Disclaimers:
The Forgotten Realms, their lands, cities, cultures, races and Gods, are property of TSR/WotC (and I suppose, now, Hasbro) and the wonderful talents of the setting's original creators. I am making no profit from my use of this setting in a story.
The Shieldmaster's Guild of Everlund and its leaders are property of my dear friend Graboz, an evil DM who's been torturing my little group for years now. I have received profit from my use of his characters—if you call XP profit. ;) Everything else is mine, including storyline, main and secondary characters.
If you would like to use Graboz' or my own little inventions, please request permission.
~~S. Arallion
The Machinations of a Goddess: A Simple Merchant
The North: Twenty miles north-west of Everlund
The sounds of a trading caravan were oddly soothing, Phinneas thought to himself as he jotted down notes from his last transactions in a large (for him) ledger. It was sort of a constant murmur in the background—the echoing rumble of steel-shod wheels over the dusty road, the gentle chime of harness bells, the deeper clunk from the draught-horses' mouthing of their bits in boredom, the thud of their heavy hooves and the patter of the riding-horses' lighter ones, and the continual chatter that ebbed and flowed along the line from the conversing travelers.
It was all fairly new to him, still. He'd been traveling with the caravan off and on since it left Waterdeep fourteen months ago, and although his inexperience no longer elicited guffaws from the humans who ran and guarded the caravan, there was always room for improvement. At least he'd managed to befriend the horses that drew the wagon, which meant that they no longer bothered to test him by spooking at the slightest provocation (butterflies, the glint of sun off of a lake 40 meters away, the wind in their ears). He'd never actually had them run away, but the moments of jumpy, wide-eyed, snorting nervousness were more than adequate to place that experience on his list of "Things Not To Try".
With a tiny sense of regret, he acknowledged the growth of that particular list as he traveled further from Waterdeep. However, he realized that even having such a list in his mind in the first place distanced him from his kindred. Perhaps it really had been best that he be the one to travel with the merchants. Perhaps that was why he felt more relaxed, listening to those traveling noises, than he ever had in the city.
Phinneas came from a well-established clan of gnomes living in Waterdeep, known throughout the region for their finely-crafted jewelry and exquisite gem cutting abilities—and their intricate pranks. In short, he came from a perfect gnomish family unit (including twelve brothers, six sisters, and innumerable aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews). Despite the size of the family, however, Phinneas knew of only five members, besides himself, that had ever left the city.
To be honest, he knew that he himself wouldn't have chosen to leave had it not been absolutely necessary. The trade to the North was rich in gems and precious metals, so naturally the family found it advantageous to establish more direct contacts in some of the Northern cities. Phinneas was an excellent gem cutter himself, and a good book-keeper, but there were better, and he had no immediate family to leave behind—therefore, he was the obvious choice to go.
The gnome reflected upon his progress through the North so far. It had been extremely fruitful—surprisingly so, considering that the population in the North (most notably the humans and dwarves) was often thought to be barbaric, close-minded and wary of other races. It probably helped that he was quite tall for a gnome—over 4 feet—and that he usually projected a quietly businesslike demeanor, which reassured humans and dwarves alike that he wasn't going to do anything traditionally 'gnomish', such as tucking powder-snappers into their cash boxes when they weren't looking. Some of the samples of the family's wares that he had brought had already been sold to the more enthusiastic contacts, and now his reputation appeared to be preceding the slow-moving caravan, at least in the major cities. They barely had to set wheel on the paving stones before someone was knocking at the small wagon's door looking to speak with him.
He didn't imagine that anyone would be doing that at the next city they were headed for, however. Everlund, according to other merchants they'd spoken with, was at this time almost a sort of overgrown fort, due to its tenuous position on the edge of the Evermoors. Luxury items were just that—luxuries. It was more likely that they'd be interested in purchasing weapons and armor there than in purchasing Phinneas' wares, but it was as good a place as any to spend a night out of the wagons, hearing the latest news and sharing a pint of ale with the locals. And, he'd heard there was a mage tower there, and mages were often interested in pretty baubles that they could use for their magic, so perhaps the stay in Everlund wouldn't be a complete loss.
