Malark forcefully swung the door to Candlekeep Inn open in a fit of frustration. The door audibly wailed under his force as it flew open.
"Ogmha, Malark; what bee got in your bonnet?" Winthrop chirped from behind the bar, but was quickly silenced by a look.
"Bitter Black Ale. Chain mail. Gold." Malark said, with a quiet firmness to his tone often unheard as he dumped his purse on the counter. Winthrop obliged, and grabbed the necessary bits and pieces. Malark downed the whole beer without even taking a second to pause.
"Ye alright, lad?" inquired Winthrop.
"Not particularly," grumbled Malark as he scratched at his beard. "I've been attacked. Hence the armour." He gestured to the dried blood on his morning star as he spoke. "Thank the gods I'm heading out, then. Resurrection is expensive and all."
"You resorted to your weapon?"
"Both the assassins seemed pretty keen on killing me, so I can't say I had much of a bloody choice." Malark paused for a moment. "Heh. Bloody."
Winthrop froze in utter shock.
"Come on mate," Malark mused, "if I don't take it at least a little lightly I'd go mental. Better I laugh about it now than become a paranoid wreck. As you deduced, I'm not exactly cheery about the whole debacle but I'll drink to not being raised." He handed Winthrop his empty glass. "Thanks for the beer. By the way, one of the guardsmen wanted me to get them crossbow bolts. Oh, the errands I run." He hopped down from the stool and walked over to the old man with long hair in the corner.
"Speaking of, here's your scroll, Firebead," he mentioned, passing the aforementioned item.
"Thank you kindly, young man," he replied. "Now, allow me to cast a spell on you to protect you from whatever other evil you may find today."
"I really should have come a little fucking sooner," mumbled Malark under his breath.
He left the inn, armour on, and continued his series of errands. The slight warmth of the winter sun's rays grazed his tousled brown hair. Mumbling quietly to himself about the poor quality of pay he got for running in circles around a library, he also remembered he was being paid to amble around a library; and that it may have been a fairly easy job to get paid for. Growing up in a library left one quite frequently shuffling into quiet reflection.
As much as he could never willingly admit it, growing up in Candlekeep had shaped Malark, for better or worse. He had found his love of poetry there, even if the majority of it was risqué ballads designed to woo the visiting daughters of academics. While the library itself was not particularly open to music or singing, one of Winthrop's cooks had given him a proper instruction in the instruments, even if the singing was mostly result of years of failing to woo visitors. The classes there were likely the best education a growing boy could ever receive, and Malark made sure to miss all of them hiding away reading stories of adventurers, which he would warp into his own stories of fantastic heroes from faraway lands.
As a result, leaving was a bittersweet feeling. On one hand, living his own adventure would provide him with infinitely more stories to tell, as was the calling of any bard. However, he did have some affection for it and the infinite tales found within, and the many late nights of candlelight and being woken by the monks after falling asleep with books as a pillow would be a sore loss to him. But people didn't always get to make easy choices, and remembering how those daggers had been clumsily been thrust toward him was all it needed to understand that this was no longer a choice.
"Hi watcher, I promise this time I wasn't picking any po… oh! Malark! Where have you been all day! Why are you wearing armour!" An excited pink blur passed before his eyes, and he was reminded of another reason he might have wanted to stay. "Are you scowling?"
"...Imoen," Malark forced out as he rubbed the dark circles under his dark eyes to labour the point. "Running in circles around the keep, I'm leaving today, and yes, I am scowling."
"Are you sad you're leaving? Gorion won't tell me where you're going, even if I really want to come on your adventure. Much better than Candlekeep. Yessir. Sounds amazing." Imoen pouted, almost as dramatically as Malark has rubbed his eyes.
"Alright, alright. I can take a hint. Get your shit, I'll have a word with Gorion."
"Pffft," dismissed Imoen with the wave of her hand. "There's no way he'd ever let you come along, especially with what I saw in that note of his - I wasn't snooping I promise I just happened to see it - and it was all doom and gloom and mysterio-"
"Imoen." Malark cut her off firmly. "What was in that note?"
