I don't own anything from anything that accidentally appears here, which is too bad. Feel free to criticize this thing halfway to the Abyss, because I've already convinced myself that it's that bad, so no harm done.

The Crimson Trailblazer

By J. Idanian

The sun beat down, mercilessly, unendingly, on the scorched plains just outside the outer reaches of the Calim desert, as if to deter anything at all from living there. It certainly was succeeding at that, but here and there, a few stubborn cacti grew, and a caravan trudged onwards, southward towards the great city of Calimport. One particular example of this persistence of people to actually travel in the area was scrambling over a sandy hill, on the northern reaches of the waste, spitting sand out of his mouth, and cursing the unfairness of life. Taking a moment to sling a worn hand crossbow back into its place on his right hip, he idly kicked at the mountain of sand. Zak Crimsonleaf was in trouble, and that was putting it mildly. He supposed, as he always seemed to be doing, upon reflection, that it might have been easier just to have cooperated, and gotten everything over with quietly.

"But if I had done that," he decided out loud, "I wouldn't be who I am today, which, I must say, is one dashing swordsman, but one who also will not take any insults from those flaming idiots who just forced me to prove my valor yet again." He placed a special emphasis on the words 'any insults', warning the world that he wouldn't stand to be treated in such an undignified fashion much longer.

The warm breeze that was providing a slight relief from the throbbing heat that would bake the landscape until sundown cut off without warning just then, leaving him staining the armpits of his suitably battered leather jerkin, with many pockets, that he wore over the dented and equally battered chain mail shirt, which was all that came between him and a sword thrust to the heart sometimes, too many sometimes for his liking. His reddish-brown hair was restrained from sticking to his forehead by a blazing red headband. The pointed ears that made his ancestry plain for all to see were hidden behind the headband. He had a great faculty for getting into fights he just as easily could have avoided had he suffered a blow to his pride. He uncorked a slim hip flask that sat just behind the hand crossbow, and tipped it back, taking a healthy swig of the ale inside, which, even though it had grown warm due to the heat, brought some momentary relief to his parched throat.

Pushing a few stray strands of hair off his forehead, where they had become pasted, he heaved his weary body to it's feet, and started to trudge onward, sending up little plumes of sand when he sloughed through the deeper parts of the hill. It was times like this he really wished he had found time to study magic when he was younger, but as it was, he only knew the few cantrips he had learned by passing a few coins to a hedge wizard, all minor, and none of which would get him out of the mess he had gotten himself into by one excessively stupid stunt back at the oasis village he was fleeing from. Remembering the incident, he grinned, then caught himself.

"If I'm lucky, my reputation will precede me to the next town so I won't have to do this kind of thing," he sniffed, glancing back to see if he was still being pursued. Nobody.

"I really ought to make camp somewhere and wait until the sun goes down," he mumbled to the empty air. But he knew it would be just begging to be caught and tortured, which appealed to him even less then pressing on. Well, if they should catch up, he'd put up quite a fight. Fondly patting the leather and steel scabbard on his back, which carried his personalized broadsword, Echoing Courage, he entertained thoughts about putting the pointy end into the hide of the person who had caused him all this trouble. The kite shield that was slung over the scabbard was one of the main things weighing him down, but without it, he'd have to rely on the swordbreaker dagger that was sheathed in the small of his back, and that was difficult to draw without first taking off the shield anyway. Not to mention, the shield also had three deep notches cut in its topside, to catch and break the enemy's sword.

Zak's trademark style of fighting, which he had trained at for years, was breaking the other person's weapon. He wasn't averse to using the crossbow when the situation demanded, but he preferred a straight on fight. With his sight beginning to become a little hazy from the dehydration, he tripped over his own feet, and found his face buried in the sand again. At least this time he remembered to keep his mouth closed. Brushing the grains off, he started again, cursing even more loudly. Even being caught by the Harpers would be preferable to this in a few more hours. Another day would have him seeing lakes and oceans on the horizon, unless he only traveled by night and hid during the day, as any sensible person would do.

