a declivity between two mounds of stone boulders, worn smooth by years of wind and rain. Rather than walk directly between them, he took a long route around the edges of one of the mounds. His sure fingers found easy purchase as he swiftly climbed, and the activity was beginning to warm his chilled body. </p><p></p><p>He paused at the lip of a ridge that ran back from the mound, a rocky rise that shielded a bowl-shaped depression beyond. Before he could even get a good look at that area, though, he heard a cough not ten feet from his current position, and froze.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 1386, member: 143"] Part 7 The water was cold, and Benzan didn’t like cold. He was a passable swimmer, but he’d learned that skill in the warm shallow waters off the coast of Unther in the summertime, not fording some river in the grasp of an early winter in the trackless wilds of the far west. He had to make an effort not to let his teeth chatter as he cleaved the water with sure strokes. To distract himself from his discomfort, he focused his mind on the teachings of Balisarius, an old friend of his mother’s with whom they’d stayed for a time in his youth. They’d been running, he recalled—it seemed he could recall little else but running, from his all-too-brief childhood—and the time with Balisarius had been little more than an interlude for them, one of many until he finally found himself alone for good. Balisarius had been a magic-user, and had tried to teach the bored young man some of the rudiments of his craft to keep his mind occupied. He hadn’t been much of a student at the time, but sometimes, since then, some of what he’d learned resurfaced, bobbing to the surface of his mind like an apple in a barrel of water. The trick worked; before he knew it he felt the stony bottom of the river beneath his feet. Slowly, scanning the twilight shores of the far bank carefully first, he slipped out of the water. The evening breeze felt like a cold gale against his wet skin; his torso was bare and he carried little more than his long dagger and a few small odds-and-ends about his person. He’d had to leave his magical chain shirt behind, but even as he’d turned to go on this errand (which seemed more insane with each passing moment), Calloran had pulled him aside. “It’s a brave thing you’re doing, lad,” he said. “I’d not like to see you head into any trouble completely unprotected, though.” The gnome felt around for a moment, then pulled a wand from another hidden pocket. “I’m not injured,” Benzan said. “Shut up and hold still,” Cal said, uttering a faint command phrase that Benzan could not quite make out. The gnome touched the wand to his bare chest, reaching up to do so. Benzan felt a tingle pass through him. A glow surrounded his body, coating him from head to toe. “This will protect you somewhat,” Cal said. “Be cautious though—it is not as durable as real armor, and it will only last an hour, so you’d better be quick.” Benzan appreciated the gesture, but he saw the immediate problem. “This glow will give me away from a mile distant,” he said. “It will fade in a moment,” the gnome said, and in fact, it was already dimming, its potency still there by the reminding tingle in the air. By the time he reached the water, the mage-armor was a second skin. Unfortunately, it didn’t keep out the cold of the river. Benzan quickly scouted the far bank of the river. The riverbank gave way a steep embankment like a rampart ahead of him, its crest perhaps fifteen feet above him. The waterside was flush with thick bushes and water-reeds, giving excellent cover but forcing him to tread carefully lest he give his position away to any hidden watchers. He remembered Cal’s warning and tried to force a balance between speed and stealth. He’d come some distance downstream with the current, so he started back up along the riverbank before heading inland. Within a few minutes he came across a cleft where the water gathered in a stagnant side-pond about thirty feet across. Inside the pond, carefully shielded by gathered brush, was a barge. [I]So there goes the mystery of where the wagons went[/I], Benzan thought to himself. The attack of these raiders was looking less and less the work of a chaotic band of brigands and more like the work of a group of skilled professionals. The thought added an extra measure of caution to his movements as he scouted the area. There were no signs of any guards in the area, but he found tracks that led up into the cleft, rising along an embankment of packed earth to the higher ground inland. The wagon ruts, hoof prints, and boot prints that he found were fresh. He followed them carefully up the trail, where the riverside gave way once more to rolling hill country that led inland. A short distance beyond, Benzan knew, lay the borders of the Wood of Sharp Teeth—rough country indeed, if the stories he’d heard were true. The trail turned and ran into a declivity between two mounds of stone boulders, worn smooth by years of wind and rain. Rather than walk directly between them, he took a long route around the edges of one of the mounds. His sure fingers found easy purchase as he swiftly climbed, and the activity was beginning to warm his chilled body. He paused at the lip of a ridge that ran back from the mound, a rocky rise that shielded a bowl-shaped depression beyond. Before he could even get a good look at that area, though, he heard a cough not ten feet from his current position, and froze. [/QUOTE]
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