Sir Callum, once of Citadel Adbar, was used to the cold; he was built for it and he had been born in it. Yet even for him, the wind was bitter as it came roaring down the Long Road from the north. Snow was rare at this time of year, but it had visibly settled up on the high hills that separated Old Owl Well from Red Larch, perhaps brought by the darkly cloudy sky. This weather was doing nothing for his men's morale, and that did nothing for his mood in turn. Two days ago they had last fought the Eyegouger Orcs, and two days ago he had given up trying to scuff off the blood dried on his boots. There would be time enough for better hygiene once the Orcs were finally defeated.

Their camp was extensive, lodged in the foothills of the westerly-headed mountain range, and when Callum stepped out of his tent every morning he could see Old Owl Well to the south below him, defiantly bustling with life. It was a small town of sturdy stone houses, a place where most inhabitants were either traders in furs, meat or both and everyone was a livestock herder if they were not a craftsman. The sturdy Dwarven commander of these Neverwinter Greycloaks liked the tenacity of that place, and he wished to see it restored to peace. By having his men garrisoned just east of the town, closer to where they believed the Eyegougers' lair to be located, they had managed to stave off much of the danger. But not all. People were still being killed, houses still being raided. And every time, all of the dead bodies – and they were normally dead or dying – were dragged away. Sir Callum, long in the service of the Nine of Neverwinter and used to the vicious Orc tribes near that northerly Dwarvish settlement, still flinched at the thought of it.

Callum was stood wrapped in his two fur-lined grey cloaks, watching the sprawl of Old Owl Well and the mountains beyond, when a scout came rushing to his side.

"What is it?" he asked tersely, looking up at the young man whose salute tended more towards a nervous flinch when caught by the Dwarf's steely gaze.

"Sir. The group Captain Brelaina of the watch promised us has arrived."

"Good. About time we acted to recover Issani. I am sick to death of trying to read those half-legible scrawls the Orcs think to be ransom notes."

Looking past the scout, who stepped aside hastily, Callum watched a group of travellers moving up the hill towards him, and was not heartened by what he saw. A bald, heavily armoured dwarf with an axe strapped to his back, red-cheeked in the wind and too twitchy for an army recruit, walked with as much purpose as he could muster. He seemed particularly uncomfortable out of the four, his eyes darted all about as if expecting one of the Greycloaks to jeer him or even attack. Callum had seen his type before – his stance and build, combined with that dark hair, hinted at a brawler of Ironfist origins. As far from this Dwarf's side as she could get approached a thin young woman, dressed in layers of brown spun robes, who was wrapping herself with increasing fervour in the two fur cloaks about her shoulders. Her knotted brown hair was woven with branches to hold it back from her narrow, freckled face and she was evidently very young. He saw no evidence that she was armed, and it gave him pause.

Of the group of four, it was the two taking up the rear that started to change Callum's mind. They looked wary, and well-armed. The man had a cruel look that Callum did not trust, and a few curved scars on his jaw and neck, dressed in a thick tunic of studded leather over another tunic of fur-lined cloth, his bracers scratched and faded from use, his boots showing similar wear. With a longbow on his back and two quivers of arrows slung between his shoulder blades, several daggers could be seen about his person; one strapped to his left forearm, a hilt showing against each boot, while a longsword was sheathed on his right hip. Left-handed, Callum noted, a besieger, not a defender. He seemed at ease with the cold, not shivering like the girl in front of him, not intimidated of the camp or the wild lands like the Dwarf, and the make and style of his furs betrayed it all to Callum. Those hooded cloaks are made only north of Neverwinter. That meant Luskan, Mirabar, Adbar or Icewind Dale. The real Frozen North.

