"Cairn… Cairn!" The fey'ri slowly sat up, shoulder-length ebon tresses falling to frame his handsome, angular face, "Oh, thank Eilistraee you're up. Guess what?" Cairn Vinduil, the leader of the Crimson Gauntlet sellsword company, looked at her, a thin eyebrow raised and smoldering reddish-orange hues fixed on the slender, taut drow female sitting by the bed, her slim hands on his shoulders. The fighter simply stretched out slender, but tightly-muscled arms and yawned, his batlike dark-crimson wings unfurling and stretching to their farthest along with the action.
"I assume it either has something to do with work, or that Arlin has broken another farmgirl's heart, and thus we have to leave." The leather-clad dark elf simply grinned and nearly bounced out of the room, leaving the half-demonic Cairn to sigh and gather his trusted magical bastard sword, Bayurel, named after the blade carried by Mariabronne the Rover, a hero of his. Once the sheathed blade was held in his right hand, the left-handed fighter donned a special jerkin that he wore beneath his usual shirt and chain tunic. The vest held potent magics in it, allowing Cairn to assume the appearance of a gold elf, albeit one with strange eyes and delicately-pointed canines. The fey'ri, now unencumbered by his large wings, easily dressed in loose brown trousers and a dark green shirt with but one baggy sleeve, testing his left arm's range of motion before nodding contentedly. Then came the short-sleeved chain mail tunic, with plate-mail shoulders, and his twin gauntlets, dark red as blood. These elbow-length full plate gauntlets, enspelled to allow him to intercept most minor spells and recast them himself, were the namesake of his company; they were the fighter's claim to fame, besides his penchant for using normally-useless cantrips in combat to creative potency.
Once Cairn made his way downstairs from his room, a magical bag slung over one shoulder holding the majority of his belongings. In the inn's common room were Zarra Ith'Lorizn, a drow shadowdancer who followed Eilistraee's teachings; Jena Armelia, a half-elf Silverstar of Selune and a lethal shot with a crossbow; Arlin Erigo, a sorcerer with a penchant for stealing hearts and breaking them after trysts, armed with a wicked-bladed, red-glowing scythe; and finally, Tarathiel Liiril, a sun elf fighter who venerated the Red Knight, goddess of war and strategy, two areas both he and Cairn were considered geniuses at, armed with the Ayuvir, a sentient, intelligent mithral longsword with a special hatred for the undead, and with its owner's same devotion to discipline.
"You're late, Boss." Arlin remarked with a smug grin, his purple robes settling about him as he leant on a nearby wall, toying with his mithral dagger. Jena just scoffed at Arlin's lackadaisical manner,
"You imbecile! If it weren't for you trying to empty a town guardsman's pockets, we wouldn't be in such straits as to be banished from the town!" Cairn just sighed, the pairs' conflicting ethics when it came to law and disorder, as well as Jena's strong goodly streak and Arlin's lack of caring about such concepts, often caused the cleric and the sorcerer to butt heads, "But guess what, Cairn? It seems that the Flaming Fist, in Baldur's Gate, has asked us to search some caves near the Gate." Cairn nodded some, and took stock of his party,
"How fast can we get some horses?" Here, Tarathiel slowly raised one gauntleted hand,
"I've already procured mounts for our journey." And I've convinced the half-orc at the outfitting store to put some adventuring supplies and a magic bag aside for us, the sentient longsword added, using its telepathic ability to speak into the party's minds.
"Good work. Zarra, any word from the Dancing Lady on weather for the next tenday?" Here, the drow looked at him, her face slightly heating,
"W-well… Eilistraee was rather confused as to why I would commune with her on such a subject, but she's spoken with gods better versed on such matters and has assured me she's made sure the next tenday will be optimal riding conditions." The fey'ri clapped her on the shoulder and headed to the inn's front counter, paying for the week's rooms they'd rented.
That's when he heard it, the shouts of an angry mob, led by a half-orc that Arlin had obviously stolen from. Cairn spun about suddenly, smoldering hues taking in the mob's number. Tarathiel beat him to his conclusion, "There is too many of them, many innocents swept up in the mob's hate! We ride!" None of the tightly-knit friends argued, and the innkeeper, a portly human of less-than-desirable height, led them to the back door. There, as the elf had promised, were five sturdy horses, plus a sixth, a Clydesdale strong enough to carry all the party's gear and more. With a loud, "Hah!" from the mercenary leader, the mounts sped off, out of the small town.
