'Tis the night after Shieldmeet, and though four lonely travellers have had a day to rest from the revel, they seem all the more tired for it.
An unnamed monk, from a region unknown, sits in the corner booth contemplating the journey he has just completed. He ponders the words of prophecy uttered at his birthing, fortelling an important gathering at this simple place on this particular day. Memories of his mother oft repeating how a wise and powerful wizard appeared that day 24 years ago stir in his mind. He is afraid, but he calms his fears. He is the master of his soul: not the dread of the unknown that beckons it. He wonders what is next. He is tired from 3 ten-day's worth of walking, and hopes more walking is not what is required. Yet Monty is resigned to his fate--whatever it may be.
At the bar, a foolhardy priest is gambling. Rolling dice, he wagers 5 gold against 5 silver. "Faith in Lady Luck is all I need!" he shouts as he scoops up the coins on yet another winning roll. "Maybe next time," he taunts the losers, "ye'll learn not to bet against one who serves the Goddess Tymorra." He laughs, knowing that he holds a special place in the Lady Luck. He too received prophecy at his birthing. "Forever will luck be on your side, and Fortune shall always shine upon thee," said the grizzled old wizard as he held the baby before its mother. "Tell him, when he is old enough, that on the day after Shieldmeet, in the Year of Wild Magic, be in Asbravn, at the Red Dragon Tavern, if he should seek to find his destiny." The prophecies about Ashton had proven themselves right, time and time again. Luck was with him, so of course, he must test the Fates once again. The had led him this far, who knew where the would lead him next.
From a table not far away, a wizard sits, watching the priest taunt the losers. "I bet I could win that roll," he says to himself, knowing that a host of spells could determine his fortune far more accurately than just trusting in the whims of a deity. "Aye, Tymorra may bless thee, but Mystra empowers me," he says again to himself. Always one to be wise, he says nothing aloud. He would not seek to draw attention to himself, on a night that was foretold when he was a child. Like all wise and intelligent men, he waits. His mentor once took him to an inn. When he asked "What now?" his mentored replied, "We wait." "For what?" came the almost immediate reply. "For something to happen," said the kindly old teacher. "How do you know something will happen?" said the impetuous youth. "This is an inn, something aalllllwaaaayyyys happens." Torin chuckled to himself at that thought. His teacher had been right, that night and every night since. Something always happens at an inn. His teacher had been right about many things, including the importance of not disobeying prophecy. Though Mystra may grant him power, there were other powers in Toril. Powers that could foresee the future, even at the birth of a whelp like him. So when the Arch-mage held took him from his mothers breast, and spirited him away to a wizards school, there was a promise of a great future, one that his mother apparently believed. One that he'd come to believe too.
By the warmth of the hearth lies a very odd creature. Half human, half tiger, Zerra hails from the open plains of the Shaar. A devout warrior of Nobanion, she ha come because she too had been prophecied upon at her birthing. Fortelling of great deeds to be done, a wise man from a distant land approached her Shaman, telling of how there are those who fight in the name and honor of Gods. Such as this was she to be. Though she is different, few seem eager to stare. Her aura expresses courage, her eyes sparkle with intelligence. Boredom grows on her face, boredome laced with weariness. "Perhaps the prophecy was wrong," she thinks as she stands to stretch her feline limbs. "Mighty Nobanion, have I been led astray?" she prays. "Give me wisdom, wisdom to do your will."
Just as she utters the last of the prayer under her breath, a sigil appears in the air in front of her. The same sigil appears to Torin, Monty, and to Aston as well. But it is only Torin who recognizes the significance of the simple rune. This was the rune of the great and mighty Elminster.
"Well met, you four. I'm glad to see that you've all made it," says a voice from the door of the inn. "Come follow me, we have much to discuss," he says as he turns and walks away.
An unnamed monk, from a region unknown, sits in the corner booth contemplating the journey he has just completed. He ponders the words of prophecy uttered at his birthing, fortelling an important gathering at this simple place on this particular day. Memories of his mother oft repeating how a wise and powerful wizard appeared that day 24 years ago stir in his mind. He is afraid, but he calms his fears. He is the master of his soul: not the dread of the unknown that beckons it. He wonders what is next. He is tired from 3 ten-day's worth of walking, and hopes more walking is not what is required. Yet Monty is resigned to his fate--whatever it may be.
At the bar, a foolhardy priest is gambling. Rolling dice, he wagers 5 gold against 5 silver. "Faith in Lady Luck is all I need!" he shouts as he scoops up the coins on yet another winning roll. "Maybe next time," he taunts the losers, "ye'll learn not to bet against one who serves the Goddess Tymorra." He laughs, knowing that he holds a special place in the Lady Luck. He too received prophecy at his birthing. "Forever will luck be on your side, and Fortune shall always shine upon thee," said the grizzled old wizard as he held the baby before its mother. "Tell him, when he is old enough, that on the day after Shieldmeet, in the Year of Wild Magic, be in Asbravn, at the Red Dragon Tavern, if he should seek to find his destiny." The prophecies about Ashton had proven themselves right, time and time again. Luck was with him, so of course, he must test the Fates once again. The had led him this far, who knew where the would lead him next.
From a table not far away, a wizard sits, watching the priest taunt the losers. "I bet I could win that roll," he says to himself, knowing that a host of spells could determine his fortune far more accurately than just trusting in the whims of a deity. "Aye, Tymorra may bless thee, but Mystra empowers me," he says again to himself. Always one to be wise, he says nothing aloud. He would not seek to draw attention to himself, on a night that was foretold when he was a child. Like all wise and intelligent men, he waits. His mentor once took him to an inn. When he asked "What now?" his mentored replied, "We wait." "For what?" came the almost immediate reply. "For something to happen," said the kindly old teacher. "How do you know something will happen?" said the impetuous youth. "This is an inn, something aalllllwaaaayyyys happens." Torin chuckled to himself at that thought. His teacher had been right, that night and every night since. Something always happens at an inn. His teacher had been right about many things, including the importance of not disobeying prophecy. Though Mystra may grant him power, there were other powers in Toril. Powers that could foresee the future, even at the birth of a whelp like him. So when the Arch-mage held took him from his mothers breast, and spirited him away to a wizards school, there was a promise of a great future, one that his mother apparently believed. One that he'd come to believe too.
By the warmth of the hearth lies a very odd creature. Half human, half tiger, Zerra hails from the open plains of the Shaar. A devout warrior of Nobanion, she ha come because she too had been prophecied upon at her birthing. Fortelling of great deeds to be done, a wise man from a distant land approached her Shaman, telling of how there are those who fight in the name and honor of Gods. Such as this was she to be. Though she is different, few seem eager to stare. Her aura expresses courage, her eyes sparkle with intelligence. Boredom grows on her face, boredome laced with weariness. "Perhaps the prophecy was wrong," she thinks as she stands to stretch her feline limbs. "Mighty Nobanion, have I been led astray?" she prays. "Give me wisdom, wisdom to do your will."
Just as she utters the last of the prayer under her breath, a sigil appears in the air in front of her. The same sigil appears to Torin, Monty, and to Aston as well. But it is only Torin who recognizes the significance of the simple rune. This was the rune of the great and mighty Elminster.
"Well met, you four. I'm glad to see that you've all made it," says a voice from the door of the inn. "Come follow me, we have much to discuss," he says as he turns and walks away.