By the man, Callum observed the last of the group, who were now beginning to approach him with more purpose, halfway up the hill to his tent. She was evidently of Elvish descent, along with a delicate, feminine figure and large golden eyes, the irises of which were a little too large and far too strangely coloured for a human. The stray strands of hair that had escaped her hood were a deep blue, and her skin had a tinge of that colour as well. A Moon Elf, then. Tall for one of her kin she would stand easily half a foot over Callum and was dressed in a tunic of furs and supple leather, with thick gloves and a long, faded black cloak embroidered with silver. He wondered if she knew what those sigils meant, for Callum had seen them before. Her boots were sturdy and broad, laced up the sides, soft in the right places for agile movement and broad for marshy travel. A Moon Elf who was also a Harbourman, sporting a cloak of one very famous ancient city? Either way, she was armed as well as the man beside her, with a pair of kukris on her hips and daggers at her boots and outer thighs, a shortbow with a small quiver slung over her back. Not her weapon of choice, then, but Callum was yet to meet a warlike Elf with no proficiency with the bow. More than all of her companions she seemed watchful but at ease. Hopefully this did not equate to recklessness.

"This group looks more like mercenaries out for coin or adventurers in search of glory than Watch recruits," Callum grunted to the scout inching away from his side, "A brawler, a druid and a pair who look more like a ranger and a dueller than anything else…has Brelaina lost her mind at last?"

"They have the appropriate documents, Sir Callum. And two wear badges of the Watch." Ah, the Dwarf and the Elf, he could see the eye symbol glinting a steely grey on their left shoulders.

"Fine. Dismissed, boy. I'll deal with these alone."

"As you wish, sir."

"Who is your leader?" Callum called in his best booming voice, satisfied when several of the men in the camp automatically leapt to attention. He was going to have them as well-trained Greycloaks in no time. This was the campaign they had needed to make them into seasoned soldiers fit for duty, he surmised.

"I am," the Moon Elf replied, speeding her approach and reaching the waiting Dwarven Greycloak leader a moment later, "And we are here…"

"Under Brelaina's orders, I know. To recover the captured Waterdeep emissary, Issani, yes – I know," the Greycloak told her coolly, and watched her eyes narrow at his tone. No, she was no soldier, that was certain.

"And who're you?" the Dwarf at her side put in, his voice gruff, a little rougher than came naturally.

"I am Callum, one of Lord Nasher's Nine. I command these soldiers you see around you – none other than a contingent of the Greycloaks of Neverwinter, the best of the city's fighting force. I should warn you now that we are hard pressed by the Orcs who live in those mountains ahead as part of the Eyegouger Clan. We will defeat them, but we need the group who are looking for the emissary to take out Logram, the clan's leader, as well. Without him the Orcs will have no purpose. They will scatter as surely as did the armies of King Obould at the Spine of the World."

"Sounds like a suicide mission to me," the man with the bow growled, of all the group the one who stayed the furthest back, "And how do you even know the emissary you are looking for is still alive?"

"I know as surely as I know those Orcs are not working alone. They are better armoured and better organised than ever I've known them to be," Callum explained, unperturbed, "And their backers will have the sense to keep an emissary alive. Born into the higher echelons of Waterdhavian society, the emissaries we've had before from Waterdeep would always get a good ransom. We were not expecting to have to replace our last one, but he was old and wished to die in retirement, and no man should be begrudged that after a life of long, faithful service. But it is not just Issani we need to save, for the Orc attacks have cut off trade between Yartar and Triboar. That hits Neverwinter hard as well, though you must have learned on your way here that the Long Road is not so easy to reach from Neverwinter as the High Road."

"Aye," the Dwarf grunted, evidently warming to Callum's stern manner, "And we heard rough talk o' the Orcs in the taverns and even the streets o' Triboar."

"And that 'rough talk' turned into open curses for the Orcs as we passed through Old Owl Well," the young woman who must have been a druid or something close, put in. Her voice was soft, lulling almost.

The man and the Elf shared a dark look at their companions' words, and it was the latter who finally spoke.

"Saving an emissary is one thing. Getting to Logram Eyegouger and killing him too…and getting out alive is a different matter," she pointed out, subconsciously shifting her pack on her shoulders – Callum noticed she was the only one who had kept their belongings so close, "And you do intend us to come out of this alive, don't you? Neither Captain Brelaina nor her Marshal ever made it clear that we would be seeking to destroy the clan as well."

