Harb shot up to a sitting position, cold sweat covering his forhead. The nightmare was the same, and yet different. Another night seeing his own body in the mud, death, rape and looting all round him. Never before had it ended like this. A child, dead beside him, his flesh unnaturally rotting from his face, his skull suddenly bare snaps towards Harb, it's hollow eye sockets somehow staring at him the jaw moves and from some place a noise over the sounds of the chaos. "Meviiran".
That very evening the town crier spoke of the Dukes request for help. Surely this was a sign from Pelor. Harb packed his things and set out that very night.
Guarding a halfling merchant was far from the least glorious thing he had ever done, they tended to be a good people. This one drove a hard bargain but at least the company would make the long trip go by quicker. He did have such a strange and varied group with him though.
Harb talks little in the beginning of the trip except his prayers in the morning, settling in after a few days he's quick to laugh. He helps Lal get the wagon out of the mud on occasion. Always willing to help without being asked and never grumbling about it, seemingly happy enough when with others, or if he knows someone is paying attention. When he thinks noone is looking, when his guard is down, he seems troubled.
During the town meeting he stands in the back quietly and respectful, having given up the chair he occupied to an old farmer. Thinking to himself, absentmindedly rubbing the cloth that hangs from the hilt of his sword between his thumb and forefinger.
Typical politics, always need someone else to do the dirty work. What a young ignorant boy, full of innocent bravado, I wonder how he will take it when he first has someone close die in front of him? If your 'elfdom' is so great why did you leave? By Pelor get your hand of Erathis' crotch.
All through these thoughts he remains silent, dressed in his armor and a tunic with the symbol of Pelor on the chest. Doing his best to smile. That is until the last thought, with that one he lets out a laugh which makes it all the way to his belly before he manages to stop and cover his mouth.
Doing his best to recover from his social gaffe, Quickleaf listens a bit skeptically to the honeyed grace of the two drow brothers Dydan and Niimyr. Having not met one of their kind before, he tried to reserve judgment, but he'd grown up with stories of the elves living in dark citadels below the earth, banished for their betrayal of the Seldarine. Then again, humans and dwarves said many things about elven-kind – arrogant jackasses, duplicitous knife-ears, and less flattering turns of phrase – that hardly were true of himself.
