A/N: If I had money, I'd send a cheque to the Pocket Plane Group instead of doing stupid things. Anyways, after a long bout with the NPC mod for BG1, I've decided to make a small collection of my 'early' stories about the Unnamed Hero from my other story, Bar Talk. They tend to be a little darker, but I still like them. Enjoy. All of them are dedicated to the Pocket Plane Group, whose work in fleshing out the game I can only aspire to.

I threw another log on the fire, grimacing. Xan and Minsc were arguing over something, but that wasn't what was bothering me. My arm was, my arm and the sensation that I was being watched. The cobwebbed tree of Cloakwood scared me. They didn't seem to bother Kivan, or Branwen, or Minsc. Imoen was a little creeped out and so was Dynaheir, but that was to be expected. Too many spiders.

I hate spiders.

It was time to bed down. Minsc was putting down a hammer- he had just set up his witches tent. Kivan was throwing something into the stewpot. We hadn't seen so much as a squirrel in days- the spiders had probably eaten them all. I shrugged my left arm, rolling it in the joint. the wound protested. I groaned a little, began taking off my armor.

"Something bothering you, Lathandiran?"

"Nothing, nothing Branwen."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

My stunt had backfired a wee bit. It worked, sure, but I was missing half an eyebrow, among other things. I remembered the 'ping' that the potion made, the ungodly smell after. Thank the Dawnlord that no one but me was hurt- I was largely responsible for this ill-planned and ill advised adventure. The incursion into Cloakwood was turning out only slightly better than the raid on the bandit camp- Khalid and Jaheira were laid out at the Friendly Arm Inn, after she had been badly poisoned and he had his leg rebroken. It had been a bad, bad idea to go up against a camp of sixty with only eight of my buddies. I screwed up, and people got hurt.

There was only one piece left to my platemail. Kivan was watching, Branwen beside him. They knew. But I wasn't going to admit it. I was paying the price. I wriggled the plate. It seemed stuck, like it was glued on...

Oh, crap.

I remembered the searing heat, my shield not big enough, and the burn...and shrugging it off in a burst of adrenaline. That was hours ago. I wiggled it a little more. Branwen exchanged another glance with Kivan, started forward. I held up my hand.

"No. I'm fine."

I went for my boot knife. I used it for eating, more than anything. Gritting my teeth, I slid it tenderly along the inside of the shoulder plate. At first, I felt nothing. The skin was melted on, alright. Nice and dead. I kept pushing, THEN I felt it. Nice sharp pain. I looked up, Imoen was watching now, trying to explain the situation to Minsc. Kivan's dead eyes watched as I slowly seperated myself from my armor plate. Finally, it dropped to the ground.

"Damn it, man," cursed Branwen, grabbing a roll of bandages, "you are acting like a damn fool and you know it."

"Yeah, yeah."

"What would Jaheira say, whelp?"

"I know."

"You have no need to show us that you are warrior-born. Tempus already blesses you, so much is clear."

"No. No it isn't."

"Shut up. What you did in that cave was reckless."

I had gotten close enough to the spider queen, hand out of sight behind my back like a nobleman, and let her ramble on till I let the pin on the potion go and tossed it at her. The others had stayed back, barely. I had been scorched a little, but the spiders died or were hurt so bad it was easy to finish them off.

"What's Khalid going to say when he sees this scar, hmm? Hmmm?"

"I'm not a little boy, Branwen."

The sound her hand made when it hit my head reminded of me of the time when Minsc broke a broadsword on a tasloi.

"You are! You might be a warrior, a strong one, but you are still but a whelp. Learn the difference between stupidity and courage quickly, for Tempus does not look kindly on idiots. We are your friends, remember that."

"Ow."

Tears streamed down my face as I sat back up. Branwen looked worried, before finally breaking down cursing and stomping off into the night.