There was nothing like the smell of freshly hacked pine to put a dent in Thalia's wretched dreams. It was a crisp, green scent, mingling with spilled hay and her own sweat. Imoen might have brought her a mug of too-bitter tea. Gorion would rather she have some quiet time in front of the crackling fire. Thalia preferred hit things.
She grunted and threw her weight behind what would have been an excellent overhead cut. The blunted sword bit into the wooden frame of the practice dummy with a satisfying thud, sending wood chips into the air. Spinning around, she crossed her legs and parried an imaginary slash from the other dummy before aiming a swipe to the head. Catching on the loose helmet, her attack sent the helm flying across the practice yard.
Wiping her brow, Thalia scowled and tossed her sword aside. What was even the point anymore?
While not nightly, the dreams were a regular enough occurrence that Candlekeep's guards tired of shooing her away from their practice yard. Thalia used to be able to laugh off the nightmares, saying that Imoen's hobby of digging up macabre bard songs made it too hard to sleep. She had never slept well.
And then there was the seal. A cracked smiling skull. It featured in most of her sleepless nights. The mere sight of it caused her stomach to heave and made her want to run and hide. It convinced her the dreams had a magical origin, which only served to frighten her more. If only Gorian were more available these days, she thought wistfully.
The wind blew through her short and sweat-drenched ash brown hair, sending a chill down her spine. Gritting her teeth, she retrieved her sword and returned to hacking the dummies. Her loose day clothes chilled with sweat and her muscles ached, but nothing she did could lessen the dark circles under her eyes.
There was no reason a particularly humble horror story should have bothered Thalia so much, but she woke in cold sweats, trembling. Many times, with nightmares no worse than this, she woke screaming. And then Imoen would fret and bring her awful tea and would insist on talking. Thalia bristled at the pity. Bad dreams never killed anyone before.
The light of dawn crept over the high walls of the priory. She grimaced at the light and crossed the open courtyard to fall into a pile of clean hay by the animal pens.
One of Candlekeep's guards hauled a cloth covered wagon down the cobble path to the inn. Cod, merl, perch. She smelled the fresh fish a mile away. The fortress monastery of Candlekeep rose high on the cliffs of the Sword Coast and many small lords hoped to gather favour from Oghma by feeding his faithful.
"Did I miss all the show?" a high voice called from off to her right.
Thalia didn't even need to look.
"It was a grand battle," she said airily, "the famous Thalia the Bold, Ward of Gorion, and Aegis of Candlekeep 'gainst two foul drow of the Underdark."
Thalia's vision was suddenly dominated by the very pink figure that was Imoen. A muddy raspberry skirt fell to her ankles and a matching vest buttoned over a loose shirt the colour of newborn piglets. Imoen looked down at Thalia through a ragged shock of orange hair, pulling a face that scrunched her freckles together.
"I thought you were supposed to be my sidekick," she said sternly. "If my sidekick goes off to kill drow, what am I supposed to do?"
Thalia shrugged and patted the hay next to her. "Kill dragons?"
Imoen dropped next to her, her blue eyes twinkling even as she scowled. "And what happens when Imoen the Magnificent runs out of dragons to slay?" She lounged back dramatically, loose bits of straw catching in her hair.
Thalia snorted. "I thought you were 'Imoen the Quick'?"
Imoen pushed her roughly in the shoulder. "If my assistant is being 'the Bold'. I gotta be better than that, unless you wanna change your adventuring handle."
Thalia was just about to protest that they never were going adventuring, so it was a moot point, when she saw one of the long houses around the courtyard open and a short middle-aged man step from it, broom in hand.
Her eyes widened and she struggled to get up from the hay. "Uh, I think we need to get back to the inn," she said quickly to Imoen.
Dreppin started hollering at them to get out of his hay and was making impressive speed for a drunkard battling his ritual hangover. His watery eyes narrowed in anger.
Imoen groaned and extended her arms. "Help me up, Lia," she said. "I don't feel like getting swept to death."
Thalia pulled the slight girl to her feet and grabbed her sword from where she had dropped it. Stumbling in their haste, Dreppin refused to chase them but he still brandished his broom as they ran back to the inn at full-tilt.
Imoen yanked open the door and Thalia ducked her head to avoid the doorframe. The inn was the second largest building only to the great library, but many of its rooms were full at any given time. A few overly eager visitors sat with their breakfast by the fireplace. The weathered chestnut panels and vibrant frayed rugs embraced her. She and Imoen had lived all their lives in the attic room, many visitors the worse for it.
