~*-{/=E=\}-*~

Calling Nashkel inhospitable would be calling the Anauroch a bit dusty; the desert wasteland was just as suitable for offering comfort, and with far fewer simpletons stumbling about. These dirt farmers had never been warm, but what respect they offered had cooled to caution, polluting the atmosphere as surely as the lingering stench of smoke. (Evidently the half-breed druid's burst of air had proven too weak to dissipate the spell properly.)

The innkeeper's nervous glances ricocheted across the room, inevitably colliding with either Edwin or the charred floorboards. "Have a rug put over it," Edwin suggested, "or have your eyes put out." Either would do.

The color bled from the lout's face as he obediently recalled his gaze to his task, attacking the wood with renewed fervor. (The man could scrub all he wished; no amount of polish would ever make those dingy counters shine.)

Reasons enough to hate this place without suffering such discourtesy! But the chill had not yet reached the glyph on his chest: 'twas only wariness the locals exuded, not hostility. Edwin leaned back in his chair, flexing his fingers. At least the latter might be dealt with conclusively.

Far too constraining, the inn—the town (the region!)—was entirely ill-suited to house a man of his stature; the averted gazes of the patronage said the same. The feelings of sheep should never be enough to ever sway him, but there was little point in remaining confined within; Edwin swept to his feet.

His hooded cloak spared him the force of the sun as he stepped out into its domain. Certainly, growing accustomed to the whims of Western weather was but one more indignity to endure. No doubt Nevron was enjoying the splendors of Thay and its magically-regulated climes while his subordinates rooted about in such squalid corners of the world at his behest. Abyss take him.

Edwin's own attempts at enlisting local forces to his cause were falling well-short of even his lowered expectations. The bounty hunter had more than proven her unsuitability, challenging her prey before both witnesses and company as though she wished to be caught, with such lack of finesse that Edwin had almost allowed her to be.

But at least she had been considerate enough to make her priorities clear early on enough to renege upon their deal; she had brought her end upon herself. Bounty hunters could not be trusted. Though finding replacements was proving just as irksome as tolerating her ineptitude would have been. Had it not been for that meddling druid, he could have made use of that last group with ease and been long-gone from this place.

It took but a moment to reach the town's outskirts and the limits of the guards' patrol (still not far enough away from this filth to find a breath of fresh air), but still the clanking of metal dogged him; he turned to find he'd somewhere gained an off-putting shadow.

"You've no right to stare at me so." The women glared at him with such a scowl grooved into her face it may well have been permanently etched there. Stare? He did so only then, giving her a cursory inspection. The sharpness in her narrow-eyed gaze was doubled by the winking blade at her belt. "Avert your eyes, or I'll cleave them from your face, pig!"

Well-muscled, to carry such a chip upon her shoulder. Edwin grimaced. It seemed all this location had to offer was a parade of ill-suited specimens—none of whom would recognize a quality opportunity if it blasted them in the face. Which he was sorely tempted to do.

"If there was aught to hold my attention, you would know it." He gave her a distracted sneer as he examined his fingernails, taking note of the additional figures entering his periphery. Also armored, but these newcomers were far too flimsy for the local oafs trundling about. Was there to be no end to the miserable rabble that crossed his path? Melee types had but one very predictable tactic; this group would serve no better.

"Watch your mouth, or I'll end your life where you stand."

His tattoo sent a warning through him, chill enough to combat the heat of the afternoon. No idle threat, this. Edwin folded his arms, hands disappearing into his sleeves.

Without a single magic-user that might give him pause, the group blundered forth with all the straightforwardness of the clattering armor that weighed them down. (And offered no protection against his magic.) Four more of these women had gathered around him, their slight frames bristling with weapons they were clearly eager to make use of. The one nearest him wore a jawless skull upon her buckle; her fingers stroked over it as she reached for a weapon.