"The plan has changed, as have your orders. Follow me," Callum commanded, turning back towards his tent and gesturing at the camp's cook, who stood under an awning stirring broth as he did so.


It was a relief to finally step out of the cold winds when the Greycloak Leader did eventually invite them into his – still frosty – tent. It was a simple construction, broad and square and of grey canvas, with a large central table covered with plans and a small locked chest by a rudimentary bed roll. Given that the Greycloaks were supposed to be the most noble of Lord Nasher's soldiers, second only to the Neverwinter Nine –of which Callum had proclaimed he was also a part – the large, winter-ready Dwarf afforded himself few luxuries. His stern, well-spoken tone had put Isaviel on edge at first, but he was clearly a seasoned warrior, with notches on his armour and his battelaxe, a jagged scar visible on his neck where his plaited beard and thick ponytail of long blonde hair parted.

"Alright," Bishop sighed, positioning himself at the doorway as Callum made his way across the tent to the other side of the table, pulling off thick gloves to sift through sheets of parchment until he pulled forth a stitched cloth map only two palms across, "Which variant of Orc target practice are we headed for now, then?"

"This is not just 'target practice'," Elanee gasped indignantly, "Orcs are the greatest threat to the balance of life, other than cities of course. This is a du…"

"With all respect, young woman, his sentiment is closer to that of my men," Callum pointed out by way of silencing the recurring argument. Isaviel almost laughed at that – he had succeeded where she had not, on that front.

"Must I still impersonate a new emissary?"

"Yes, that is our intent," Callum nodded, "But you will need to reach the other side of the mountains to do it. The river runs thinnest between the two highest mountains, so you will need to follow the river-side path to ford it. Once you have done this, you will need to cross through the foothills and get back to that same side, via Stone Bridge. Make your way to the other side and, Tyr willing, you will have avoided the suspicions of the Orcs long enough to join the men I have waiting there to act as your 'guards'. From there you must take the more expected route along the Long Road, as if you were to turn west and head for Neverwinter just past Triboar. If you get that far – and I doubt that you will, with the Orcs on the lookout for another replacement emissary or Waterdeep dignitary come to bring ransom – then camp for a day or so in the foothills just south of Old Owl Well. They will catch you there, I am certain."

"And what will your guards do when I am 'captured'? Allow themselves to die?"

"No. they will make it appear as if they cannot help you," Callum glared then, "And your…friends will be expected to track those Orcs into the mountains and determine where the Eyegouger lair is. At least one of them will then need to report back to me so that we can send out a force to destroy this camp once and for all, while you get the emissary out and aim to kill Logram as well. We are also hoping that your activities will alert the one the Orcs call Katalmach, a great foe of theirs and a great help to us. But he would be a greater help to us if he were acting with us, and he will almost certainly come to your aid. If this occurs, your cover will no longer be necessary. Your task will be to gain his help in finding and getting into the clan lair."

"…Right," Isaviel took the map from him and looked at it in mounting dismay, finally meeting his determined eyes, "This is insane," she hissed as the camp's cook entered, handing each of the new arrivals a bowl of warm broth, as Callum had subtly requested.

"Perhaps, but have you a better plan?"


A day later, once they had rested and had their fair share of warm food at the camp it was time to set out again for Isaviel, Elanee, Khelgar and Bishop, along with Karnwyr who had been very wary to approach so many people at first. Empathising with the wolf, the Moon Elf had found the boisterous but rigidly regular and organised atmosphere of the army camp fascinatingly disturbing. Her companions had also seemed out of place with the Greycloaks, most of whom utterly ignored them. The four stayed around their own slightly removed campfire, which they had made for themselves, and had no issue sleeping on the bed rolls they had grown accustomed to after their six day ride from Neverwinter.

Although the warm food had been a relief, if not the Greycloaks' company, Isaviel had been glad to be on the move again. However, she had not been expecting the icy temperatures to worsen once they entered the mountain pass, nor to feel so closely watched so instantly. It had taken barely an hour before Bishop and Elanee had agreed with Isaviel's summation that they would do well to climb up and travel off the narrow, walled-in road. Khelgar had been less willing, but when the others did as they had agreed he was quick to join.