Panting, Imoen clutched a stitch in her side as she leaned against a wall. "Can we … not do that running thing... too much?"
"My, Imoen," said Thalia, scandalized. "I thought adventurers of all stripes were more used to such exertion."
"Not in skirts," she said, kicking up at it so it fluttered like a cloak, hindering her movement.
"Then wear breeches," Thalia shot back.
Imoen bit her lip, conflicted as she looked down at the rest of her attire. "But my favourite breeches are black."
Thalia chuckled. She put a hand on the stair's oak railing. "Soon, they'll call you 'Imoen the Pink'."
"Where ya think yer headed, lil missies?"
Thalia grimaced and, without turning, knew Imoen did as well. Her stomach dropped as she looked back at Winthrop, whom Imoen had warmly named "Puffguts" in early childhood due to the man being almost a perfect sphere. He was a loud, rude slop of a man with more chins than he had fingers and a laugh to tremble glassware.
"To study?" said Imoen tentatively.
While Gorion had brought Thalia and Imoen from the outside world as his wards almost seventeen years ago, Winthrop had taken a fancy to them and Gorion let them live in the dusty attic room of his inn. Not many people in Candlekeep were fond of small children, even fewer of Imoen's attitude.
Winthrop puffed up and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders. "For the chantry? I'm more like to be joining than either youse. Spring may be here, kids, but not a one's told the weather that. The inn still needs wood, so hop to it."
Before the sun had risen properly over the high stone walls, the two girls were already at work maintaining the fortress. Wood needed chopping, floors needed sweeping, gardens needed weeding, the pigs needed tending to, and Dreppin and his damned hay needed an apology. Even as they gave the crotchety man his due, the library dominated the skies at every turn, leering over the residents of Candlekeep. The six-storey granite colossus was peppered with stained glass windows and pointed towers and reeked with the smell of ancient parchment.
The priory and its library was famous throughout Faerûn for its vast archive of written works from all across the realms. People of all colours and accents flocked to Candlekeep, drawn by the security of the impenetrable militia and the wonders of the great library. The monks of Oghma, the Lord of Knowledge, studied these writings, hoping to gain further insight in the unknown. When their studies dried up, the monks took to chanting the prophecies of Alaundo, the great seer who built Candlekeep high on the cliffs overlooking the western Sword Coast.
" 'White birds shall vanish from the North, and a great evil shall die and be reborn—' "
"Yes, thank you for that, Master Sarbek," said Thalia with more patience that she felt was earned.
The old man snapped from his trance. "Speaking the Sixth Portents always calms me in troubled mornings, Miss Thalia, Miss Imoen," he nodded earnestly.
Thalia lifted the heavy leatherbound book he was turning through and ran a rag pungent with polish under it. "Is that so, sir?"
Imoen shot her a look over her shoulder as she continued to dust the shelves, but it was already too late. Thalia's careless words began the Master's lamentations.
"Oh, yes, to share the material plane with fearsome gods like Bane or Talos, it was—" Sarbek shuddered so hard his gold-rimmed glasses slipped off his withered, wrinkled face "—horrific, yes, but to think our Lord Oghma was also thrust into a physical body and made to walk this world… 'Tis indescribable. Of course, though, once sundered from their divine essence a god is truly no more than a man—less, even. A spirit, a soul devoid of physical form or the godly ability to create a form from the elements about him. Even so, quite a few powerful and ancient draconic gods were deprived thereof their immortal stasis by the clandestine and wholly unsavoury company out of Cambury, who made enemies of many powerful cults and religions as they similarly dispatched their heads. Their replacements—well, you do not even know their originals. You do not remember it, of course," he tittered, turning the page with a dangerous crinkle.
"I wasn't born yet, sir." Thalia moved past him to polish another table and sighed when she heard Sarbek speak again.
Imoen gave her another pointed look as she slinked around the corner of the towering bookshelf, reaching over to quietly insert a twisted metal pin into an innocuous door.