Cyric? The mad god of murder. Oh, yes, the likeliness of reasoning with them had dropped faster than the temperature of his glyph. Gods knew he could do with some amusement. Cyric lent an element of unpredictability to the encounter, but not enough to interfere with his calculations; the right component and a good sneeze ought to do it. But where was the fun in that?

" 'Tis a fight you are after? How... disappointing." Truly, the wench wasn't so bad-looking if you could get past the mad glint in her eyes. "I'm sure we could find a far more pleasurable exercise to leave you gasping."

And that reddened her face and set her mad-eyes bulging as she choked out, "Chauvinist pig! You worthless men are all alike—idiots, every one of you." The woman glanced back at her companions as if numbers alone granted an advantage. "Can't you see you're outnumbered?"

"Quality over quantity, my dear."

The Cyricist at least seemed amused, though her smile was dark. "The Iron Throne isn't paying us to kill this one, but I'll do it for free."

Mercenaries, or more bounty hunters? As if it mattered! "Alas, the folly of challenging a Red Wizard is a lesson learned only once... and not one you may ever again put to use."

"A Red Wizard?" He should not have bothered gifting them the warning: instead of the proper trepidation widening their eyes, it was excitement.

An echo of it hummed within his own self, the quiescent energy of magic as it stirred in his fingers, awaiting its proper channel. Hidden beneath his sleeves, his hands moved, crushing together two spell components. Very well: mad, or simply stupid, their end would be the same.

"Yigmesh persvek..." —At his voice, their blades drew free, metal rang with battle cries and chants; the warriors launched at him— too late— "...bivnix," and the world went white.

Nearly all sight vanished as the solid fog erupted outward, billowing past him to catch an arrow mid-flight: the projectile hung in the dense clouds, as pointless as the blinded cleric's chant. Nor were his attackers able to move any faster as they slogged through the thickened air, but Edwin did not remain behind to meet them: "Ti tenpiswo mi si."

The ground jolted from beneath him, and color cut into his eyes with a sharpness the soft fog had blunted; Edwin blinked before he could see the shadowy figures remaining behind, struggling to reach the borders of his spell. Even if they broke free, it would take them several more moments to reach him.

He raised a hand, altering the spell's energies, "Kaden svent wer thrae." The clouds churned a noxious yellow, bursts of smokey tendrils curling upward as the heavier gases settled, creeping along the ground. Too thick to see much through it, but a single limb fell free of the spell and twitched upon the curling grass.

He stood upon the hill until his glyph stilled, and waited another moment before releasing his spell. As the clouds cleared, sunlight glinted off the five armored bodies below. Edwin brushed off his hands and sighed.

Such a waste.

Spell components were rather difficult to come by, hereabouts. Past time to leave.

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

Something hard jabbed against Imoen's back. Twisting away from it, she mumbled out a complaint, but her bedroll didn't let her escape very far. Had Sajantha gone to sleep in her armor? Whatever had woken her was flat and heavy and determined to stick into her spine.

Enough sun peeking through her squint meant it was near-enough time to wake up, anyway; Imoen rolled over to find her friend staring up at the dawn breaking above them. The faintest light filtered through the trees, flickering across Gorion's spellbook locked tight in Sajantha's arms.

The book hadn't made an appearance since she'd handed it over at the Friendly Arm; her friend had kept it crammed safe inside her pack. Imoen rubbed her eyes, yawning. "You still trying to open that thing?"

Sajantha blinked. "I can't," she said, voice tired and flat like she'd gone and tried everything, instead of nothing. Didn't seem like her, just giving up like that.

"Because you don't know any of them abjur-what-ya-call-em spells?"

Her head shook, once. "Because... what if I erase it? Or send it up in flames?" She bit her lip. "That ring, he... My father had a ring to protect against magic."

"Yeah?" So that's what that had been. And a good thing, too. "Came in handy, didn't it?"

Sajantha's hands tightened on the book. "Don't you get it—why he would need it? Because of me. To protect against me."