"Oh, is it that dark already? I have to help Winthrop with the dishes! Bye Malark! I hope I'll see you again!" She yelled as she ran into the distance.
"WAIT!" Malark yelled, then sighed into his hands as the realisation dawned he'd never catch up. Worse, there was no way Gorion would tell him anything about that letter; worse still, it was actually starting to get late and he had agreed to meet Gorion before dark. Another sigh. He hated being kept in the dark about anything, especially after being attacked. He pulled up his hood and walked up the stairs to the entrance, greeting Gorion with a quick wave.
"My child, it is good to see you under such short not…" Gorion stopped as he saw the glare in Malark's eyes. "Odd to see you without even a lazy grin. Is something the matter?"
"I think you damn well know something is!" Malark flared back. "You tell me this morning we need to leave Candlekeep, Imoen's accidentally mentioned a note that scared the wits out of her because for some reason you didn't think she'd snoop around and I've had two assassins - admittedly, useless ones - try and stab me. Cut the shit - I'm a grown man."
"That's no way to speak to your father, young ma-"
"My fucking life is in danger here and I'll speak however I have to until I have some idea of whatever the fuck is going on!"
"You need to calm down, Malark," Gorion instructed.
"If I talked to you calmly about this, you'd deflect the question by either saying 'later' or just change the topic. Spare me."
Gorion sighed wistfully. "Whatever happened to that sweet kid you used to be, Malark? What happened to that laugh and smile of yours? The one the monks would have to chase to bed and hide candles from to stop you reading all night?"
"If I had time to indulge in nostalgia, I wouldn't be demanding answers. And the innocence died when that Ambercrown girl visited about three years ago. You know, the one with the -"
"Yes, yes, I think I get the picture!" Gorion frantically cut him off. "And no, I'm not going to tell you because what you don't know can't hurt you."
"I don't give a damn if it hurts me - the unease of not knowing is a worse ache."
"As I've always said, I'll tell you when the time is right. And right now, all you need to know is we need to leave." Gorion told Malark as they headed to the exit. "Now listen closely. If we become separated, head to the Friendly Arm Inn. I've two friends there - Khalid and Jaheria - they will look after you. From there, we head to Baldur's Gate and try and hide in the crowd. Simple enough plan?"
"Fine. I know you won't say anything you don't want me to hear, and I'm too decent to snoop." Malark sighed. "Sorry for losing my temper. But someone genuinely attacking you - trying to end your life - I mean, I'm sure you could bring me back from the dead, but it awakens something in you."
"What did it awaken?" Gorion asked, his voice low.
"Something primal and terrifying - like the way a gnoll hungers, is the best way I can describe it. Like, killing them wouldn't only make the world a better place, it was almost as if their blood would propel me forward."
"And you didn't like this feeling?"
"No. You know me, I'm a foppish entertainer, not some blood-hungry bodyguard. Really not into bawdy poetry, those types." Malark paused. "Or it might have been because I was calling them impotent in said poems." He stopped. "Were I a bet-maker, I'd give it even odds."
Gorion chuckled quietly. "Good to see you're back to your old self."
"Yeah, I just remembered those aren't the first people to try and kill me. Puts everything into perspective."
The night was dimly illuminated by the moon's silver rays as they fell into silence. A wordless nod was all it took for them to redirect themselves off the path. They travelled a few hours, and found it rather uneventful. The absence of any life, even the odd wretched gibberling made the night unbearably silent. Malark was always humming to himself quietly if things got silent normally; since stealth was vital however, he kept that under control.
."Come quickly, child, we must find shelter soon," whispered Gorion as they arrived at a clearing on the Lion's way, before quickly pulling up his hand. "Wait. We are in an ambush. Prepare yourself."
"You're perceptive for an old man. You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist, it shall be a waste of your life." A shadowy figure in huge, spiked armour walked into the clearing.