The ledger lay forgotten in Phinneas' gnarled hands as he absently watched the horizon, lost in his musings. The evergreen-carpeted mountains were a russet-gold against the darkening sky, reflecting the sun setting behind them. He jumped, almost knocking his spectacles off as the caravan master's horn blew, signaling the end of their journey for the day.
"I'll take care of the horses, Scrounge," he offered, setting his ledger down on the wagon seat as the halfling who had been driving pulled the wagon into its assigned position.
The halfling climbed down from the wagon and stretched his legs with a pained expression. "Owwww," he grimaced. "No matter how hard the humans try, they still can't seem to make a decent halfling seat."
Phinneas grinned. It was true. It was also true that no matter how good the seat was, Scrounge (a nickname, not the halfling's real name) would still find something to complain about after a long day of driving. "You'd best go back and ask Tala to take care of that for you," he replied blandly, with a nod to Scrounge's stiff legs.
Scrounge sighed. "Oh, I would, but she's probably in the midst of making dinner, and if I bothered her I'd be hurting worse than now. You're sure you've got the horses?"
"I'm sure," the gnome chuckled, hopping down from his perch and starting to unhitch the team. Scrounge waved gratefully and disappeared behind the wagon.
The wagon they all resided in and worked out of was somewhat of a monstrosity. It was the size of a normal human's wagon, but had been retrofitted at some point to house "the little people", as the halflings and gnomes were often dubbed. It had two levels inside, a lower living/work area and an upper sleeping area that could fit eight comfortably. Both levels had several round windows that looked like oversized portholes, which were covered by wooden shutters when they traveled. Phinneas could hear the shutters thumping against the sides of the wagon as they were opened to make the wagon seem a bit more like a residence.
Needless to say, with all the extra woodwork inside, it was a bit more massive than it appeared—so, where some of the human wagons only required one horse or an ox to pull, theirs required two medium draught horses. It was slightly embarrassing, really, especially when there were only three of them using the wagon.
However, Phinneas would be the last to complain. Now that he, Eloise and Melody (the horses) had come to an understanding, it wasn't difficult to take care of them. He had the money to pay for the extra feed, and it was well worth the grooming time to be able to work on things inside the wagon in the evenings. Now, if he could just convince them to stop nibbling at his hair when he was taking care of them—he was never quite certain if they were fully aware that the green of his spiky hair was different from the green of the grass or not, and sometimes had a creepy feeling that if he wasn't careful, he might accidentally get scalped.
With the horses fed, watered, brushed and secured, the gnome hopped back up on top of the wagon to retrieve his ledger. He sat there for a moment, enjoying the crisp air and the bustle of travelers completing their evening chores. A campfire was being started, and two bards, a human and his half-elven wife, were beginning to tune their instruments for an impromptu concert. They called it rehearsal, but the quality of the music was as fine as any concert Phinneas had heard in Waterdeep. Amazing, really, how lucky one could get out on the road. Putting his feet up on the rail, he relaxed for a while to the soft voices and rippling harp notes.
"Good eve to you Master Gnome," a gruff voice called cheerfully.
Phinneas turned to see one of the caravan guards getting up from blocking the wheels of the supply wagon next to them, dusting his hands off on his trousers. He had an unfamiliar weapon strapped across his back—a wicked-looking double-headed axe. "And to you, Master Cullen. Are you expecting some trouble tonight?"
The guard shrugged, shifting the unaccustomed weight on his shoulders. "I hope not, I sincerely do. There've been rumors of Orc raids in these parts recently though. The caravan master's told us not to take any chances. He'll probably be giving everyone a rundown on the situation at the campfire tonight."
"May your shift be uneventful," Phinneas wished honestly as the guard prepared to leave camp, his relaxation stolen for the moment with thoughts of all the horrible stories he'd ever heard about Orc raids.
"Oh, I'm sure it will," the guard laughed. "After all, we're only a few hours from Everlund. That's a bit close to civilization for an Orc."