Up there among the tired branches of stunted trees and the odd scraps of grass and other greenery the wind was brutal enough to burn, constantly sending cloaks to ripple and flap back. Shivering violently, Isaviel pulled her fur-lined under-cloak more tightly about herself, glad that Khelgar had insisted they each acquire such items before venturing into the mountains. His old home, that of the Ironfist Stronghold, resided in similar conditions, further south and west on the far side of the Sword Mountains, and he was used to such. Despite the cleared sky, now a radiant blue, it remained cold, and the apparent shelter of the great jagged mountains looming up on all sides, the dry, biting wind always finding a way to come howling in amongst them, tearing at skin.

Having to creep, constantly crouched, expecting attack at any moment, Isaviel sorely missed Neeshka's presence. The Tiefling had excellent hearing and could have confirmed her suspicions that whenever they stopped, the distant clank of mail did too. But the Thieves' Guild, having accepted Neeshka, would need a little more time to coordinate before the Tiefling was free to participate as fully as she had promised in Isaviel's efforts to learn more of the shards. There would be plenty of time for that when she returned, however. Isaviel had not left much time to discuss what she had heard of Moire's conversation, but it had undoubtedly piqued her interest. There were more shards…and they were evidently very important to someone. Someone who had sought to kill her, just as the Giths had.

After nearly two more hours of movement, shouts suddenly erupted close by, where the path sloped down a little, curving away to the left and beginning to widen significantly. Perhaps they had not been the prey all of this time. To determine the truth of this, Isaviel sped up her pace, hoping the others would follow, and finally got a view of the action when she reached the bend in the road, keeping close behind a large boulder to maintain her cover.

A large band of hulking porcine Orcs, surprisingly well-armed as Callum had warned, outnumbered a group of what Isaviel initially assumed to be Greycloak fighters by two to one. Yet not a single one of the humans had fallen or appeared to have sustained injury, armoured heavily in plate mail full with visors and gleaming weaponry. A tall, dark-haired warrior shone brightly at the heart of the battle, wielding a hammer from which glowed blue light.

Observing this, Isaviel felt a hand grasp her shoulder and heard Bishop's voice over to her right. Half-turning to look at him, she saw he had his bow in his other hand, and she could feel his forearm against her back. But he was not looking at her, rather towards the fighting group, and his expression was one of disgust.

"By the Nine Hells," he groaned, "Don't tell me he's a paladin."

"Hey! Those're our Orcs!" Khelgar roared, his voice thundering down the mountain pass as he tumbled in a mini avalanche and hurtled towards the fray, giving several of the nearest Orcs pause.

"So much for subtlety," Isaviel sighed as Elanee, now in the form of a bear, went bounding past already on the road, and the Moon Elf looked to Bishop fiercely.

"Let's not be outdone by them," he grinned, still holding onto her shoulder as he pulled her a little closer, very deliberately glancing at her lips before speaking again, "No one should look weak before a paladin's righteous gaze," and his tone was mocking the world when he gave her a little shove forwards, already reaching behind his back for arrows.

"Agreed," Isaviel grinned, leaving behind her cloaks and pack, unsheathing her kukris as she headed further along the raised area of stones. She could see a large number of the Orcs breaking off to swarm Khelgar, several failing to dodge Elanee's bestial form, barely having time to cry out in fear and raise their arms feebly as she barrelled into them.

Utilising her natural Elvish agility and hours of practice from youth, Isaviel never slowed as she began her nimble descent of the steep rockface, somersaulting from one large boulder. Mid-fall she aligned her landing with a carefully placed kick to one surprised Orc's neck, breaking bone, and had to twist quickly, landing among four adversaries on one palm. Long hair swept the dusty ground audibly as she span again, knocking back one Orc in a move that allowed her to right herself, bringing a kukri to bear and slitting his throat. Hearing the tell-tale whistle of one of Bishop's incoming arrows behind her, Isaviel arched out of the way and the projectile took another Orc in the gut, the force of the longbow shot sending it tumbling back. He did not warn me – that could just as easily have killed me, Isaviel realised, and decided to take it up with him later. For the moment, she had another Orc or two coming her way, and no time to think.