Sarbek coughed a lung and folded his glasses on the table. "When word first reached Candlekeep of the manifestation, the high priest and I were scribing one of the earliest texts of the Wise Alaundo's prophecies. It was a detailed account of the cosmic reckonings in the kingdom of Vanoch and the wrath they invoked by the Dread Three, but the priest was determined that it was a forewarning to the Empire of Thay, about the downfall of righteous pride and the self-serving man. And I asked him, 'What does it have to do with the Thayvians?', and then he said to me." At this, Sarbek began to laugh so hard he could barely continue, " 'Sarbek, it says red, what else could it be but the Red Wizards?' "
Thalia groaned internally and turned to Imoen. "Hurry up," she mouthed impatiently. Imoen concealed a giggle and tried to jiggle the door again, but was making slow progress.
Still chuckling at the stupidity of one of the scholars, Sarbek raised his voice. "The red was obviously a warning to the blood of the Vanochs should they continue to anger the Dread Three. The priest contested the Thayvian's common reverence for their barbaric nameless gods brought further credibility, but we all know it was only because his sister married the Thayvian and the grudge he carries extends to the entire society—never mind his brother-in-law is a cobbler. A cobbler. He has never been near those beastly wizards in all his years."
Thalia finally heard the tell-tale click and breathed a grateful sigh of relief. Imoen slipped in the room soundlessly, but Thalia's shoes still made noise that attracted the attention of old Sarbek. Imoen closed the door behind them and they found themselves in a small dark closet, stocked with restoration materials.
"Miss Thalia?" Sarbek called. "Miss Imoen?"
"Go, go, go," Imoen whispered, pushing Thalia ahead.
"We really shouldn't," she said half-heartedly.
Imoen scoffed and rolled her eyes. Kneeling down, she dragged a heavy canvas bag of untreated leather, revealing a ragged hole in the wooden wall behind it about two feet high and a little less wide. Imoen slid through gracefully, while Thalia struggled past with her extra height and broad shoulders.
Imoen wiggled backwards a bit to make room, the crawlspace stuffy and cramped. Just as Thalia settled the bag into place behind them, the closet flooded with light. Sarbek's brown slippers were barely visible for a heart-pounding moment before he left, closing the door with a huff and covering the closet back in darkness.
Imoen's bony knees pressed into Thalia's back, shaking with suppressed laughter.
"I hope you will still find this funny when Gorion locks us in here," hissed Thalia.
Imoen struck a match and lit a drippy candle that had sealed itself to the planks of the floor ages ago. "Oh, don't be such an old fiddle-faddle," she said.
The candle illuminated the crawlspace with a flickery glow. No larger than an alleyway, the space was just wide enough to comfortably sit sideways in and not bang one's head. Imoen picked up the old blackboard and balanced it on her knee.
"Ooh, you were telling the one about Drizzt and the Ice Dragon," she whispered. She tapped the half-finished sketch showing a handsome dark elf facing off against the fearsome snow-white lizard, which, in chalk, could just as easily have been a large chicken.
Thalia settled back against the short door and fingered the series of balanced throwing knives Imoen had scavenged from the guards over the years. She held on by its blade and threw it down the hall with a practiced flick of her wrist. It bit into the chipped wood, quivering.
Imoen ducked low and continued her sketch of the famous dark elf adventurer and his companions as Thalia continued the story in a whispered hush. Gorion had raised them both on a thousand stories of heroes and legends and, though Imoen knew the stories as well as Thalia did, she still prefered listening.
The gentle scrape of the chalk and board along with the memorized bard's tale and the rhythmic plonk of the knives into the makeshift target almost relaxed her, even though she had been on edge the last few tendays.
"And they all lived happily ever after." Plonk. "The end."
Imoen glaced up from her drawing with a stern look. "That's not how it ends, Lia. Drizzt is still out there, adventuring and stuff. Saving people, killing monsters, and there'll be dozens more stories by the time we get to be world-famous adventurers ourselves." She returned to her blackboard as she daydreamed out loud. "We should find a wizard to join our company, though, just in case. All the best adventuring bands have a wizard," she said matter-of-factly, handing Thalia the knives she pulled from the wood.
Thalia sighed and wrinkled her nose.
Imoen groaned as she wiped off her drawing. "I know you don't much like wizards—"
"Arcane magic is dangerous, Im," warned Thalia, fully aware of Imoen's inane fascination with it. "Have you noticed most wizards go mad?"
Disbelieving, Imoen kept drawing. It was a magic wand, the gem at the end of it shining with lots of long lines. Thalia pursed her lips, knowing full well Imoen had pinched the same one from a visiting wizard a month before and it was currently secreted in a false wall in their attic room..