Imoen sat up. "Oh. Oh, Sajantha. I'm sure that's not—"

"What if..." Sajantha sat up, too; her head dropped to stare down at the book, curls falling into her eyes. A hand reached up as if to brush them, but didn't get that far, just wiped at her nose, instead. "What if it's—all this—what if it's my fault, somehow?"

"Hey, now—why would you say something like that! You didn't do nothing; don't you think like that. Don't think like that, or you'll go crazy." Those kind of thoughts were like dogs chasing tails—around and around in circles—and no way to break free of them with no answer to sniff out.

"I need to learn more magic," Sajantha said. "I have to. I have to, or they'll keep walking all over me. But I can't. I can't do anything." She hugged the book close, right up to her chin.

Imoen leaned towards her. "Those, uh, those pyrotechnics you shot off in Nashkel, that was pretty impressive, wasn't it? You sure got the Red Wizard's attention. Seems like you pulled that spell off fine."

"I haven't got your luck, though. That's what wild magic is: it's chance, it's chaos. Sometimes it will work, aye, but when it doesn't? I could have burned the whole place down."

"But you didn't."

"But I could have."

"Yeah, like the bounty hunter could have smashed in your skull if you hadn't done nothing!"

Sajantha wouldn't look at her. "I could have hurt someone. It could have backfired; I could have hurt you."

"But you didn't. Come on, Sajantha—"

"I didn't care," she said, pulling away. "I wasn't thinking of that, of consequences. I didn't care."

Imoen straightened. "If you're always worrying as to what you might do, well, you won't ever do nothing. You tell me which is worse." She shook her head. "You're afraid of it. Guess you should be. But back in Nashkel, I bet you were more afraid of that bounty hunter: and your magic worked. What do you reckon that means?"

Sajantha glanced up. "That I'm my own worst enemy?"

"Oh," Imoen laughed, "Oh, no. I hope not. You got plenty of enemies, don't forget."

Sajantha's lips pressed flat together.

"But you got friends, too. Can't forget that, neither."

She glanced away, rubbing at her forehead. "I dreamed about him, again." Sajantha took in a shaky breath. "The demon man. I dreamt of fire— all around—but he just kept walking through it. And I set the fire, I cast it. It burned down everything—everyone. But not him."

"That man..." Gorion's killer. Imoen cleared her throat. "If he comes along again, we'll make sure we're ready for him."

Sajantha's curls trembled, like she was shaking her head, or just shaking. "You didn't see him."

"I saw enough," Imoen muttered, not looking at Gorion's dagger. Tucked safe, now, inside Sajantha's belt, inside its hilt, but Imoen had seen that blade, yep, seen just enough. Gorion's magic hadn't done nothing, Sajantha had said so; he'd run out of spells and must've started swinging. The way the blade was dented and chipped said enough of its results, never mind finding it in his cold hand.

Sajantha stared straight ahead with a shimmer to her eyes as she folded her legs up, hugged her arms. "It seems as if—if we could only find the right place, my father would be there, waiting for me. Like... he can't be gone; he can't have left me, not really." Sajantha looked over at her. "Do you know what I mean?"

For a moment, all Imoen could see was Gorion's face, white as his beard, caved in like his chest, the rest of him more mangled up and twisted than the dagger. "Yeah." She cleared her throat. "Sure."

"Do you... do you think he'd want me to be using magic, now?" Sajantha whispered, "Or do you think he'd want me to be safe?"

"Oh—oh, hon," Imoen's voice caught, "I think he'd wish you had a choice."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Sajantha swung her pack onto her shoulder, fingers slipping beneath the strap. Near her neck—grazing her collarbone—lay the smallest of divots, where the skin had healed of all but a small scar. The flaming arrow that had struck it had been small as well, although it hadn't seemed so at the time. The Red Wizard's spell, though... that wasn't something she could have recovered from.

Sajantha shivered. She'd never studied destructive spells, not when her magic could make the most innocuous spell harmful by itself. It had been a necessity, in Candlekeep, to curb the potential of danger. Cautious, careful. they weren't in Candlekeep any longer. Out here, being too cautious—too hesitant—could get her killed.