This was what Cairn enjoyed most about adventuring: Riding at high speeds, the wind whipping his face and blowing his hair back. However, there was no time to enjoy the feeling, with an entire town on the party's heels, shouting many accusations, "thief" least among them. Silently, the half-demon thanked Tymora countless times that Tarathiel had gotten them horses of the finest nature—then he thanked Tymora the small town was famous for their mounts. I suppose those supplies will simply have to wait for the next town, then? Cairn just chuckled, leave it to Ayuvir to lament the loss of adventuring supplies when their lives were at risk. Suddenly, from behind, he heard Zarra shout, "Gnolls!" The exclamation brought the party to a halt, and each of them hopped off their horses, weapons in hand. Arlin began casting a spell that would protect the party, should the evil creatures seek to close into melee. Jena readied her crossbow, a lighter make composed of driftwood and with a sinew taken from a dragon's wing muscle for the bowstring. Cairn and Tarathiel snuck towards the gnolls, while Zarra used her talents as a rogue and a shadowdancer to effortlessly blend in with the nearby shadows, moving in the way only drow can, making not a sound. A thin, near-invisible wire was held in her hands, and the fey'ri saw her lips move to form an unspoken, "Eilistraee forgive me," before she strangled an unsuspecting gnoll. A click issued forth from Jena's crossbow, as a bolt buried itself in a second gnoll's throat, then disappeared, back on the crossbow and in firing position.
At this point, the gnolls had taken up arms, and the drow was hard-pressed, dual daggers working furiously to deflect crudely-crafted axes and longswords that came in from nearly all sides. Then, Zarra spotted a tiny sphere of red light lazily wafting over to her. She knew Arlin had targeted her for his fireball spell, and she knew her near-supernatural evasive tactics would allow her to avoid the ensuing blast without a scratch. Indeed, when the small sphere neared her, and exploded into a violent inferno, incinerating the gnolls, the shadowdancer leapt high into the air and performed a series of twists, turns, and flips that allowed her to stay one step ahead of the explosion, landing easily on the balls of her feet, unmarred by the blast, in a fighting crouch not a foot outside the fireball's radius.
Cairn and Tarathiel, though, were hard-pressed, and the fey'ri lacked the space or the time needed to use any of his spells. Instead, the two fighters nodded at once, picked a direction, and charged, hefting their blades and cleaving a path through the crowd of gnolls, a path back to Arlin and Jena. The sight of the two apparently-mad elves—for Cairn's vest still held, his wings nonexistent for the moment and his tail with them—carving through the dog-headed beasts began to take its toll on the monsters' morale, and very soon some of the gnolls began to desert, running for safety. In the center of the horde of gnolls, where the fighters once were, now was occupied by terrified gnolls, running away from the viciously-attacking illusory Cairn, bare-chested and wielding a bastard sword not unlike the originals. The leader just laughed, seeing how Arlin's painfully-created spell—which blended a shadow conjuration and a fear spell—wreaked havoc on the gnoll ranks, causing more to desert. Soon, the rapid click-click-click of the half-elf cleric's crossbow began to sound, as Jena's bolt found more and more lives to end, and returned to the crossbow it fired from instantaneously. What happened next, though, surprised him, for the Clydesdale that had carried their extra belongings plunged straight into the gnoll band, crushing skull and foot alike in its rush to protect the party that had treated it so well,
"Tarathiel! Protect the horse!" The fey'ri shouted in the High Elven dialect, a mutual language between the two friends. The fine-featured gold elf nodded, and swung Ayuvir left and right, clearing a path for Shan to make to safety. Suddenly, getting an idea, Cairn flashed his hand rapidly in the drow hand sign language, something they all learned from Zarra, thanks to its rarity on the surface, Tarathiel, make sure not one gnoll touches Jena or Arlin. Zarra, focus on distracting the Chieftain. Arlin! Pay attention you idiot. Do you have any room left for a cone of cold?
Aye, one freezing cone coming up. Arlin remarked, moving behind the majority of the gnolls, and beginning the gestures for the spell Cairn had in mind. The mercenary commander was on the other side of the pack, mirroring Arlin's gestures, hoping the other three would be able to hold the dog-faced monsters off long enough.
((Yep It'll be continued in the next chapter, figured I'd do this to irritate the readers (laughs) Because I'm evil like that. Well, what do you guys think? Should I drop the story or see it through to the end?))