"Magic is beautiful," she whispered guiltily. "Making something out of nothing is incredible. Have you ever watched the priests work over the gardens, making flowers bloom or warping the water fountain into living beings, how the visitors applaud?"
Plonk. "There's a difference between wizard-magic and priest-magic," said Thalia stiffly. PLONK. "Priests' magic is filtered through the gods, who monitor the powers of their followers. Wizards access the Weave directly and have nothing to stop them but their own ambition." PLONK. PLONK. Thalia let out a long breath and tried to count to ten, as Gorian had advised her many times, but it never helped.
Despite being a mage himself or perhaps because he was, Gorion had warned them to never get involved with magic. More often than not, the layman who started down the arduous journey of arcane mastery would find nothing but familiar broken dreams at best, or lose their minds to the Weave and have their souls devoured by creatures from the Outer Planes at worst. Imoen didn't listen and Thalia worried for her.
Without looking at her, Imoen yanked the knives from where they had buried themselves in the wall's bullseye. Thalia forced a smile. Today was not the day to continue with this argument again. "Maybe it would be better to have Drizzt join us. His swords would be better than any magic."
"Scimitars," corrected Imoen, smiling back faintly.
"It's—oh, by the Nine Hells!" A swooping feeling of vertigo passed through her, quickly replaced by a sinking feeling of guilt.
Imoen dropped her chalkboard. "Gorion always has a location spell prepared," she laughed, surely having felt it herself.
"Seeing how you drag me into these holes, are you surprised?" Thalia resigned herself to leaving the crawlspace, but it was no simple feat to move the bag that blocked the doorway. "We had better see what it is he wants."
Imoen stretched her knees with a groan, brushing the dust and shards of wood from her skirt. "Especially since he's been all head-in-the-clouds recently."
Thalia gave the bag one last push as worry pinched her. Gorion had always been available, an everlasting friendly fixture of Candlekeep. He commanded respect in the monastery and beyond its walls, being a former traveling companion of the wizard Elminster and an ex-member of Elminster's own Harpers, a storied mercenary company founded in his name.
Gorion had recently withdrawn into his office, brushing off meetings with fellow scholars and taking his meals in his room. While he hadn't turned Thalia away, when they did speak it was brief and inconsequential, and his mind was a million miles away.
"I'm sure he's just fine," added Imoen, reading Thalia's silence for concern. "You worry too much, misery guts." She blew out the candle and followed her out.
Back in the harsh daylight of the sunlit foyer, Thalia squinted as the location spell seize on her again. The blurry figure of Gorion marched across the shining marble floors, his shoes echoing with every step.
"There you two are," he snapped. "Shirking your chores again?"
Imoen clapped her hands behind her back and looked at the ground, her lips sucked into her mouth, but Thalia blinked a few times and his agitation melted into relief. The crow's feet around his eyes crinkled in a familiar way but the lines in his face seemed deeper, his cheekbones more prominent, and his voice cracked from disuse.
"Maybe if Dreppin didn't drink into the small hours, we wouldn't have to hide from his broom. Sir," Thalia tacked on, returning Gorion's tired smile.
"Have the priests still not taken his drink? What is this place coming to when drunkards beat children in a monastery?" He shook his head in mock shame.
Sensing the irony, Imoen realised they weren't in trouble and piped up to inform Mr Gorion that they weren't children anymore, as she had recently turned twenty herself—although it was still in doubt how old either of them truly were.
The smile dimmed from Gorion's eyes. It only served to worry Thalia more. What could truly be so terrible that Gorion, who had always respected her as an adult, had decided it was more important to keep up a façade than to tell the truth?
"No. No, you're not anymore, I suppose," said Gorion. "If I may speak to Thalia alone, Imoen?"
Imoen exchanged a confused look with Thalia, but left the great library, the door closing behind her with a clang. The knot of fear in Thalia's stomach twisted deeper.
Gorion glanced about, but there was no one. His smile had completely fallen, his voice lowered to a whisper, "Thalia, we've to go on a trip and I would like you to prepare for the journey." He took a leather money purse from within his robes and pushed it in her hands. "It is very important that you pack your possessions so that we may leave before nightfall. It is unnerving, I understand, but it is vital that you trust me."
