Disclaimer: Oy donnae own, ye bloody self - righteous gits!;)

'Finna?'

'Aye?'

'It's not the BEST of your ideas, innit?'

The taller of two red - heads started to wonder. Considering she was about to enter a long abandoned house, and according to folks of Beregost, a hunted one at that... Imoen was right. The home looked harmless enough, even if a little shabby at the moment. Spraining one's ankle while walking up the rotting stairs seemed the only danger there... but, if one considered what the townsfolk were gossiping about... She stopped, two steps from the door to aforementioned building, and looked around. The town was long asleep, and even the guards were nowhere to be seen. The only other living creatures within eyeshot - accept her and Imoen - were whores, and Finna doubted they would be much help if whatever dwelled there would decide it wants their souls.

'Prolly not', she answered.

Imoen just stared at her.

'Sis', she managed to say after a moment, 'are you tryin' to tell me ya aren't sure about what you're doin?!'

Finna stepped closer and examined the stairs. The wood was rotten, it was sure as hell, but it would hold her. So she hoped. Even if not... it was not such a great high after all.
'Well, I guess I'm not. Not quite.'

Imoen slapped her forehead in an obviously dramatic gesture. It did not turn out as planned, though: the sound of this slap was muffled by her pink glove and her pink hood.

'So, ya come to a house owned by a mad card and dice playing lich who is said to be a hundred years old, ya want to play with him, ignoring the fact that no one tried before because the locals have a thing called common sense, and ya are not SURE WHAT YER DOIN?!'

The little thief's voice echoed through the streets of Beregost, probably waking some people and surely some dogs, which expressed their irritation by barking.

'Will ya keep it down?', Finna hissed, approaching her sister, 'I've a bloody reputation to maintain!'

'Yeah, right. Just because ya got drunk and started to boast ya could win any game ya don't have to get yourself killed.'

'I won't get meself killed!'

'...and poor Imoen will have to drag your corpse all the way to the Temple, and we don't have any money...'

'I won't get meself killed!'

'So I will have to offer my services to ole Olmyr, and he won't accept, because he has five sirines around, which means plenty of flesh to...'

'I WON'T GET MESELF KILLED!'

A window of one of the neighbouring homes opened, and an elderly woman's head appeared inside. Finna barely dodged a flowerpot she tossed at her.

'What the hell did ya do that fer'?!', she shouted when the pot landed on the ground.

'We want to get some sleep, so why won't you two get out of here? Adventurers, hmph!'
Finna bowed with courtesy, resisting the urge to obey the old hag and just run... or to drag her down here by the white mop she called 'hair' and beat her bloody. Swashbucklers were supposed to be brave and kind, right?

'Do not worry, good woman', she said, 'We'll get rid of this undead scum in no time.'

The window closed, and the said good woman obviously did not appericate Finna's courtesy enough.

'Now ya've done it', the swashbuckler complained, 'I have tae go, now.'

'I've done it? And who was yellin about getting killed, eh?'

'I was talkin' 'bout not gettin killed.'

'Sheesh. Big difference'

'And I wasnae yellin', Finna added.

'Ya were.'

'Wasnae.'

'Was to.'

'Wasnae.'

'Wasto.

'WASNAE!'

'Wastowastowastowastowasto!'

The window opened again.

'BLOODY BASTARD HELL!', the woman yelled, exceeding both Finna and Imoen in loudness, 'If you two won't SHUT UP, I will go and kill the lich myself! If I won't go, my Harold will! If he won't go, my first housband will rise from his grave and he will kill the lich! If he won't, Feldepost will! And the half of the bloody town! All of this because you chose this NIGHT to argue! I swear I like an undead around more than you two here.'

Finna sighed, unsheating her longsword and delivering a few effective blows into the air.

'Do not trouble yerself, good woman. Stick me sharp blade through this undead's corpse, I will!'

'Then do it! Or just SHUT UP!'

'Undead's corpse?' Imoen chuckled after the window shut for the third time, 'It was not very... skilfully said, ya know.'

'Yeah', Finna sighed, looking around once again.
Some of the courtesans started to giggle. More of them assembled, as if the old hag's voice attracted more audience.

'Now I really have to get in there', she whispered, 'or me swashbuckling career is done fer...'

'Well, it can be over when ya go in, too', Imoen retorted.