That wasn't necessarily true, Phinneas decided, watching the guard disappear into the trees. Orcs weren't gnolls, to be frightened off by a little fire. From what he'd seen of the small half-Orc population in Waterdeep, if they thought they had any sort of advantage at all, 'civilization' would not be a barrier.
"Oh Phinneas!"
Still frowning with dark thoughts of Orcs, the gnome popped his head around the side of the wagon, finding himself face to round, cherubic face with Scrounge's wife, Tala, who had leaned out a window to call him.
"Eek!" The woman jumped back, startled. "My gracious, what a horrible expression to greet me with, dearie."
Phinneas laughed sheepishly. "Eh, I'm sorry, Tala, I wasn't thinking. What did you want?"
"Well, I was going to ask you if you were interested in joining us for dinner," she grinned, blue eyes sparkling. "But I think that's a moot point now—a grumpy expression like that on Saamish's face means he's hungry enough to eat all six meals at one sitting."
Now that she mentioned it, Phinneas was rather hungry, although Tala's meals usually were far more than he could handle. The halflings were forever under the impression that he was underfed (although Scrounge was quick to finish off any leftovers once the gnome assured him that he was full). He was thin, but he chalked that up to being taller than average—the normal gnomish mass was just a bit–stretched—on his frame. "I don't think I'm quite that hungry," he demurred. "But yes, certainly. Thank you for the invitation." Tala's cooking was a good sight better than the standard caravan fare, and he still felt privileged to be invited to join them, even though it was more often than not since he'd rejoined them in Silverymoon.
"Well, then, it's almost ready, so come on back here." She disappeared back inside.
Phinneas collected his things and climbed down from the tall wagon again, walking around to the back where a cleated ramp gave them access to the interior. The delicious scent of stew greeting him as he opened the door made his nose twitch, causing Tala to giggle delightedly.
"You see, I knew he was hungry, Saamish," she winked at her husband, nudging him in the ribs.
Scrounge grinned back at her, rolling his eyes. "Did I ever say I thought he wasn't? I was just hoping for an appetizer, love." Tala dissolved into another fit of giggles and began unsteadily ladling out the stew into their bowls.
Phinneas tucked away his ledger into a cubby and claimed his bowl and some bread from the table. While the halflings sat at the table, he usually sat on a stool at his workbench. He simply wasn't quite comfortable at the table, as his knees tended to get wedged in underneath—but that never deterred any of them from enjoying the dinnertime company.
The stew was magnificent, as Tala's meals usually were, and both Phinneas and Scrounge told her so at length. Phinneas found room for seconds, miraculously, but he had to fend off Tala's ladle as she tried to ply him with thirds. Scrounge, of course, devoured 5 bowls in the time it took Phinneas to eat two and was still looking around for more. For the life of him, Phinneas couldn't figure out where the halfling put it all.
As they sat comfortably in candlelight afterwards, enjoying an interesting after-dinner drink that Tala had found somewhere in Silverymoon, a light knock came at their door.
Scrounge stretched, ran a calloused hand through his curly brown hair and looked at the other two curiously. Receiving blank looks in response, he opened the door.
A tall caravan guard peered inside, and Phinneas was suddenly reminded of his earlier conversation with Cullen. "Meeting at the campfire in ten minutes," the human said, not unkindly. "Everyone should be there. Don't forget to douse your candles before you leave."
"What's that all about?" Tala wondered. Usually she stayed behind to watch the candles during a meeting, as it was fiendishly difficult for any of them to get the candles lit again, but it was unsafe to leave them burning in the wooden wagons.
"I almost forgot," the gnome sighed. "Cullen was talking about it this evening before I came in—something about rumors of Orcs."
"Orcs? This close to Everlund?" Scrounge sounded disbelieving.
"We'll find out soon enough," Phinneas shrugged, his tone calming the halflings somewhat. At times, they did seem to respond to the fact that he was older than they were by almost a century—but not very often. "It's better to be prepared, at any rate. We can bring our drinks, I'm sure, so they won't go to waste. What is this stuff again, Tala?"
