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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Goonalan" data-source="post: 6690779" data-attributes="member: 16069">Chapter 1: About eight hours now. POSTEDHellwhip kicked his heel hard against the side of the wagon, his leg dangling there, rocked by the steady gait of the oxen. The cart, and its contents, rumbled on towards Phandalin, two more days of this,the ranger thought, and then sighed loudly. The wiry human glared down at Grimm, his new companion, walking by the side of the wagon and whistling a cheery tune. The paladin of Tymora looked up at that exact moment causing Hellwhip to suddenly rearrange his grimace into a frown, and then eventually a thin-lipped smile. Grimm grinned back, and then for good measure waved at the now scowling ranger. Hellwhip cringed inwardly and quickly looked away- feigning interest elsewhere. He had been an adventurer for... well, about eight hours now, he hated it, particularly the having to be nice to people.In the back of the wagon Zyler groaned and clutched at his stomach, the priest of Tempus was in a bad way- at times sweating and moaning, other times shivering and groaning- a fever gripped him. Which was doubly unfortunate as Zyler was the only one of the hastily assembled group with any medicinal skill. Hellwhip echoed Zyler's groan and shook his head- he needed a drink, the ranger had been off the bottle for... well, about eight hours now. He had a splitting headache and none of this- he waved his hand absentmindedly to indicate the beautiful countryside and sun dappled rolling hills that sprawled alongside the High Road, none of this was helping. His home was in the city, the city in question being Neverwinter; his domain the narrow alleys and sodden streets, or else the storm tossed seas- he hated all of this... land, and the depressing greenery. The ranger silently seethed for a while, trying to make sense of this new venture. It wasn't so difficult being an adventurer, he reflected- nothing had tried to kill him thus far. He just had to learn to put up with 'others', he wasn't used to having 'others' in his life, he was a loner by nature. He didn't have friends, he didn't socialise. When he had to interact with people, he relied most often on his ability to bully or cajole them into doing what he wanted, or else he reached for his blade. And yet here he was, an adventurer, and in close proximity to other adventurers- people he had to get on with, that he would have to rely on if things went bad- there were bandits on the road, everyone said.Hellwhip looked down at Grimm again, and remembered the first words the paladin had said to him back in the tavern in Neverwinter, “What kind of foul name is Hellwhip?” He kicked his heel hard against the side of the cart causing Grimm to take notice of him again. It didn't help that the paladin's first question was followed by his second- “What idiot came up with a name like that?” Hellwhip had of course chosen his own name. On the streets of Neverwinter sounding tough is important, some days it can be the difference between life and death. His name clearly hadn't had the desired effect on the paladin, who was perhaps used to more refined society. The follower of Tymora's third comment to Hellwhip was just about the final straw, “You're very hairy, aren't you?” he had said. If it wasn't for the young lad Zalt's interruption he would have... who knows what he would have done, but it wouldn't have been pleasant. It was lucky for the paladin that Hellwhip had chosen that day to change his life forever, to flee the city and never look back, the paladin of Tymora was very lucky indeed.Grimm grinned at Hellwhip again, and then winked- for luck.Hellwhip ceased kicking his leg and got back to glaring intently at the road ahead. It would rain later, he'd put money on it.Beside the ranger sat Zalt, the casual observer's eye would be drawn towards the rangy young man, if indeed he was a human, the curl of his lip, the aquiline nose, and - should he let fall his hood- the unmistakeable pointy ears, Zalt was a half-elf. And possibly the least likely looking of the companions, the three others- Zyler, Grimm and Hellwhip were all thickset and older, late twenties and rugged looking, perhaps even experienced. Zalt was smaller, more compact, and much much younger- not yet out of his teens. He attracted attention wherever he went, there was something about the lad that caused people to stop for a moment and stare.Zalt shook the reins, more for effect- for something to do - it had no discernible effect on the pace of the oxen who plodded on. He didn't mind driving the cart, he'd never done it before and was hard pressed to gauge how good he was at it- the oxen seemed content to do their thing, they understood two commands- stop and go. Zalt could get on with that kind of logic. He had been an adventurer for... he swiftly calculated, about eight hours now, unlike Hellwhip however he was enjoying the ride, at least he thought he was. The open road, the smell of the sea to the west, the bucolic countryside... ah, he breathed it all in. It was good to be an adventurer, to be adventuring- he was certain. His mind however expressed two constant and nagging doubts. The first and by far the most important was- the men he shared a cart with, his new companions, could he trust them? His follow up thought was, of course, could he trust anyone? Which paradoxically reassured him a little. The answer being he couldn't trust anyone, this inevitable truth further reassured him. The second equally nagging doubt was- is this adventuring, driving a cart down a well-travelled road, is this it- he somehow doubted it. Things would, he was certain, get much worse, this last thought also made him smile.In the back of the wagon the groaning priest of Tempus drifted in and out of consciousness, every now and then he reminded his companions of his presence, usually by farting. It stank, in fact- he stank, but the oxen didn't mind- they plodded on.It didn't rain that night, but it did most of the next day and all of the next night, the summer downpour at its finale was accompanied by the roar and flash of thunder and lightning, the sounds of the gods doing battle. The priest of Tempus slept through the lot, his drool and some of his stink, thankfully, washed away by the warm cleansing rain.</blockquote>

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