It was a cold, grey day in Neverwinter. The granite sky and mizzling rain had lingered perpetually over the metropolis all day, draining the city of color save the earlier blood-red morning horizon. The city was plagued by off-season, inclement weather, a rare occurrence in the usually dry summer month. Smelling continuously of rain, the air itself seemed to weigh with the pressure of a coming storm. The harbor remained choppy, and the dampness seemed to seep into the very bones of Neverwinter herself.
The afternoon pallor of the summer evening seemed to have closed in on the walls and gates of the city, cloaking the streets in mist. Condensation dripped from the rafters. The droplets slid off roofs, finding sinuous paths in the cobblestone streets. It seemed the entire population of Neverwinter's inhabitants had disappeared, staying within the sanctity of their homes to escape the chilling dreariness that filled the atmosphere, leaving the city silent and inert as a dead corpse. Even the sailors found refuge in the eves of decrepit ships or buildings, whispering tales of Leira and Talos into the winds when the gale picked up. The only figures seen on the streets were the city watchmen, doing daily patrols with their collars pulled high, bent almost double into Akadi's relentless gale in the faint endeavor to gain shelter from their own shoulders.
And for all the tightly closed windows and smoldering fire, humidity penetrated the interior of the Sunken Flagon. The tavern's tables felt damp to the hands, and a slight leak above the bar caused a constant echo of drops hitting the counter. As night drew in, so did the winds across the sea, and with them came the long expected storm.
It came on with the speed of an elven arrow, rolling in on the waves and settling around the hill of Neverwinter Palace just as dusk fell. The wind blew in gusts, at times shaking the tavern as its timbers strained and groaned. The squall whipped the Flagon's sign around in the rain, the hinges screeching in protest, the whole post trembling and swaying in the tempest like a drunken man. This was a lashing, pitiless rain that stung the windows of the tavern and formed rivulets in the streets.
Dreary and morose, the shoddy little tavern was enveloped in darkness, save the limited light from the hearth and the candles flickering precariously on the tables. Bishop sat, hunched over in his usual corner over a cup of ale. The squalid weather had plundered his spirits into an even fouler mood than usual. Growling irritably, he brought the cup to his lips, grimacing into his reflection as he muttered to himself. The cheap spirits failed to warm him, and smoldering ashes of the fire died down in the hearth, giving off limited light and casting the room in murky shadow. The darkness was briefly obliterated as a bolt of lightning pierced the sky outside. A clap of thunder followed, rattling the windows in their frames. A trickle of rain oozed through a crack in the roof. Periodically, a cold drop of moisture fell upon Bishop's shoulder, which he brushed away with impatient fingers.
He pulled up the collar of his dark green tunic in an effort to warm himself further. Placing his gauntleted arm back on the table, his amber eyes were fixed on the window splashed with mud and rain, and he hoped with a sort of desperate interest that some ray of light would break the heavy blanket of sky, and but a momentary trace of the lost blue heaven that had mantled the foothills not a day before would shine for but an instant.
He sighed quietly, yearning for the vast stretch of wilderness he had torn himself from. He hated having to return to the sorry excuse for an inn, but the animals had warned him that bad weather was coming, and he had been forced to cut his hunting excursion short. His wolf companion, Karnwyr, twitched in his sleep at Bishop's feet, dreaming about resuming the hunt no doubt. The massive northern-bred wolf had been in a fowl disposition ever since their return to the city, and Bishop leaned down to ruffle his ears absentmindedly. The wolf huffed and curled farther into himself, tucking his tail over his nose to ward off the cold and damp. Bishop knew Karnwyr missed the sanctity and the liberating feeling of the forest just as much as he did. And to top it off, Duncan had told him that his niece and her companions had arrived in his absence. Just more people to rattle his cage, he thought bitterly, and he took another aggressive sip of ale.
Gods he hated this place. The barkeep Sal, Duncan, the docks, even the city. The bustling lifestyle grated on Bishop's nerves constantly. All the people, the smells, the noise. If it had not been for his debt to the lowly tavern master, would have been long gone into the abyss of wilderness that surrounded Neverwinter, free to traipse about where he liked. No obligations. No people to bother him, just the horizon and the great expanse of wilds stretched out before him. But he was here, in this wretched city. Neverwinter made him feel vulnerable, on edge, and he wondered if this was how a ship felt when the security of the harbor was left behind. No vessel could feel more desolate than he did however, not even if the wind thundered in the rigging and the sea licked her decks.