"But no! The mighty Zak Crimsonleaf must inevitably make a fool of himself. It's expected of me," he proclaimed, thumping his chest with one fist, gesturing aimlessly with the other. He dug into his left jerkin pocket, and found a scratched and scraped coin bearing the stamp of the Dalelands. He had picked it up quite a while back, when he left Scardale, and had carried it with him as a sort of good luck charm ever since. Casually flipping it as he strode on, he began to complain to Tymora, of whom he was a worshipper. Not that he had ever been devout, he held a healthy skepticism of the priesthood, but he paid his dues, and figured he was good with the afterlife. Didn't mean he couldn't sound off about his troubles. What did she care?

"Great Lady, please to note my problem and get me the hell out of this sandpit soon." He didn't expect any miracle to come sailing down and help him, and he wasn't disappointed. Looking back again, he thought he spotted a blurry shape straggling after him. Increasing his pace, he opted to give up walking, and threw himself down the side of the dune. As the sand slid by, burning his backside, he stifled a groan of pain, and shoved the coin back in his pocket with his left hand, and drew the hand crossbow with his right. Plucking a bolt from the small pouch next to it, he slotted it into the groove, and clicked the bow into ready position. It was designed so that the arms could fold up, for ease of storage, and many times he had been grateful for that. It looked like there had been only one shape, but he couldn't be sure, so he took out a couple more bolts, and kept them ready in his other hand, sighting at the top ridge of the dune, taking a quick moment to kiss his amulet for luck, and mutter, "Give me this one," as he always did when going into battle.

His headband was already soaked with sweat, and was proving more of a distraction than he wanted, but he still didn't take it off. It wouldn't do to advertise his race openly. He snorted derisively. He would much rather have been a human or an elf than a combination of the two, but if wishes were fishes, the sahuagin would rule the world. Elves considered him deprived, and humans considered him contaminated, or that was mostly his experience, and he'd had plenty of grief from some folk around the Sea of Fallen Stars. A couple times he was very nearly caught and hung, once in Hillsfar (no surprise there) and once in his native Scardale.

If he ever found his father, he'd have some choice words for him about getting intimate with elves. The forest folk were as mysterious and complicated as hell, and he wanted no truck with them. Excepting his mother, of course, whom he hadn't seen since he left Scardale at the age of twenty-two. Not that he held her in much higher regard than his father. If she had had a tad more self-respect, she wouldn't have come to Scardale and met his father in the first place. But then again, he supposed that losing one's arm was fairly major if you didn't know a good cleric and had a lot of gold. The gold wasn't a problem, but the cleric was.

Damn priests wouldn't lift a finger if you weren't dying already or had ready coin, seemed like. He'd heard the first half-elves were the result of war crimes, and somehow, it seemed appropriate. But he'd still knock out the teeth of anybody who said he was one grain less anybody else. The pursuing figure came into sight over the ridge, and spotted him right off. It was one of the town guards, and he was carrying a scimitar. Upon noticing the crossbow aimed at him, he dropped the weapon and threw up his hands. He opened his mouth to say something, but Zak didn't give him the chance. He snapped off the first crossbow bolt straight into the man's mouth. The figure wavered and collapsed, a red stain slowly spreading down the sand. Working quickly, he loaded another bolt, and waited again. He tasted sand in the corners of his mouth, but didn't move.

A trickle of sweat worked its way down his face, but he remained still. After five minutes of nothing, he stood up, and put the crossbow back again. He knew he didn't have to have killed the guard, but if he didn't, the man would report back and spread the word about where he had gone. Even though the man would be missed back at the town, nothing was to say it couldn't have been an accident. Zak took a dim view of killing, but had a remarkable apathy to doing it himself. He was seriously thinking of just digging a hole and hiding out until sunset, but instinct kept him moving. Breathing heavily, he crested another ridge, and saw…yet another expanse of plains and sand. Suppressing the urge to scream, he kept going. His boots were beginning to become gritty, but he saw no convenient way to empty them out and not much point to it either. He was beginning to see a pattern in the attacks that were keeping him on the move. This wasn't any ordinary coincidence.

He'd been on the run for some time now, due to a series of attacks from either professional bounty hunters, or opportunists, and even he had limits, not that he'd ever admit that in public. All of the people who had attacked him had stated, under threat of head removal that they were looking for something he had, but hadn't been told what it was. They were also mostly allied with more virtuous organizations that abounded all around Faerun. His possessions were few, but he comprehended quite well the logic behind his unknown tracker's motives. Naturally, an object like the ring of truth or the ring of cat's grace that he wore would be extremely valuable, as well as the wand of cold and bag of holding hanging off his belt, but those weren't his most valuable possession besides the sword. Taking out the coin, he rubbed his thumb over the head face again, as he habitually did when pondering something. He got the coin from a dying Harper agent that he had been hired by as a sellsword, and didn't bother to check it over closely.