Isaviel readied herself to spin away, only to see two more coming in the other direction, much closer, shouting guttural battle cries. Automatically she backed up…and found herself trapped. A little desperately, she flung herself further against the rocks and heard a swing intended for her scrap against stone. Another whistle came, this one louder than before, and two sickening thuds. That Orc fell, gurgling, with two arrows in its throat. When Isaviel moved again though, she felt a great jarring blow against her spine, and a cruel, rasping laugh. Crying out, she lashed around with her kukri, ignoring the searing pain that action caused her, and left a long split across the Orc's twisted, greenish skin, cracking two teeth in its lower, jutting jaw, and splitting a purple lip. It roared, standing up to its full height and dropping its club, grasping at its face with dirty, gnarled hands. Thud. And it went down, too.

This gave a little respite, and Isaviel pushed back away from the wall, readying herself for her next attacker, wishing there were even a few shadows to blend with in this blinding light. She saw that Khelgar stood atop a pile of enemies, swinging his battleaxe with abandon. Elanee was aiding in this, using her bear's weight and paws to rend and smash their foes. Behind her, the Moon Elf could still hear the ringing of battle from the paladin and his group, but those sounds seemed quieter.

Watching her attacker coming at her, she understood why this grinning porcine brute, larger, more disfigured, wore such heavy and complete armour – and hefted such a particularly vast waraxe. By Fenmarel Mestarine! He was their leader. And he was not slowed by Bishop's swift arrows, swooping down at him from the rock-face only to skitter away from that armour. Thus when the Moon Elf tried to dodge the charge and enact a successful feint, only to come up short from the pain in her back, she had no time to recover. He was upon her, hitting her across the face with a heavy back-hand that sent her sprawling, her kukris clattering across the ground. She barely had time to roll away from his next strike, this one bearing the full weight of his axe, scrambling to regain her footing only for her back to collide agonisingly against the rocks behind her again.

The Orc leader leaned closer, tiny yellow eyes gleaming with dull-witted malice, and brought one long-nailed finger up to just beneath Isaviel's eyes, increasing enough pressure to draw blood. She felt the liquid trickle down her cheek and flinched back, fairly wretched at his stench as his weight pressed her to the rocks. This only worsened her troubles, however, for her movement allowed the sharp nail to scrape a path following that of the blood, and she yelled now from the pain. Satisfied and fairly drooling, the Orc brute lifted his axe for one more, surely fatal, blow. Isaviel watched it numbly as he kicked her feet from under her, forcing her head to collide with a jagged stone as she crumpled. She could here arrow after arrow bouncing from his armour, and was a little satisfied to hear Bishop's string of curses going with it. Not so cold-hearted as all that, then?

A great crack, as of thunder, resounded across the canyon and the Orc's eyes rolled back into his head, axe toppling to the ground behind him before his body followed with a great crash of heavy armour. Isaviel looked up unwillingly at the broad, plate-clad form this death revealed, but still she had to, and saw the tall form of the paladin silhouetted before her, his vivid blue eyes shining with righteous fury. His rune-carved hammer gave off that same pale blue light – a light all of its own.

Ignoring his proffered hand, Isaviel pulled herself to her feet, increasingly aware of how quiet the former scene of battle had become. Her tunic was sticky with the thick blood of the Orcs she had slain, while her own wound continued to bleed, back still throbbing. Khelgar and a once more human-shaped Elanee were rushing over to her by now, the latter rather gruesomely splattered with the blood of her foes. Bishop was also approaching, a little more slowly, glaring brutally now and refusing to meet her eyes. He was clutching a bloodied longsword in one hand and his bow in the other.

"Thank you," Isaviel mumbled uncomfortably to the paladin, who simply nodded stern-faced acceptance before his eyes focused on her cut.