Thalia peered within the heavy coin purse. Gold coins, all the same size. Dozens and dozens of them, each stamped with the mark of the kingdom who minted it. Thalia recognised but half of them. The wheat sheaf of the Dale Heartlands, the eagle of Everska, the starburst of Calimshime, Baldur's Gate's soaring falcon. More gold than Winthrop ever had in his drawers.
"Wha… uh… and what should I be buying with all this?" she stammered.
"My dear," he sighed, "purchase what gear you need to exist in the world outside. Armour and arms, chiefly, as I will take care of other supplies. The keep is well-protected but not invulnerable."
"Wh-What?" breathed Thalia. "We live in a fortress, what in all the realms would ever want to harm us, or even be able to get to us in here?"
Gorion swallowed. The action looked as though it pained him. "Candlekeep is indeed a formidable obstacle for book-thieves and other ne'er-do-wells," he said, "but no matter how thick the net, one mosquito will always find its way through."
It didn't escape her notice that he had dodged half her question, but she sensed this was not the time to press it further. Although he was clearly scared, there was no sign of panic in his face or voice, only resolve and a quiet, well-maintained fear.
She cinched the purse of gold onto her belt. "And where are we running to from this mosquito, sir?" she whispered.
Gorion shook his head. "I haven't yet decided, but we will both be safer on the move. I have old friends scattered throughout Faerûn, old favours that demand being called in." His silver eyes smiled with the mischief of a much younger man but then it was gone. "Listen carefully, my dear," he added in a quieter voice. "Our first stop will be the Friendly Arm Inn, where we are to meet with the Harpers, Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends and, I swear to you, you may trust them with your life."
Thalia nodded, her hands shaking around the coin.
"Meet me back here as quickly as you can, do not tarry and do not tell anyone we are leaving today." Gorion briskly walked back out the library, leaving her alone for the moment.
Thalia's legs felt like jelly and she breathed shallowly through her teeth as she walked the familiar path back to Winthrop's inn, as though on automatic. What would ever want to hurt them? What would even stand a chance at gaining entry? Few people had the means to even enter Candlekeep. The price to enter was a tome of great value to be added to the archives and the monks were very discerning. More were turned away than permitted entry and many rich dignitaries threw tantrums outside the sealed gates.
Imoen already settled at the bar with lunch. An ale and a half-eaten sandwich of sliced apples and cheese stood in front of her, as she cheerfully chatted along with Winthrop.
"What did Mr G want?" asked Imoen.
Thalia took a swig from Imoen's drink to settle her dry throat. "Can I see your wares, Winthrop?"
"What happened?" asked Imoen again, more urgently this time.
Winthrop laughed from his gut. "Look, kids, I know ye wants to go out 'ere and stab yerselves a dragon, but I can't have ye blunting all the swords Jessop makes before we gets a chance to sell 'em!"
Without taking her eyes off the barkeep, Thalia undid the string on the coin purse and dropped it on the table, the heavy jingle of many coins a sign to any trader. "I'd like some armour, too, please. Mail, scale, nothing too terribly heavy."
Winthrop's smile fell off and he snatched the bag, his sausage fingers making quick work of counting the coins. He came to terms at well over a hundred. "What're you doing, kid?" he asked quietly, his eyebrows falling into his eyes.
"Bow, arrows, a sword," added Thalia, avoiding his eye.
Winthrop left the bar with one last uncertain look at the girls and went into a back room where he kept the militia's surplus supplies.
Imoen tugged on her sleeve. "This is about the letter, isn't it?" she whispered.
Thalia took the stool next to her. "Gorion said nothing about a letter," she said, already anticipating Imoen's answer.
Imoen bit her lip. "I saw it lying open on his desk. Someone had warned him about something, that he needed to get moving before… before something happened."
A dozen thoughts flashed through Thalia's mind, but none of them made it out her mouth.
"Alrighty, then, girls." There was a resounding crash as Winthrop dropped three helmets on the bar and set down other pieces of metal armour that made an ungodly racket when they knocked into each other. "I know you've lifted yourselves a ton of daggers over the years—don't lie—but here's a proper sword. Try yer feel with that." He pulled a long blade from his belt and passed it to Thalia. Winthrop's concern cut her deep and she took the blade without a word.
She tried to swallow the invading tears she could feel burning behind her eyes, but the feel of live steel in her hands wasn't helping matters. It was a straight, simple longsword, shining like silver, with the symbol of Oghma—a sealed scroll—branded into the pommel. The blade tapered to a fine edge that scored her thumb when she tested it.