Maybe he should have it looked at by a wizard. What he really shouldn't have done, now that he thought about it, was to appropriate the Harper pin off the man's corpse after he'd expired. He knew beyond a doubt that they were looking for the pin, because as far as he knew, very, very few Harper agents had died without ditching the pin first if they weren't in the hands of friends. He just didn't think that they'd be this persistent! Though he still had a nagging suspicion a few other people were after the pin. That ensured that he only saw his home about every five years or so, and sometimes not even then. He had to go sneak back in the dead of night to visit his own house, like a thief. He'd thought about giving the pin back, but figured that what's done is done, and after having seen how the Harpers treated those who trespassed against them, decided not to give it back, but also not to kill any Harper agents who came seeking him, if at all possible, because that would just make things worse.

Shifting his mind back to the task at hand, he made a mental note to get his bumps and bruises looked at first thing when he got into Tethyr, and out of the reach of Calimsham's authorities. But to do that, he first needed to get out of the desert. Deciding that he would take shelter for the rest of the day, and keep going when the sunset came, he eased himself down in the shade of the latest dune he had been traipsing over. The heat diminished somewhat, but he was still miserable. Taking out the wand of cold, he pointed it at the ground in front of him, and snapped the command word. A cone of icy rays blasted forth, freezing into a sheet of ice at his feet.

Whistling jauntily, he tossed the implement up in the air, and caught it again. Kneeling down next to the ice sheet, he chipped a bit off with a crossbow bolt point and tossed it into his mouth. "I could get used to this," he mused, then the pain in his neck made him swallow the ice chip and nearly choke on it when he tried to look behind him. His right arm was hurting from a bruise he had taken back at the tavern. Thinking back there made him smile, if only for a moment. Why, even when he came into town he had made an impression.

Earlier in the day

The leader of the caravan saw the oasis town on the horizon, it's red-orange clay walls and buildings blending into a single structure at some points, and excitedly passed the information back along the line, until all of the people that made up the procession of camels, packages, passengers, and guards were speaking of the respite from the heat and dryness that would be coming. Zak, who was around the middle of the column, quite anticipated buying a round or two at the local alehouse, or whatever excuse for a pub they had around here. His fellow guardsman, Anbory, clapped him on the shoulder.

"The end of a long road, friend," he enthused, jingling the money pouch at his side. "With plenty of coin to spend." Zak grinned wickedly.

"They don't accept cactus needles as lawful currency, you know," he retorted to Anbory, returning the shoulder clap. The guard had a collection of the many needles that had stuck him along the way, and had become rather proud of it, even though whenever it came up in conversation it sparked a spirited recollection of when the dusky Tethyrian had tripped and in the act of throwing himself backward to avoid a mouthful of sand and rocks, sat down on a cactus. He hadn't been able to sit down without pain for two days afterwards.

"Though naturally, with me on board, I knew we wouldn't be seeing much action out here," he added, examining his fingernails, and pretending to buff them on his jerkin. The other guard laughed boisterously.

"Because even the bandits wouldn't want anything to do with you?" he suggested. Zak's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Anbory's smile quickly vanished. While Zak laughed at good-natured jokes about himself, he took any insult to his dignity, however small, as a mortal insult, and would waste no time hauling out Echoing Courage and carving a few pieces off whoever had done the insulting. Just as quickly as it had appeared, Zak's sour mood went away, and he gestured grandly to the oasis, which was gradually growing larger.

"I tell you, once I'm there, I will not be moved if a black dragon walks in and starts melting the place," he declared. "I am long overdue for a bit of rest, and I'm never going to get all the sand out of all the places it has no business being in." Anbory nodded sagely.

"I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you of the time when I was guarding another caravan heading along the same route we are."

"I can only assume that they survived this story, as you're still here to tell it." Zak commented, mopping at his forehead. It wasn't the heat that bothered him about the place; it was what the heat did. If he never saw another sand dune in his life, it'd be too soon. Anbory's grin became broader, if that was possible. The man was the jolliest person Zak had ever met, and for some reason, he found that mildly annoying sometimes.