Signaling the tavern master, Duncan, to bring another ale, he stared intently down at the table. The dying fire gave off a sickly yellow glare, and the draught from the crack in the roof sent the flame dancing in the gloom. Bishop contemplated his options, knowing he couldn't infringe on the local thieves guild or risk running afoul of the watch but also aware that mercenary work would bear fruit to enemies, no doubt getting him caught up in irrevocable conflict.
Suddenly, Bishop was ripped from his thoughts as the sounds of fists on the front door sounded throughout the building. Thunder boomed across the sky, flanked by a bolt of iridescent lightning and more thunder.
"Sal! Open the door, will ya? I ain't payin' you to sit on yer arse!" Duncan called imperatively from the kitchen. He had to raise his heavily accented voice above the howl of the wind.
Sal sighed, wiping his hands on a dishtowel as he halted his efforts of cleaning the bar counter. "Well, with the pay I'm getting I can sit on my arse all I want," he muttered crossly and made his way across the dark room to the front door.
"And Sal, while you're at it stoke the fire. You can't tell me the Flagon's so cheap it won't even keep the place a decent temperature," Bishop snarled vitriolicly from his seat.
"Shut up, Bishop," commanded Duncan as he emerged from the kitchen, still reeking of the perpetual smell of stale ale that seemed adherent to him. "You're not here as a guest so you can just shut yer trap and keep t' yer ale."
Bishop sneered, taking another swig of the spirits. The bolts on the front door clanged obstreperously as Sal impatiently told those outside that he'd have the door opened in just a moment. The cold stiffness of his fingers made him fumble again and again, much to the irateness of those at the mercy of the storm.
Looking over the rim of his mug, Bishop retorted, "If the ale here was any good, you old drunk, then maybe it'd do just fine. But this crap ain't worth the good money I paid for it."
Duncan glared, his half-elven scruff looking as disheveled as ever, and the stains on his apron just made his demeanor of unkemptness even more pertinent. What a stereotypical drunk, Bishop thought as he sipped from the mug, eyes following the tavern master back to the kitchen. And it was even more stereotypical that he owned a shoddy little tavern in the even shoddier docks of Neverwinter.
Bishop slammed his mug down on the table, the frustration and irritability becoming a sonic manifestation in his throat. The growl ripped from his lips as Sal opened the door, letting in a draft of cold. Wetting the floor, the gusts of slanting rain hammered down from the sky, the wind so strong it temporarily tore the door from Sal's grasp, allowing even more cold and rain to penetrate the tavern.
"Shut the damn door, Sal!" Bishop yelled, turning to see the soaking cloaked figures enter over the threshold. Sal heaved as he pushed his full weight upon the door, boots firmly planted on the worn wood floor as he slowly managed to close it against the raw power of the rampant gale outside.
"Talos sure is raging tonight," rumbled the shortest of the three newcomers, a dwarf by the sounds of it.
"Shut up, Khelgar, we all know there's a storm outside," the second figure snapped unwarrantedly.
The third figure's cloaked shoulders fell in a sigh, bringing a delicate hand to her temple. "Please, you two, it's been a long day…" she intoned in an undulating voice that rang with elven heritage, "Perhaps if you drew from the harmony of nature…"
"Bah! Does that sound like harmony to you, tree-hugger?" growled the dwarf as the gale howled in from the harbor, thunder rumbling in the distance. Puddles formed where the figures stood, droplets running off drenched cloaks and onto the scuffed floor. They all pried the soaking cloth from their shoulders, handing them to Sal to be dried.
Bishop watched intently as the unusual trio settled in. As he predicted, the powerfully built, belligerent dwarf had immediately made his way to the bar after shrugging of his plate-mail, walking and talking with the clamor and subtlety of a hill giant. He was completely oblivious to Bishop's existence, so immersed was he in his argument with Duncan over his tab. He had a weathered face, a long dark beard, and a massive upper body that would likely have given him muscular good looks had he not built up an impressive collection of cuts, bruises, and missing teeth. Bishop could already feel a headache coming on. No tavern remained quiet with a dwarf in residence. Especially it seemed, with this one.