'But I have a bloody chance with a lich, not with laughing townsfolk. A'rite, Im. Goin', I am. Remember what ya've to do?'

'Yeah.'

Finna nodded and stepped into the haunted house.

Damn, so dark there. Just this once, Finna regretted she was not born a pansy elf. Them tree - huggers might have been good for nothing, but seeing through the darkness was a gift she wanted to posess.
Aye, and I want it badly, she thought after bumping into something hard, which under further examination turned out to be a wall. So dark! So bloody dark! She walked further, shivering at every sound that the old floor made under her careful steps. Imoen was right. Oh yes, she was right. Two weeks since leaving good old Candlekeep and now trying to take on a bloody LICH?

'Too dark to see a thing?' asked a deep voice from the right.

Finna literally jumped in horror. Once on the earth again, she thanked the gods for her slight weight. Were she a pound heavier, the house would just collapse.

'No, not at all', she answered, doing her best to sound cheerful and failing miserably.
The owner of the voice seemed amused.

'I will take the liberty to fire some torches, nevertheless.'

The young swashbuckler blinked as the room was suddenly flooded with light. Covering her eyes with her palm, she looked at her mysterious host.
A lich it was, no bloody doubt. More elegant than a ghoul, for sure, but still not a pleasant sight to sore eyes: a hunchbacked, bald and pale figure dressed in shards of clothing that must have been thousands years old.
Bloody hell, thought Finna, couldnae he git 'imself some new clothes? He had the time fer it, that's a sure thing.

'I take it you are here for a game of cards?', the lich asked, still in the same extremely polite tone.

'Aye!', the girl replied, regaining her attitude, 'Cards, dice, ya name it, laddie!'

Now, when her eyes got used to the surrounding light, she was able to look around. While obviously not having a taste for clothes, the lich had a taste for furniture: the old ones were replaced with new, rich and highly adorned creations of ebony and ashwood. The carpets looked new as well, and seemed more comfortable than many a bed. The lich liked warm colours: mostly gold, brown and red. Fits, thought Finna. Must be really cold when yer dead.

'My name is sir Gregory Fitzgerald', the lich announced, leading Finna to what she thought was the living room, 'I would be most grateful if you called me that, instead of referring to me as laddie.'

'Oi, a'rite', said the girl, sitting on a soft, comfortable chair by the green table, 'Finna be me name.'

The lich sat himself, facing her, and pulled a pack of cards from his sleeve. Then, he took out a cup and set of dice out of his pocket.
'Delighted to meet you', he assured, putting a pair of dice and a cup next to the cards.

'Yea. So, what are the rules?'
Surprisingly to herself, she found out that she was not afraid anymore. He did not kill me yet, rite? That counts. 'Beautiful in their simplicity. My riches against your soul.'

'Sounds a fair deal.'

'It is, young lady. What comes first? A roll of dice?'

'Aye, let it be yer way.'

The lich smiled and tossed the dice into his cup. He shook it well and rolled the two sets of dice on the table. Finna was about to jump, in her joy, as she saw two ones and one three before her eyes... till they turned into a nice set of sixes. What the bloody hell is goin' on here, she asked herself.
Sir Gregory Fitzgerald smiled lightly and passed her the cup. The young swashbuckler bit her lip, thought of Tymora, thought of her soul, thought of the powerful undead sitting next to her.

'Is something wrong?', the lich inquired.

'Nay', she replied.

Darn, a swashbuckler should bloody well know how to lie!
Tymora, help me.

'Well, ya roll yer dice and take yer chances, aye?', she asked, desperately hoping to get some more time. There was something wrong going on there, she knew it! But what could that be?
'Indeed', sir Gregory nodded, 'Now, please do what this vise proverb advices.'

'Oy, no need to hurry, is it?', asked the girl and grinned.
A rather pathetic attempt of smiling, she thought. Oh well. One can't be perfect, rite?

'I have all the time in the world', the undead smirked, 'You... have a little less.'

'But... it's a rare occasion to talk with such an... educated person!'

The lich cocked his eyebrow. Finna continiued desperately:
'So, what so you think of... Tymora?', she asked.

'Might I ask what brought this up?'

'Well, dice of course. You seem to be really favoured by fate.'

'We should see if you have the same... gift. Why do you hestitate?'