"You see, it all began when a horrendous sandstorm sprang up, and we were practically blind," Anbory began.

"You haven't seen a sandstorm," Zak commented from the sidelines.

"Yes I have, and when I was there," the other went on, "We were trying to find out way through the shifting sands. I myself," here he indicated himself proudly, "was the main part of the effort."

"And what a pity it would be if you blundered into a cactus doing it," Zak lamented in a wry tone of voice.

"And in my desperate flight, I came upon a man's turban."

"As opposed to a woman's turban?" Zak asked just to keep the story moving along.

"But when I made to lift the turban up, I found a man's head inside." Zak winced at the image.

"Talona's toenails, you don't mince words."

"No, let me explain. The head was attached to a man's body, and I got down and scratched the sand out of his ears and nose. The man coughed a little, and said 'Get a shovel, there's a good camel under me." Anbory concluded triumphantly. "That is what I call a bad sandstorm." Zak laughed despite himself, and clapped Anbory on the shoulder again.

"A fine tale. Any others?"

"Why not sing one of those fine songs you were bellowing out last night?" Anbory deflected the request. Zak shook his head. "Those are strictly used for occasions where there's a bar or large amounts of ale being passed around. Some people, as hard as it may be to believe, don't approve of songs with explicit phrases," he announced solemnly, in a low voice, and the two sellswords had a good laugh over that. The caravan had about reached the oasis, and the camel-riding merchants were veering off towards the market, where a great number of people were advertising their wares already. What looked most promising to Zak, however, was the low-slung clay building bearing the sign that read The Cooling Breeze. Adjusting his equipment, he and Anbory strode off together towards the door. As they passed by the entrance to the market, Zak drank in the sights and sounds of a desert city. These people knew how to sell things, that much was certain. When Anbory made to enter the tavern first, Zak laid a hand on his shoulder. "Watch and learn," he admonished, and threw open the door with all his strength, causing a tremendous boom to sound as it struck the wall.

All conversation ceased, and every set of eyes came to rest on the figure that stepped confidently in through the doorway. Zak knew he looked dangerous, with the red headband, sword and shield, and a spur hanging from his right boot. He had lost the left one somewhere in the sands, and never found it, which he was sorry about, but now that he thought about it, it gave him more character like this. He cast a good look around at the populace, seeing if there was anybody who could give him trouble. Only one or two cases appeared likely to be sober enough to challenge him, and strong enough to think they could win. One of those cases was wearing the sash of a town enforcer, and he tapped on the ornament audibly, saying that Zak should take care of how he handled himself. The half-elf nodded in his direction, sidled up to the bar, and rapped on the wood to call the barkeep. The man, who himself was big enough to handle anybody who got drunk enough to start a fight, informed him,

"If the door is damaged, it's coming out of your pocket." Zak nodded once, and asked,

"There any actual laws in here?" The barkeep shrugged.

"A few months ago, we got some nut what comes in and starts beating up folks. He were took down fast enough by the only criminal element in town." A slow smile tugged at the corners of Zak's mouth.

"This 'criminal element' have a name?" he said, tossing five copper pieces on the bar. "You can tell me when I've worked through those." The barkeep nodded sagely.

"He has more names than I can count, but the one I know him by is Arakonza. You can find him sitting out there about this time, taking in the crowd." He moved off to the other end of the bar. Anbory let out a long breath as he sat down on the stool next to Zak.

"I can't say that your entrance was overly subtle. You've got an overdeveloped sense of pride, and someday it's going to prove more trouble than it's worth."

"I'll be the judge of that," Zak asserted, accepting the tankard of ale that was thumped down in front of him and taking an experimental sip. Amazingly enough, it wasn't all that bad, though like every other liquid in the place, it was warm. He decided to seek out this 'Arakonza', for taking out the only criminal element in a city was likely to endear him to the populace, and would increase his ready coin. Draining the tankard in two long pulls, he set it on the bar again.

"Seriously, could you sing something? Besides Warriors of the North?" Anbory appealed to him, hands spread. "It's not that I don't like the song, just that I've heard it too much. Sing that one song, y'know, Here's a Great Night." Sighing, Zak threw up his hands.

"Fine, have it your own way," he grumbled. "But first,I've got to find a self-styled crime lord." Anbory got a confused look.

"How are you going to do that? Just stand up here and ask?"