"You'll drink my coffers dry, you Gods-forsaken dwarf!" Duncan roared as Khelgar went for a second mug of ale. The dwarf quaffed the ale in one gulp to intentionally instigate Duncan further. As if he needed another excuse.
"Bah, ye ale ain't strong enough to even try my, my dwarven constitution! Why, I'm gonna need another barrel or two to get properly drunk!"
A high-pitched feminine voice chimed in, "Don't waste your breath, Duncan, barrel-house here will drink you dry eventually, so it'd be easier to just give in now." Bishop averted his eyes from the dwarf to the contributing voice standing by the now roaring hearth.
No wonder these two didn't get along. Bishop could see the tiefling's obvious lineage. Her tiny, protruding horns and spotted skin marked her otherworldly heritage. She swished her tail when she noticed Bishop's scrutiny, and glared as if to say, "What're you lookin' at?" Bishop smirked and took another sip of ale.
"Haha! The Demon-girl is right, Duncan, you should just go ahead and give me free rain over your kegs!"
"And drive me out of business? I think not."
Bishop watched the tiefling a few moments longer, concluding by her lithe, cat-like grace and nearly silent footsteps that she was a rogue. The slender and graceful third party-member was obviously a wood elf, and wore the earth-toned garments of a druid. Attractive and youthful, her high cheekbones, pointed ears, and radiant skin gave her an almost celestial appearance. She had taken a table on the opposite side of the room, intent to stare out at the chaos through the window, no doubt missing the forest. Her face held a sober and inquisitive nonchalance that Bishop found unreasonably irritating. He may have found the elf attractive, but she stank obviously of naivety, looking as uncomfortable as ever in the city setting.
He did, however, harbor a slight sense of respect for the druid when she spotted him sizing her up with uncanny alertness. Her emerald eyes met his and she raised her brow. He smirked into his cup, taking a long, slow sip.
The conversation at the bar came to a halt as the door slammed open with a gust of ceaseless wind, driving the door back against the wall with a loud bang. The rain that pelted the windows now blew in through the open doorway, thoroughly soaking the tavern's occupants.
"Of all the-! Sal! Close-" Duncan began but cut off when he saw the cloaked figure silhouetted in the doorframe. Dripping black boots crossed the threshold as the figure stepped into the light of the hearth. Bishop looked up inquisitively.
"Someone get me a tankard before I go back out there and slaughter all the thieves in this miserable city!" the figure ordered, tension clear in her terse, decisive movements.
Duncan and the dwarf had ceased their argument and both exclaimed at once, "Ramiel!"
Bishop saw the way she brusquely paused, her retrousse nose tilted up, sniffing the air like a hunter seeking its prey. A ranger then, but where did she come from? He let his gaze roam from her short, silvery-black hair to her feet and saw that while slim, she had a curvaceous build. He guessed her to about five feet, and she bore absolutely no resemblance to her drunken uncle. She didn't even appear half-elven. In fact, he couldn't place what race she was. Her ears were pointed, but she held no semblance to her uncle or her elven companion, and her skin looked as if it would have been pale had she not spent time in the sun.
He knew from the way she had paused upon entering the tavern that she must be a ranger. Even the way she walked, with a slightly longer stride than needed, was purposeful. It was the sauntering gait of a hunter. But Bishop wondered what manner of ranger she was, for she had no bow in sight; she wasn't even garbed in green but garbed in black leather. Two long, thin blades were strapped to her back in place of a bow, and daggers lined her belt. The two blades seemed to be katannas. A duelist maybe? Then he saw the way shadows seemed to cling to her, how her face was never fully lighted, always partly shrouded in shadow. A shadowdancer? An interesting combination, but it explained her clothing.
She ignored Duncan and the dwarf, making her way across the room, not bothering to shut the door as Sal struggled to get it closed against the tempest.
The elf looked up in surprise and apprehension. "Ramiel, you're here. When you stormed off from Axle's we didn't know wh-" but her voice faltered with one stormy look from Ramiel.
Bishop watched as the dwarf got up from his seat and made his way towards the newcomer. "There you are!" he bellowed. "Be the voice of reason and tell your stingy uncle here that it's best to just give me free rain over the Flagon's kegs!"