"You are hurt," he said needlessly, his deeply resonant voice full of concern as he stepped forward, burnished plate-mail clanking with every step, his gloved hands already glowing with soothing light…

"Hey!" Khelgar cried out, at last finding his voice – which cracked on the word, showing that for some reason this paladin's aura had awed him greatly, "Yer not touching our lass, paladin or no!" and he had now managed to reign himself into a threatening growl.

"I am merely trying to heal her wounds, good Dwarf," the paladin assured over his shoulder, looking back to Isaviel with those hypnotic blue eyes, speaking more softly to her as she simply gawped at him, "If she will allow me."

Bishop snorted in derision at the sight and stalked away to start recovering his arrows, but Isaviel found herself trapped by the paladin's divine conviction and found that she could only nod in acceptance. Her throat went dry when the paladin brought one hand up to almost touch her cheek, his expression one of intense concentration as soothing warmth spread through the Moon Elf's skin. The flow of blood from the cut on her face stopped and much of the pain left her back. He was quite handsome, she conceded to herself, with those strong, rugged features and those enviously dark lashes…oh and those eyes…in a battle-weary, righteously-glowing, duty-bound way.

When the paladin opened his eyes he somehow managed to send her a tight smile, lowering his hands and quickly stepping back to allow the Moon Elf to move closer to her companions. Checking that the shards she carried were still secure in their pouches on her belt, she looked up in time to catch her cloaks and pack, against which her bow was strapped, as thrown by Bishop. He had taken her quiver of arrows to augment his own collection, and seemed in no mood to give it back. She did not bother to ask. There would be time for taking later.

"You are a member of the Neverwinter City Watch?" the paladin asked with evident surprise as his group of armoured fighters regained his side, a few pulling off their helmets and clapping each other on the backs. He had evidently seen the badge on her outer cloak as she was pulling those warmer layers back on.

"Only under sufferance," Isaviel sneered as she shouldered her pack one more, unsettled by his apparently pleased tone, "We aren't all bound to do our duty like you, paladin. And you…you are the Katalmach."

"Out of necessity, yes," he looked somewhat confused by her manner, his eyes watching Bishop distrustfully as the ranger finally reached Isaviel's side, leaving Karnwyr to lick up the blood of the fallen, "And since you are out here fighting with the Orcs I would presume we have a similar agenda? To stop the Eyegouger clan's dominance in these parts?"

"If that means we can get to the kidnapped Waterdeep emissary more easily, then yes," Bishop put in before Isaviel could respond, and the two men watched each other coldly, staring each other down. Isaviel wondered what it was that was making them act so aggressively. They did not seem to know each other.

"We also seek t' kill Logram Eyegouger," Khelgar added.

"And we have been seeking you, as it happens," Isaviel finished.

"We would be willing to help you in your cause," Elanee blurted, her voice oddly high.

Looking around at the young woman to see her blushing violently, Isaviel somehow managed to catch on to her intention without smirking, too.

"Yes, yes, of course. You want to stop the Orcs here, we want to infiltrate their lair and ruin their leadership and political leverage…I think we have some common ground," she grinned briefly, then glanced pointedly at his band of loudly armoured men, "Although, unless you intend to storm the place before it's due, it might be better for all of us if it was just you who came along."

"Oh, wonderful," Bishop grunted , turning away with a shake of his head.

"They can go back to the Greycloaks' leader, Callum, and tell him there has been a change of plan – we won't be needing any 'dressing up' anymore. We'll be going in the way they least expect…and we will be spilling Orcish blood. So he had better send men to help, or there won't be any Orcs left for him," she added with a confident grin, and heard Khelgar's gruff agreement, "That is, of course, if you do know the way to their lair?"

"Yes I do, my lady," the paladin nodded, "And you spoke wisely – my men should go to Old Owl Well. There is no need for unnecessary bloodshed." He seemed unaware of the hypocrisy.

While the paladin turned away to direct his men accordingly, Isaviel felt Bishop close behind her suddenly, one hand tight against her left side, the other coming up against her neck, holding her firmly as he hissed in her ear.

"You are a wicked Elf," his voice was full of fervour, "And I like your plan. Next time you have an epiphany, try not to almost die beforehand."