"Yes." Zak confirmed. "You want to know why? Because nobody has the right to control what I do, and nobody is going to stop me from proving it."

"But you haven't got to prove it," Anbory protested. Zak shrugged.

"Just to myself. If I can't believe in me, who can I believe in? And to keep believing that I can do anything I want, I've got to defy authority, especially unjust authority, so if you're afraid of the authorities, now would be a good time to move off."

"But why do you have to prove yourself to yourself?" the other asked curiously. Zak sighed, and put a hand on his forehead.

"It's what I do, all right? You going to stay or go?" Anbory looked around, and got up off the stool. He moved over to another table, and took a seat, muttering,

"Sorry, but I'm not that crazy." Zak stood up, and raised his hands.

"Okay, a shiny silver piece to the first person who tells me where I can find Arakonza right now!" The city official looked as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, but one of the customers, who had had way too much ale, thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen, and began pounding the table and guffawing loud enough to wake a vampire during the day. That broke the spell, and most people went back to their drinks. The official, however, got up, scraping his chair back, a calculating look on his face. His hand went to the hilt of his shamshir, and he deliberately stepped over to where Zak was standing, and looked down on him. Zak paid him no notice. The official persisted.

"You want to do business with him, you've gotta go through us." he said in a reasonable tone of voice. "We're kind of his intermediaries." Zak turned and regarded the man balefully.

"Who in the Nine Hells does this man think he is to try and intimidate me?" he asked the air, as if nobody were standing there. "He looks like a grimy little guard with no respect for anybody else and a sword that's makes him look like a fourteen-year old." The guard bristled at the insult, but tried again.

"It's the only way to play this game. The man doesn't talk to complete strangers, and we charge for a letter of introduction. You don't pay, don't even bother."

"Stick it up your arse," Zak snapped, at the end of his short patience. His ever-present pride was goading him onward. He might be beaten, killed, or tortured, but he would never be insulted!

"Nobody tells me what I can or can't do. You accept that, and you'll walk away. Try something incredibly stupid, like draw a weapon, and I can't guarantee you'll live." The guard recoiled a little, but regained his confidence. Placing his hand on the pommel of the sword, he announced to the bar, which had been listening with intense interest,

"I don't know who you think you are, northerner, but maybe a little tenderizing will do you some good," A note of genuine puzzlement entered his voice, "I don't know what you're getting at. I can tell you that just paying the fee isn't as much trouble as fighting us all."

"That may be, but any attempt to tell me what to do will be met with the same answer, so are you going to fight me or not?" The guard half drew his sword.

"Bring it, sellsword!" Zak was boiling over, and before he knew it, steel scraped against leather, and Echoing Courage was in his hand. The broadsword was thirty-seven inches long from pommel to tip, and gleamed in the dull light. About a third of the way up the blade, a long narrow notch began where the blood channel normally was. It effectively divided the blade into two blades from that point onward. With the notch, he could, if he was good enough, catch and break other swords. Shrugging the kite shield off his back, he slid his arm through the straps, and stood ready. The guard drew his shamshir the rest of the way, which was a favored weapon in the southern lands. The blade was mostly straight and narrow until the last three inches, where it curved upwards a tad. The name literally meant, 'lion's tail' in an old language, and it had reach, and was effective in a close fight like this. Zak whirled his sword once, which served to establish both that he thought he was hot stuff, and settle him into a battle-ready stance.

"Still think you can take me on?" Zak taunted, twisting his ring of cat's grace as he talked. At once, he felt more balanced, more stable on the ground. He doubted he was going to make it out of this unscathed, but he had set himself to it, and once he started something, he always finished it. Always and without exception. The guard didn't respond, but charged forward, swinging the shamshir in a controlled fashion, slicing the air so swiftly that Zak's sensitive ears could hear the whistle. The fighter angled his sword to catch the blade in the notch, but even with his improved reflexes, he missed that, and only parried the attack. He met the charge with one of his own, but held his shield out in front, swinging his sword in a wild arc behind him to take out anybody who was helping the guard. He felt the sword ring off something, ducked, and rolled to the side, away from both of them.