Duncan glared. "And tell this runty gods-forsaken dwarf here that he'll run me out of house and home!"
Bishop could sense her irritation, as it seemed to roll of her shoulders along with the beads of water, though the others failed to see it. She shut her eyes for a moment, bringing a hand to her temple. A gust of wind ripped about her black cloak, and the air within the Flagon became heavy with static pressure.
Duncan said once again, "Tell him!"
"No, tell him!" the dwarf retorted.
Her composure fled. "Both of you, BE SILENT!" she yelled, the wind tearing at the roof, and the showers of rain, increasing in violence, spat against the windows with new venom. Lightning and thunder followed suit.
Sal crept to her left to take her soaking cloak and was almost shoved off his feet by the force she exerted as she handed him the dripping garment. Her dark eyes glared fiercely at the two dissentients before her. "I do not have the patience to deal with any of your petty squabbles," she spat. Then her eyes looked to her other companions in the room. "Nor yours either! Can not at least two of you get along?" Though incensed with anger, her voice lilted and carried on the air, and Bishop was startled at the ease in which she spoke over the pounding of the rain and the howling of the wind.
That odd sixth sense warned her of Bishop's perpetual gaze and the heat of his eyes between her shoulders. She looked behind her, locking her own gaze on his before returning to her companions.
"I understand your frustration, Ramiel," began the willowy elf as she rose from her corner, "but I think it imperative that we decide a course of action, preferably one that encompasses heading off to Sky Mirror as soon as possible." She placed her hand on Ramiel's shoulder, only to recoil as a slight shock jarred her fingers.
Bishop watched over the rim of his mug as the tiefling's tail swished furiously. "No," she countered, "what the 'imperative course of action'," she said mocking the elf's undulating tones, "is to go teach Leldon a lesson before he-"
Ramiel snarled. "Neeshka! Elanee!" Her tone morphed as she mimicked the druid. "Oh no! The forest feels funny!" she mocked in a surprisingly accurate imitation of the elf's undulating voice. "Let's drop everything and rush out to the middle of nowhere!" The elf winced and then stiffened as she stepped back, crossing her arms defensively. Turning towards the rogue and taking on a higher pitched imitation, Ramiel jeered, "And I'm going to rob the city blind and set all the thieves of the this blasted place on our tails for no regard or consideration for anyone! I know I do my priest foster parents proud!"
"Hey!" Neeshka protested.
Ramiel glowered. "I've dealt with too much insatiable incompetence today after Caleb, Moiré, and that gaunt-faced, boot-licking cur of a bastard Axle to have the energy and patience to deal with you lot! So if you would all just be silent and settle your own arguments," she said turning towards Duncan and Khelgar, "and stop asking me your damnable questions," she added addressing Elanee and Neeshka, "then maybe I can get a moments rest!" Electric blue sparks emanated from the twin blades she held nonchalantly in her hands, and the wind picked up. Lighting and thunder flashed outside, and the light within the tavern dimmed as shadows seemed to levitate towards Ramiel, the darkness reaching out from the shadowy corners of the tavern with impatient fingers.
"Lass, yer doin' it again!" exclaimed Duncan over the roar of the indoor gale as it gained momentum. The silvery-black strands of her hair whipped about her face, and it took a moment for some of the fury to melt from Ramiel's face. When she realized what was happening, she began to calm down. The sparks and wind disappeared.
Khelgar laughed, unperturbed. "One of these days yer gonna make me piss my pants when ye do that!"
Duncan glared. "And I suppose you're to be responsible for all this damnable weather too, then?"
"It's not my fault," she muttered, the tips of her blades dejectedly scraping the floor as she shrugged.
While the elf seemed to have gone off to sulk back in her corner, the cheerful tiefling seemed to have recovered from Ramiel's earlier jabs. "Ha! It happens every time she's upset. You shoulda been with us on our way here. Rain clouds and wind followed us the entire way! I thought my tail was gonna freeze off!"
Duncan muttered to himself as he turned away, just audibly enough for Bishop to hear. "That's what I get for brining my air genasi niece into the city. Bad weather…"
So that's what she was, Bishop thought. It all made sense now. The wind, the lightning, her carrying voice, and the way she had shocked Elanee when touched. She must have channeled excess energy into her conducting metal blades to produce the electricity. He smirked. Interesting…
Bishop spoke up for the first time that evening. "You know," his caustic voice began, "she needs a real man to put that passion to good use."