Because ya'll take me soul if I'll roll the bloody dice, she thought. Blasted art of conversation! As if folks couldnae speak their minds like normal beings do!
'I told ya. It is a rare occasion...'

'... to talk with such an educated person as you think I am. Despite my age, I heard you before.'

Educated. Liches cast spells. The numbers... they changed. Something is going on here, fer sure. He's like these con men that play cards, dice and three cups in taverns... wiser than them, aye, but so bloody self - assured! He knows he can't loose this game. He knows.
Damn, what can a lich do that I can't? Her reason, rarely used, whispered: 'everything', but Finna ignored it, as she did many times before. He can summon demons, decorate a room, kill an adventuring party without breaking a sweat, scare the hell outta me, cast time stop...
TIME STOP!
The young swashbuckler stood up abruptly, her temper getting the better of her.

'Ya bloody cheatin' scoundrel!', she yelled, kicking the table so hard that it hit the floor, inches away from the lich'es feet.
'Ya damned piece of undead dung!', Finna continiued, unsheating her longsword.

Gregory Fitzgerald remained calm and well - mannered.
'May I ask what...'

'WHAT?! WHAT?!', the girl repeated, pressing the tip of her blade to the undead's neck, 'Ya cast time stop and turn ones and threes into sixes! Yer a bloody cheater... sir!'

Breathing heavily, the yong swashbuckler realised two things.
First, her sword was of no use against a lich.
Second, the lich still could cast spells.

'If you want to do it the hard way', the creature shrugged, 'be my guest.'

Finna turned on her heel and started to run, hearing the lich'es incantations.
Bloody hell, this creature is going to cast some bloody symbol!, she realized, and ran even faster. Two steps from the door! Relieved, she shoved them open, jumped out, yelled at Imoen to run and.
Fell on the hard ground, tripping over a twine and got caught in a fishing net, courtesy of Imoen, who set all these traps because Finna told her to.

'RUN!', the swashbuckler yelled, trying to cut her way out of the net.

'But this LICH was supposed to come out first, not you!', her sister complained.

'RUN, fer bollocks sake!'

Finna looked behind her. She could clearly see the pale lich in the moonlight... and the symbol conjured by him as well. The disc drifted in the air, slowly flying in her direction.
An elf, long - haired, colorful and shiny, approached them with a smile. He obviously did not see any danger, as his eyes were focused on Imoen and Finna.
'Greetings, fair ladies. I heard this household is the home of a certain gambling lich...'

'Ya damned...', Finna started, intending to tell him to get the blazes out of there while still fighting the fishing net... but it was of no use.
Suddenly realizing the situation, the elf jumped between Finna and her undead foe. The symbol hit him right in the head, immobilizing him as intended.
Finna cursed, Imoen shrieked. The shorter red head took out her dagger in a desperate attempt to protect her sister, she threw it at the lich, missed, the dagger darted in the floor, inches away from the undead, breaking the creature's concentration.

'Finnaaaaaaaa!', Imoen yelled, jumping backwards.
The swashbuckler finally freed herself, managed to stand up and stepped towards the lich, sword in hand.

'You... will... not... harm... my... sister!', she managed to say, teeth clenching, legs shaking, blood racing as if it suddenly turned into an oil of speed.
'We shall see', sir Gregory Fitzgerald replied, calm and polite as usual.

Well, take yer chances... again, thought Finna, facing the undead one.

This time it looks like I don't have any.
She took another step, standing on the doormat. Feeling something cracking under her heel, she briefly wondered what could that be.
Imoen closed her eyes.
I stepped in something.
What a stupid idea for a last thought.

'Any last words, morta... aaaaaaaaaaaaah!'

The undead shouted in pain, waved his hands and crumbled into dust at her feet.

'Finna? Are we dead?', asked Imoen, eyes still closed. Death comming to take them sure was not a pleasant sight.

The swashbuckler blinked, eyes wandering from her sword to the ash on the floor. It took a few moments before she regained her sense enough to turn around, facing the stunned elf and her sister who was covering her face with her palms.

'I... don't think sae', Finna said slowly, 'The lich...'
The thief opened one eye, than another.

'Finna?'

'I killed the lich', the girl announced.
It sounded good.

'I have nae bloody idea how, but I did.'
This sounded less effective, but there was only Imoen around, as the whores wisely retreated, and the elf could not hear them anyway.