The other customer who had looked like he might present a challenge was up, and holding a scimitar in one beefy fist. The other fist was wrapped around a parrying dagger. The two of them advanced on him. Good as he was, he didn't know if he could take on three weapons at once. He could try, though, and through himself at the right-hand man with the dagger, hoping to take him out first before the other could respond. The scimitar came up in an underhanded slash at his sword arm while the dagger reached in from the other side. Bashing the smaller weapon to the side with his shield, this time he did manage to catch the scimitar in the notch. Twisting savagely, he forced the man to let go of the weapon, or let it be broken. The blade whirled across the room, slipping out of his notch, and clattered to the floor. Wary of being attacked from behind, he spun around again, smacking the man's head with his shield as he did so to deter him for a bit. He barely managed to deflect the shamshir's thrust in time, receiving a long slash across his stomach in payment. Good thing for the chain mail shirt! Without it he'd have been leaking his guts onto the floor. He assessed the situation with a practiced glance, and kept on fighting.

With no other weapon, the guard was hard pressed to hold off the vengeful fighter. Zak caught the longer sword in one of his shield notches, and snapped his arm to the side, but the guard held on. The blade broke about two-thirds of the way up it's length with a ringing sound. "Enough!" the guard cried out, lowering what remained of his weapon with dismay. "All right, you're good!" "You insulted me," Zak accused, and spun and kicked into the man's stomach, folding him almost in half. Turning around again, he confronted the other man, who had retrieved his scimitar and was advancing on him. A skittering noise behind him forced him to glance back, and he saw the guard running out the door, yelling for help. Cursing his ill fortune, and his blinding pride, not for the first time, Zak slid a throwing knife out of his sleeve with his shield hand. He sent it hurtling at the other man, but with a clang, he deflected it with the scimitar. It slowed him down enough for Zak to rush by him, aiming another delaying slash on the way as well as swiping up the dagger again, and get out the door as well.

Once out on the street again he returned the sword to its place on his back. It occurred to him that if he wished to live he should probably make the best of his escape, and flee into the desert, but that was almost a certain death sentence. A shout cut through the air. "Hey you, with the shield! Going somewhere?" Swearing a blue streak at yet another interruption, Zak noticed a few more guards descending on him. He didn't wait for them to catch up, but took off running, his newly enhanced agility lending speed to his feet. He cut right at the first intersection, then left, ignoring the murmurs and stares that followed him as he rushed through the crowd, shoving aside those who didn't get out of the way in time. Reaching the defensive wall that surrounded the city; he raced up the stairs to the top, the angry guardsmen following behind. It was at least a thirty-foot drop to the sand. Murmuring a quick prayer to Tymora, he hurled himself into empty space.

Now

Musing over his past exploits, Zak was pondering what to do next, when, quite suddenly, a loud crack, like that of lightning, boomed overhead. Startled, he looked up, and saw a shimmering and twisting portal of blue-yellow energy swirling in the sky overhead. It looked like it had just appeared out of nowhere, but having seen a great deal of magic, he knew it was a portal he was facing. He didn't think it led to the Abyss or some other place like that, but he didn't know that anybody friendly was coming out of it, so he drew a dagger from his bracer, and prepared to meet anything. Well, anything except what he got. The body of a human flashed into existence in the maelstrom, and plummeted limply down towards him. The portal closed behind it, though Zak could have sworn he saw something else trying to get through. Dismissing it as his imagination, he extended his arms to catch the person and was hurled to the ground by the impact. Groaning at the new pain in his arms and midsection, he sat up, and gawked.

The newcomer was a lady, with spiky black hair tied into a short ponytail and a wicked-looking scar that creased her forearm. And she was sporting several fresh wounds that were still trickling blood. One of them, a long slash that crossed her jaw line and dwindled to nothing near the base of her neck, was deep and obviously in need of tending. Even with the wounds, he thought she was one of the most dangerous people he'd ever seen. The ripped leather armor she was wearing showed evidence of a fierce fight, and he saw a wicked looking dire mace loosely gripped in her hands. Lucky that the spiked end had missed him, thudding into the sand instead. Bewildered beyond reckoning, Zak said to the unconscious lady,

"Well, this seems to be a fine place that I've found! Beautiful women fall out of the sky from time to time. I'll have to build a summer home here and retire." Too bad nobody else was around to hear him but the shifting sands. Not sure what to do, he gently moved her onto the ice patch, and fished around for one of the few healing potions he kept on hand. Nothing to do but wait until she woke up on her own. He wasn't going anywhere.