Her father had not hesitated. And if Sajantha had acted—had done something beyond the running—perhaps, united, an attack would not have been in vain.

"Wasn't nothing you could have done," Imoen had said. And that's what hurt most of all, the truth: there hadn't been.

But she'd never even tried.

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Hard to believe we met a real Red Wizard, huh?" Imoen asked. Sajantha kept glancing behind them; it wasn't too hard to guess what she was thinking about. She sure didn't have enough attention to spare for her steps, going with the way she kept having to pick twigs out of her hair, her boots, just walking into everything.

Sajantha looked down at the ground, then back up at her, probably trying to figure out just why Imoen was asking. "Aye," she said, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. Not that it stayed there, springing free after half a second. "What do you suppose he was doing this far west?"

"Oh, hard at work at some evil plan or another, I'm sure." Jaheira had jumped down the Zhentarims' throats quick enough; whyn't she thrown that same suspicion at the Red Wizard? Bet he could have mucked up them iron mines all himself, just throwing a fit. That kind of temper didn't sit so well with all that power. Wizards were ornery folk, to be sure; did they start that way, or did all that magic just go right to their head? "Who knows? He coulda been behind the Iron Crisis all himself!"

Sajantha's brow knit together. "Do you think? I didn't get that impression at all. But maybe we shouldn't have let him chase us off so fast."

"Yeah. Missed out on another night indoors." Imoen sighed. "I'm starting to forget what it feels like, sleeping on a real bed. But no arguing with Jaheira when she gets like that." The druid was walking up ahead, now, scanning the air like her wolf-sense done sniffed something.

"I don't suppose it matters, now, anyway. I really doubt we'll see him again."

"Probably for the best, huh? He won't be too happy running into me again, that's for sure." Imoen tried to bite back her grin, but Sajantha's raised eyebrow said she spotted it.

Imoen let it burst free. "Knew he was a wizard afore you did, I reckon—this sort of thing couldn't be much else." She hefted a small pouch from her pocket. She'd nicked it from where most folk tucked their coinpurses—shame it hadn't been any gems, or coins; it probably was only worth anything to a wizard. Whatever it was. Like a sandbag or something, the stuff inside it shifted as it flipped over in her hand.

"You mean you actually got away with something of his?" Sajantha's wide eyes weren't exactly a ringing endorsement, but Imoen threw her shoulders back, puffing up all the same.

"I'm hardly so much of a bumbling fool as he thought I was! And you aren't, neither. We can do this. I just know it!"

~*-{/=E=\}-*~

It was impossible that the imbecilic girl had been at all successful with her sneak-thievery. The—the absolute audacity of the child had barely been comprehensible at the time, and he had caught her in the act, had he not? But the alternative—that he had misplaced a thing of such importance—was equally unlikely.

Edwin was left with no recourse but to grind his teeth. Wherever the pouch was, it did him little good. But that disbelief—the utter implausibility of it—prompted him to search his pockets another moment past the proof of its absence.

"Bah!" he spat, at last surrendering his half-formed fireball, incapable of ignition without his pouch of sulphur.

The bandits blocking his path had not even the intelligence to flinch back. That more of these fools existed to throw themselves upon him so readily! No appreciation for his status at all; they did not even deserve the quick death fire would grant them.

"You, there!" He singled out a single pair of eyes among the unwashed sheep. In the time it took the man to blink, Edwin had finished speaking the words of the spell, seized his mind—his will—and the bandits predictably did not know how to react when one of their own broke ranks.

The ranged attack they had anticipated came instead from a sword in their midst, and Edwin's thrall had cut down two of them before the remaining three reacted. Only one had sense enough to recall 'twas the wizard had orchestrated the attack. Too little, too late. Allied with surprise, Edwin needed none else. He picked off the remainder at his leisure, til only the one remained.