"You're a fool if you believe I'd trust your benevolence. Step aside and your and your lackeys will remain unhurt."
"I'm sorry you feel that way, old man," said the armoured figure as the drew his sword and urged forward his companions. Two archers popped out of the darkness and let loose arrows.
"Run, child! Get out of here!" Gorion urged as an arrow struck Malark. Almost from the shock of the blow, he obliged, as Gorion turned to face the threat. A quick hand motion or two, and suddenly it seemed as there were many more of him than before, then he let loose a magic missile on one of the ogres that came out the wilderness, before exploding a pillar of fire onto it. A bolt of lightning crackled into the other one, and in the blink of an eye, both ogres were dead. He hardened his skin to stone before exploding a larger ball of fire onto the archers, and the cleric who had just stepped out from behind. The bandits were melted by the flames, but the cleric stood strong, and started to turn down his defences. Gorion launched a spell or two at the figure, but it barely seemed like slowing him.
Malark turned as for the first time in his life, heard Gorion make a sound of genuine fear. As he turned, the armoured figure's sword cracked forward in a burst of unholy light, and Gorion fell. Malark, quelling the scream that begged for release, darted into the bushes and hid, making himself as small as he could.
It was the small hours of the dawn where a hand gentle shook his should. Opening his eyes, a figure, still a little blurry, stood before him. The second after his brain started working, he drew his morning star and pointed it at the figure, before looking at the hand, dropping it, and laughing.
"I'm a delicate flower. Don't scare me like that, Imoen," Malark gently chuckled to the pink glove on his shoulder, which then helped him to his feet. "How in the hells did you find me?"
Imoen pulled him into a tight embrace. "Oh Gods I saw Gorion and I assumed you were just too badly hurt for me to find the body I'm so glad you're okay." She talked as frantically as humanly possible while tears streamed down her face, clearly scared out of her wits.
"You saw, then? Sorry, Imoen," Malark murmured, trying to console her.
Imoen drew a couple of breaths and calmed herself, before breaking the embrace and wiping her face. "It was the note." She took another deep breath. "After I read it I just knew something like this would happen and I couldn't stay still for a second longer. Then I ran off after you but you guys had gotten so far so I pressed onwards and then I heard all these sounds in the distance and then I got there and found Gor-" was all she could force out before her voice cracked again.
"Imoen?" I need you to focus on that note. What exactly did it say?"
"I can't exactly remember but I know that he left with it." Imoen paused for a second to think, then visibly blinked. "Oh no, we can't. We absolutely can't!"
"We'd have to sooner or later. Now let's head off." Malark started down the trail he had left last night. It amazed him that they had missed him in the dark. He thought they'd find him for sure, and still being alive right now was incredible to him. Getting the arrow out had been particularly uncomfortable, especially given the gunk it was coated with. Lucky would be the word to describe him, and that didn't sit well in his mind. He didn't like the fates leading his path.
They walked in silence to the clearing. Malark did a quick round scooping up whatever he could loot off the ground before nabbing the scroll off of Gorion's body.
"That's… that's Gorion, isn't it?" Imoen asked quietly.
"It was Gorion, at the very least. He was killed by the person in the spiked armour."
"Spiked armour?"
Malark began to describe the scene - the attackers, the threat being levelled at him, Gorion telling him to run and falling.
"I don't like this, Malark. Not one bit."
"Me either, Imoen, but I don't think even a High Priest of Lothander could bring him back. What's done is done. Right now, we don't have time to complain about it."
They settled into brief silence. Imoen was the one to break it.
"Should we, you know, bury him? I'd like to think he'd have done it for us."
Malark nodded solemnly and began to dig. Soon, he had covered the body, and left a small stone cairn. He then turned his attention to the note, which he promptly threw to the ground.
"There's nothing on here!" Malark screamed into the wilderness. "There's nothing here I don't know already! Gods be damned, I swear it's one of them trying to keep a secret from me."