'I... I gotta sit, ya know?', the swashbuckler said.

She sat on the doorstep, breathing heavily. Imoen looked around, blinking.
'And you're sure we're not dead?', she asked.

'Ya think Nine Hells look like Beregost?'

'Well, this shopkeeper who lost everything claimed this city IS Nine Hells... but I guess that does not count. What the heck you did to him, anyway?'

'No idea. It was like... he rolled his dice, got a set of sixes, I figured he cast time stop and cheated me, freaked out, threw a few curses at him, he freaked out, started to chase me and threw some nasty symbols at my head... the rest ya know.'

'HE was supposed to run from YOU, Finna', Imoen remarked.

'Well, I thought I'll win and he'll try to get away without paying.'

'You're a buffle - head, sis.'

'Seems so. But I killed him.'

'But how?'

'No idea, as afore said.'

Imoen bit her lip, wondering.
'Ya know, what, sis? Tell me everything ya did beginning from the moment ya got out of this net. Imoen will figure it out for ya'
'So. I was scared like bloody hell, stood up, took me sword - nae fancy enchantments, as ya know - walked up to him, stepped into something and cracked it, then he was like...'

'WAIT! Where was that?'

'What?'

'The thing ya stepped in, dummy.'

'Doormat.'

Imoen crouched, picked up the doormat and started to examine the ground under it.
'Something small? A box?'

'Could be.'

Imoen lifted a little, crashed item from the ground and started to look at it.
'This?', she asked, showing her discovery to her sister.

'Aye. Seems so...'

The thief nodded, wandering again. Then, she shrieked, throwing the box on the ground.
'Ewwww! A phylactery!'

'A what?!'

'I know that you don't care for magic, but don't be such a buffle - head! It's the place where liches keep their souls.'

'And that's... how I...'

'Yeah! No big heroic story, I'm afraid!'

Imoen laughed loudly, happily, and Finna joined her in a moment.
'But what kind of lich would keep his soul under a doormat?', the taller red head asked a long while after.

'And what kind of a swashbuckler would crash a phylactery under her heel instead of sticking her pointy blade right through a lich'es undead corpse?', Imoen laughed again, quotting her sister.

'A beginner!', Finna said, 'and I need to git meself a better sword, I do.'

'And I need a Shadow Armour', the thief retorted, 'well, it's not like any of us will get what we need... we don't have much gold and all..'

Finna smirked.
'And you call me a buffle - head? We just took on a lich. I bet he has THOUSANDS of gold pieces somewhere. If not, I've been to his house. Even if we sold his belongings, it would make a nice sum.'

'Heh, true true! And I expect a double share of the loot!'

'No. It will go in three parts. If not for this colorful fella here, we'd be both done fer, we would...'

'Right...', Imoen nodded, looking at the stunned elf, 'but ya'd share our gold with a pansy elf? Reevor would hit ya in the head!'

'If he jumped really high, that is.'

'Whatever. It's just... strange of ya to be so kind to elves, hah...'

'Elf or not, he helped us. A dwarf always pays his debts, so Reevor said.'

'Finna?'

'Aye?'

'You're not a dwarf. Ya may speak as if ya were one, but you're not.'

'But I'm a swashbuckler! I have a bloody reputation to...'

'... maintain, yeah. Whatever. This fella is more lucky than Khalid and Jaheira were, tehehe!'

'Them tree - huggers! Yuck. Don't mention them. I had a fair share of stress today.'

'Alrite. I wonder who is this guy, anyway... and how will he react on the news that he has a small fortune.'

As if one of the Gods wanted to indulge her curiosity, the spell broke, and the colorful elven fellow was able to move again.
He looked around, obviously surprised with the fact that he is still alive.

'My fair ladies', he bowed, 'if not the surroundings, I would be sure that I died and arrived at Nine Hells... where two fiery - haired succubuses will torment me for eternity... a fate I would not mind.'

The elf smiled at them. It seemed that stun was contagious: Imoen looked like she was under this spell already, smiling dreamily.
Finna looked at the guy's clothing. Bloody hell, I understand blue, but pink? This bloody elf looks like a queer!

'And who the blazes are ya?', she asked.

'Ah, forgive my manners. My name is Coran. Coran of Tethyr.'