"Hang on, you'll want two of 'em," added Winthrop, waddling back to retrieve a second blade. "There's a bit of a crisis with the iron round here and most weapons made with it tend to crack like a small-town girl at the Neverwinter Ball." The silence hung heavy between them.
Thalia spent the next hour trying on bits and pieces of armour, trying to see which could fit, which could be cinched tighter or loosened to fit her comfortably. By the end, she sweltered with the effort, but felt better with a solid layer of steel around her.
"And your opinion?" asked Thalia, giving one last turn for her vocal critic.
Imoen sat at the stool with a ginger ale and a helmet far too big for her sunk over her eyes, her red hair peeking out the edges. "I still liked the leather armor better."
"Leather won't stop a battle-axe," said Thalia.
Imoen pouted and crossed her arms, muttering to herself. Thalia couldn't help but smile. In anticipation, Thalia gave her slight friend a hug, the armour rustling. The warmth of Imoen's arms around her neck and the characteristic smell of her hair caused a pang of pre-emptive sadness.
"Here're yer change," said Winthrop, sliding the deflated bag back over to Thalia. "Anything to eat or have a visit with yer old pal Winthrop?" His brow crinkled in hope.
Thalia took her considerably lighter purse back. "I'll come 'round later, back for dinner," she promised, smiling, but her expression almost broke at the look of relief on Winthrop's face. She turned and hurried up the stairs to her room.
"And don't ye even think about leaving me behind and chasing dragons, lil missy," hollered Winthrop.
There was a scraping sound as Imoen hopped off her high stool. "Nah, tonight's pork pie night and I never miss pork pie night, Puffguts!"
With the only slight reassurance, she nearly skipped up the stairs. Thalia was busy prying up loose floorboards, tossing the scratched blades to her bed. She had to make another trip to Imoen's little hideouts, too. Thalia didn't feel like leaving the weapons behind for the girl.
"What sort of things should I get?" asked Imoen in a rush. "I've already got a bow and a few arrows—probably loads more arrows—and maybe that nice leather armor, and I could borrow your little sword." Her hand reached sneakily for the shortblade among the daggers on the bed.
Thalia struggled with the words, as Imoen continued to plan out her adventuring kit but she didn't need to find them. The quiet stunned her enough.
There was the sharp clatter of steel on wood as Imoen dropped the shortblade. "I'm not coming with you," she said, defeated. "Of course I'm not. Gorion would never let me."
Thalia sighed and continued to rummage under the floor. "You're probably right. But I'm sure it's for the best. Who would take care of ol' Winthrop? Who would pick the nobles' pockets clean?"
"Alright," said Imoen, dejected but resigned.
Thalia narrowed her eyes and fixed her with a hard look. It wasn't like Imoen to give up so quickly. "Imoen," she said threateningly.
"Alright!" Imoen snapped, crossing her arms. "No need to give me that stink-eye, I'll stay put. Harper's honour."
"You aren't a Harper," said Thalia, unconvinced. "If it's going to be dangerous where me and Gorion are headed, I would feel better if you stayed here."
Imoen withered under Thalia's gaze and gave a long, rattling sigh. "But you have to remember to come get me when the danger's gone," she begged. "Send a pigeon. Don't leave me alone."
Imoen backed off when Thalia moved to hug her. Instead, Imoen straightened the blade back on the dresser and moved to leave. "Also," she added, "there was some visitor waiting for you in the priests' quarters."
"Who?"
"Didn't say. I just overheard Master Cohen telling Puffguts earlier that he had a guest waiting to speak with you and Gorion."
Something funny prickled the back of Thalia's neck. This wasn't a terribly unusual thing. Gorion had old friends all across the realm and many, who were strangers to her, greeted her foster father with open arms and bright smiles, bristling with rich and colourful stories. They had always been interesting company and, ordinarily, Thalia would assume the same today.
But today was a special day and the coincidence was too much for her.
"Thanks, Im," she said, slipping another knife into her boot. "I'll make sure he meets with Gorion before we leave."
Who knew? It could very well be an old friend of Gorion's, a traveling companion with whom he planned to share the road, to even assist them on their journey, much like those half-elves at the Friendly Arm Inn. Although Gorion was a powerful sage, the additional protection from a seasoned adventurer would be welcomed.
Thalia suspected they might need it.