Ramiel turned, her head swiveling to meet his gaze. Her eyes narrowed in a fox-like manner, and she placed a hand on her hip, still holding her sparking blades. Her weight shifted. "Oh? You think you could oblige?" she retorted incredulously, giving him a once over. He was garbed in worn leathers, a bow and quiver strapped behind his shoulder. Hunting knives lined his belt and threaded boots, and leaves were caught in his molted grey-green cloak. A ranger. So he had been responsible for the smell of musty woods and smoke she had sensed upon entering the tavern. His dark hair, scarred face, smoldering hazel eyes, and perpetual scruff just made his smirk seem all the more dashing. And irritating.
Bishop saw the brightness of her dark eyes fixed on him, the careful, non-expression marred only by arching brows. Black hair fell to skim her high cheekbones, and swirling black eyes fixed on him with that piercing, intent stare. A moment of silence continued, as their eyes remained locked before he spoke up. "Maybe after a few drinks," he replied slowly, settling back in his chair and tipping it precariously, "Then you'll start lookin' good."
Her eyes sparked just as her blades did, and she concluded mentally that acerbity and sarcasm must have been his primary language. "I'll show you passion!" she snapped, brandishing her blades.
A low, rumbling growl manifested in Karnwyr's throat as he rose menacingly. For a brief moment, Bishop was satisfied at the surprised expression on her face and the widening of those dark, swirling eyes. But then, he almost let his jaw drop as all the rage left her face with the sparks and shadows as well. She dropped to her knees, sheathing her blades on her back and cooed at his sorry excuse for a wolf. She met the wolf's large, amber eyes and stretched out her hand in a gesture of friendship, averting her eyes just as her arm outstretched to its maximum.
He hmphed. So she knew how to behave around the beast. So what? She was a ranger after all, right? Soon after, Bishop was ready to drag the sorry cur out the door by his tail as Karnwyr let the air genasi fawn all over him. When she had finally finished, she looked up at Bishop curiously, her anger from before nowhere in sight.
"He's a northern wolf isn't he? He's got the larger build and paws." Bishop's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. He wouldn't let her see that he was taken aback. She was so absorbed in stroking the wolf's ears lovingly that she had not managed to gouge his reaction. She continued, "You got him near Luskan didn't you?"
Now Bishop was growing irritated, tired of conversing with the genasi who kept managing to surprise him. He glared. "Look, shove off like a good little nuisance. If I wanted a wench, I'd go to the local brothel," he cut her off without looking up from his drink.
Her eyebrows rose as she stood, brushing herself off. Karnwyr pawed at her boots, begging for more attention. Bishop shook his head. Revolting. The air genasi glared at Bishop, retorting, "Well then, when I want a cur of a man who needs to keep his tongue between his teeth before he gets it cut off, I'll come to you!"
"Feisty aren't you?" he asked. She glowered, and decided he wasn't worth her time. Turning on her heel, she stalked towards the door leading into the hallways.
"No, no, stick around," he drawled, leaning back in his chair and fixing his eyes on her figure. "Be happy I only need a few drinks."
She turned, eyes narrowed. "A few more and you might even become inebriated enough to be worth my time."
Before Bishop could form a reply, she had already begun her way to the door. "Wait!" he called, "Care to tell me your name before you go storming off?" He felt the satisfaction rise within him as she halted midstep.
She turned and fixed her unsettling dark eyes on him. He shifted, slightly uncomfortable. She paused a moment, then asked, "Curious?"
"Not especially."
"Then don't ask," she replied, passing through the doorway without a glance backwards. Bishop watched her go, settling back in his chair as he took another sip of ale.
Now he knew just what sort of niece Duncan had. She was more akin to him than he had thought. He thought perhaps he'd stick around for a while longer, for he wanted to find out more about this surly air genasi and her reason for being here. She was a relative of Duncan's and if she should become a problem she would have to be eliminated, but he could tell that she would not be easy to catch of guard. She was a a challenge, which stirred his interest when it came to women. Settling back in his chair a small smile curved his lips.