More than willing to be distracted, Tala launched into a description of the hot beverage, which was rich and sweet with a creamy texture that she was certain came from a particular kind of nut oil. They pulled on warm cloaks and blew out candles, closing up the wagon and converging with the rest of the camp on the fire in the center of their circle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If they had expected the meeting to be reassuring, they would have been disappointed—however, most of them had been through similar situations before, and took it in stride. Orcs were nothing to laugh about, but the caravan was prepared if something did happen.
Tala examined the long, curved dagger she'd been given doubtfully as they returned to their wagon. It was as big as a sword in proportion to her 2-and-one-half-foot stature. "What am I to do with this?" she asked rhetorically. "It's enormous. I can barely lift it, let alone stick an Orc with it." She made an effort to swing the blade and nearly toppled over, laughing at herself.
"Maybe you could lay it on the ground and they'd step on it," suggested Scrounge, earning himself a quick boot in the rump.
"Let's hope we don't even need to worry about it," Phinneas remarked, unlocking the wagon for them to enter.
After they finally managed to get the candles lit again, it was time for Scrounge to go out and assist the watchmen. He'd volunteered to go during the meeting, because he was able to move around quietly and hide more easily than the others. Mercifully, no one had appeared interested in asking how he'd gotten so skilled. Phinneas himself had only an inkling of what Scrounge did—he described his profession as 'acquisitions manager'. That led the mind down a certain path, but Scrounge never seemed to be in trouble with the law, so either he was perfectly legit or extremely good at what he did. It didn't much matter to the gnome, really. As Scrounge slipped out the door with a jaunty wave, he waved back, hoping that the halfling's efforts would be unnecessary.
Tala exchanged a glance with Phinneas and pulled out her work for the evening—she made most of the money for the halflings, with intricate silken embroidery and beadwork that even the elves of Waterdeep were enthusiastic about purchasing. "Well, I do hope he's running around out there for no good reason at all," she sighed, echoing the gnome's thought.
As she tuned into her work and the wagon grew silent, Phinneas looked at what he'd originally planned to do for the evening—he'd pulled out a couple of polished stones that needed cutting— and realized that it was probably a bad idea. With only half of his mind on the work he'd probably break the little gems in two with a careless tap. Instead, he pulled out a sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal, planning to sketch out some ideas for upcoming projects. Even if they were the furthest thing from his mind, at least he couldn't ruin anything while he kept his hands busy.
The candlelight flickered shadows across the page as his hand moved the charcoal aimlessly, drawing simple patterns. The dwarves he'd caravanned with from Mithral Hall to Silverymoon had told raucous and bloody tales of orc encounters. He wondered how many of them were embellished; deciding that most had to have been. Then again, perhaps they weren't…
Blinking, he looked down at the parchment—his third sheet of attempts. To his surprise, he saw something he recognized. Although he didn't remember consciously drawing it, the symbol of the Goddess of Trade, Waukeen, winked up at him from amidst the charcoal scribblings.
Phinneas was not by nature an openly religious person. His family home in the North Ward of Waterdeep had a chapel dedicated to Waukeen, but he seldom attended any gatherings they held in her honor. His personal devotions consisted of creating items of greater worth out of items of lesser worth, and that had always sufficed for him.
When it wasn't only himself in the equation, however, he found his thoughts on the matter to be a bit fuzzier. Like it or not, he cared about his traveling companions, and if there was a possibility that religious formalities could help them this night, he had to put forth an effort.
"Tala?"
"Mmm?" She looked up at him, blinking to focus.
"This might sound silly, but… I have a feeling that we should be praying to Waukeen tonight."
She actually looked relieved, setting the embroidery on the table with a clatter of beads. "I was wondering the same thing, dearie. You'll have to forgive me though, I really don't know any of the formalities."
Phinneas grinned at her nervously. "I don't remember much either. I'm not sure there are very many where Waukeen is concerned."
Tala's round, cherubic face turned to him expectantly, the candlelight burnishing her golden hair to the color of sunset. With a start, the gnome realized that she expected him to lead the prayer, and he shot a worried glance heavenward. "Hopefully, it's the thought that counts," he muttered, and then began carefully phrasing his prayer, one hand resting on the parchment where unbeknownst to him, the sketched symbol glittered faintly.