He released her before the paladin had turned back to them, his men just heading back north up the path, several more than a little unwilling. But no ill words were spoken, and they were soon all gone, their loud clanking audible all the way through the canyon.

"Who are you then?" Isaviel demanded once this was done, surreptitiously straightening her cloak after Bishop's words.

"I am Casavir, my lady, formerly of the Neverwinter Greycloaks. I will be glad to travel with you in our mutual goal. You have considerable skill at arms. All of you," he added, looking both at Khelgar and Elanee…but not for a second at Bishop.

She was surprised to find herself smiling at him as she introduced herself and her companions. Elanee, introduced last of all, had the prudence to ask that they might find a safer place to rest and clean their wounds, and Casavir obligingly led the way to a mountain cave he and his men had been using, not quite an hour's walk up a particularly narrow path branching sharply east further into the mountains…and considerably further up. Still, it was a good spot – easily defensible, with a fire area already set up at the centre of the cave, stocked with wood. The paladin did not appear to carry much with him, though there were some rudimentary stores of food and a couple of bed rolls. So, this was a more permanent hideout than she had expected.

"You are not just here to defend from the Orcish raids, are you?" Isaviel noted of Casavir as she sat against the cave wall, watching him light the fire as Elanee cleaned the Moon Elf's cut.

"No," the paladin admitted, flinching as Karnwyr padded closer to the seated pair, pausing to snarl at him with a bloodied snout, "I have been waiting for the right time to strike at the Eyegougers properly. You have brought me this opportunity."

"Aye, and we'll help ye complete it, too," Khelgar nodded, taking a seat close to the fire as its flames took hold, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together before fanning them out closer to the heat, "Even if that wretched ranger disagrees."

"Yes, we will," Elanee agreed softly, dabbing at Isaviel's cheek with a cloth wetted by clean water and an ointment the smell of which reminded her of Daeghun sitting with her by those hunting-day campfires in the evenings, tending to childhood scrapes. The sudden rush of the memory almost brought tears to Isaviel eyes, but she balled her hands into fists and fought back the sentiment.

"I am glad for your words, both of you," Casavir smiled, seating himself on the side of the fire closest to the back of the cave where he had discarded his armour, now only dressed in a simple white tunic and contrasting breeches.

"Ye are a paladin, aren't ye?" Khelgar began a little awkwardly, and when Casavir nodded, he ploughed on, "Would that be a paladin o' Tyr then, given ye from Neverwinter? I've been lookin' at getting t' the order o' monks there. The ones o' the Even-Handed."

"I am indeed, good Dwarf. I am a common breed, I fear, for I know of many paladins of Tyr and only a few of Helm. Some now have the words of Kelemvor on their lips as well," Casavir sounded almost amused by Khelgar's words, "And I am impressed by your goal, although I confess that I am a little surprised as well. You fight with both armour and battleaxe. Forgive me for saying so, but they are no tools of the monk of Tyr. Such people devote their lives to order and law, to concentration and discipline of the body and soul only. Your convictions and personal strengths become your protection."

"He speaks truly, Khelgar," Isaviel nodded wearily as Elanee patted her shoulder, the druid standing and taking Karnwyr by the scruff of the neck to lead him whimpering for a thorough cleaning while his master was out hunting, "My teacher in West Harbour, Brother Merring, told me of a great monk, Balthazar of the Bhaalspawn, who became all but invincible. His emotions were lost to him, his powers coalesced in tattoos across his skin. His hands and feet and all of his body could command force enough for any psyonicist. But think on it, Khelgar. You love to fight and your love of fighting would drain away with the rigours of discipline."

"No, ye don't understand," the Dwarf grunted, "I don' want to be a monk. I just want to learn how t' fight like one." But there was a disappointed look in his eyes, and it made Isaviel feel a little guilty.

"You are well informed, my lady," Casavir noted, "You sound as one who has learned some of the ways of the monks."

"I have," Isaviel admitted a little coolly, "I was raised by one who intended to send me to the Sun Soul monastery closest to here. But their way was not for me. You have seen how I fight."

"Yes, indeed," Casavir nodded, his eyes bright and intense in the firelight, watching her with evident intrigue, "And I see the way of the monk in you, though it sounds like you believe you have forsaken it. You were evidently taught well, and you look almost as if you were born to it. The Even-H…"

"Your 'wretched ranger' has brought you food, Dwarf, so you had better be more thankful…or I will make sure you go underfed next time."

Bishop's sneering voice interrupted carefully as he strode into the cave. He dumping a dead doe from around his shoulders at Khelgar's feet, evidently having heard his companion's earlier description of him.

"A good kill," the Dwarf admitted grudgingly, perhaps by way of a hunger-based apology. But the ranger was no longer paying him any heed.

"Why do I get the feeling you are trying to convert our prettily scarred leader, paladin?" Bishop asked, stalking over to sit by Isaviel's side, well-wrapped in his cloak and leaving his bow and quivers not far away.

"I intended no such thing, and you know it, Luskan," Casavir growled, and that gave Isaviel pause.

"What did you just call him?" Isaviel demanded, subconsciously bringing a hand up to her cut cheek and wondering if Bishop was right – would it scar?

"Has he failed to inform you? This one who travels with you hails from Luskan, the City of Sails. The cruellest of all Neverwinter's enemies. And the worst."

"I renounced my heritage a long time ago," Bishop snarled, beginning to rather pointedly sharpen his sword, "It is not very paladinic of you to pass judgement on a man just for his accent."

"You wear a cloak of Luskan make. No man of your ilk would buy it anywhere else."

"I could just as easily have acquired it in Mirabar or Bryn Shander."

"But you did not, did you?" Casavir demanded, and drew only a hard glare from the ranger.

"Stop, both of you!" Isaviel cried in exasperation, "Bishop can prove himself by skill at arms, and unless you have some better reason to distrust him I suggest you think more carefully about pre-judging him for his home town. I suspect all four of us here have willingly forsaken their homes for one reason or another. Especially you, Casavir, who hides so carefully away to fight off Orcs when once you were a Greycloak of Neverwinter."

"Aye, the lass has ye," Khelgar nodded, "And I'm not one for trusting the ranger, but she has ye there, Casavir."

"F-forgive me," the paladin offered at length, "I should have been less rash. Try to get some sleep soon – all of you. I would suggest we move out at midnight."

Isaviel nodded her assent as the paladin stood to take up the first watch, heading to the mouth of the smoky cave with his hammer in hand. Once the tension had eased following the argument, the three remaining by the fire began to prepare the deer Bishop had brought them, setting up a spit with the ease of practiced travellers. Shortly afterwards Elanee returned with more ingredients to go with it, Karnwyr in tow and looking cleaner and meeker then Isaviel had ever seen before. Bishop seemed hardly to notice, running a hand absently over the wolf's fur once the druid had taken over by the fire.

Several hours later once they had eaten and been seeking sleep for some time, Isaviel woke from her dreams of fire and death as she was wont to, only this time when she sat up with a gasp she saw Bishop's dark eyes watching her thoughtfully. There was an understanding evident in him, an ease she was not accustomed to. Elanee was curled up, fast asleep close by, while Khelgar was snoring typically across the way. Casavir's form was silhouetted darkly with his back to them at the mouth of the cave, and Bishop himself remained seated, now restringing his bow.

Wordlessly, the ranger stood, unclasping his thick cloak from around his neck and draping it unexpectedly around the Moon Elf's shoulders, leaving her quiver at her side as well. She only watched him blearily, barely comprehending and not fully awake, still sensing the visions of smouldering West Harbour and the sights of the dead and the sounds of the dying in the back of her mind. Something about the steadiness of his hands against her arms, of the heat of the cloak about her, soothed her enough to let her lie back down, her back to the ranger. She uttered no thanks and he asked for none, his expression still hard. But Karnwyr was less icy, approaching her where she lay, nuzzling her shoulder and quietly curling up by her as if he, too, understood. Smiling in sleepy surprise, Isaviel put an arm over the scrawny wolf's back and fell asleep to the feel of his soft fur.