A/N: With this, things should be well and truly derailed straight into FUBAR territory for everyone.
Overture II: Fear no Fear
"-. .-"
23 people sleeping or puttering about in the various rooms of the inn, two of whom were listening at the door or outright staring from doors ajar. A third had left his room – half-orc, neutral evil with a bloody history to put chaotic evil madmen to shame, self-deluded as pertaining his motivations and character? – and was making his way downstairs in the wake of Imoen and Khelben Arunsun. 74 people already in the common room eating, drinking, talking or doing whatever else. Not counting the cooks. Or the waitresses and the… 'waitresses.'
87 more people walking about or still slumbering in the barns and stables outside, plus two dozen guards patrolling the grounds and walls, both of the fort itself and outer perimeter. In all, the Friendly Arm Inn was actually underpopulated at the moment, seeing as it the walled community could house and feed 450 people at a time easily. The Iron Crisis may have impacted its prosperity somewhat, but even broken nails and wagon wheel axels hadn't actually brought trade to a halt yet, though the bandit activity seemed to be doing its best to remedy that. Still, 74 people was plenty. More than enough to warn someone off from doing what Cyrus Anwar had decided to do the moment he spoke his first words upon finally getting a life of his own.
I love you, father.
He hoped he wouldn't be following up with giving him a heart attack.
His footsteps were swift and sure as he descended the main stairway of the fort. It was set along the southern-most load-bearing wall interestingly enough, rather than closer to the centre of the structure. It had a pair on the opposite side of the keep-turned-inn. It worked quite well for the new function the keep had been turned towards. Allowed Bentley Mirrorshade to turn the entire first floor into one, large common room that had nothing to worry about traffic-wise. As their quick processing the previous evening had shown, congestion was most definitely not among the issues that the good gnome had to deal with.
Cyrus' lips curled into a small smile at the thought of him. Though not quite as unassailably bright as Imoen, his soul was nonetheless a brilliant thing with one thing going for it that none of the people currently traveling with him could rightly claim, though he hoped Gorion would again reach that stage soon himself.
Bentley Mirrorshade was truly, undeniably sane.
What Cyrus was about to do probably wasn't sane at all by conventional wisdom, but he wasn't about to start his life by immediately slipping down the slopes of deception, self-doubt and recrimination.
He emerged from the staircase and into the common room with no pause in his step. His stride continued unabated even as he nodded to Khalid and Jaheira who were indulging in an early drink at the table nearest the stairs. He then turned to make his way to the far side of the hall towards the wall with the main keep entrance, though this did not prevent him from knowing exactly when Imoen emerged into the common room herself, or that she made sure to keep him in her sights the whole time.
Perfect.
His left hand flexed a few times as if he was stretching it but in truth he was just using hand signals developed between the two of them long ago, when Cyrus still participated in mischief making.
Target acquired. Moving to confront. Circle round to provide backup. Find incriminating evidence. Eschew all reservations.
Imoen proceeded to approach the bar as if her glance at him had been the passing interest of someone not at affiliated with him at all.
The dwarf strode along the wall and past several different tables before turning left, passing the very conspicuous corner booth – conspicuous on account of its sole occupant – and approached the entrance just as a black robed human entered, one with brown hair and face bearing lines distinctive of those who are used to constantly sneer at everyone and everything.
Cyrus looked past the man and at the soul within. It was an ugly thing, like a mass of rot dotted with pustules and giving off poisonous vapours. There was no light to be had anywhere in it. Only an unseemly imitation, shadows playing across the faint shine of the world, such as it was.
"Hello there!" Cyrus greeted him merrily, reaching out to grab and shake his hand before the man could do anything other than turn with a start in his direction. "I say I am pleased we get to cross paths so soon."
The human tried to pull his hand free, but when he failed he suddenly went tense, though he tried to hide it. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" His eyes blinked and something like suspicion/surprise/recognition flashed over them.
Cyrus didn't bother showing he'd noticed the fingers of his left hand flexing. "Definitely not." He used his own other hand to play with his beard braid. "This is the first time we have exchanged words or even set eyes upon one another."
The man tried to pull his hand free again but he may as well have been trying to pull free from the grasp of a statue carved through it. "Perhaps an exchange of names is in order then." His left hand's fingers discretely moved in the first motions of a Colour Spray. So he could cast some spells silently. At least he wasn't a total incompetent then. Though considering that Cyrus only had Shank and Carbos to compare him to in matter of incompetence that did not exactly say much.
The dwarf didn't bother showing he'd noticed that either. "You must know of me, I'm sure." He gestured behind the wizard though he did not take his eyes off him. "Isn't that right, my lady?"
The man started and made to turn but his abrupt attempt was just as abruptly thwarted by dwarf's statue-like grip.
"Hmm," Imoen backed off and wrinkled her nose as she went through the man's bag. The side bag which she'd quite deftly separated from the cross-torso belt it hung off. "Aha! Here it is!" She pulled out a scroll and unrolled it, all the while giving every impression she knew what she'd been looking for all along, despite that she most definitely did not. "Let's see here…"
"What are you doing!?" The human shrieked. "Thief! Thievery, in this supposed neutral place!"
She completely ignored the agitated attempts of the man to pull free of the dwarf that still hadn't released him. "Let's see… Bounty Notice!"
The two 'waitresses' that had started to make their way over – really iron golems in illusionary disguise – suddenly stopped their advance.
Imoen cleared her throat and spoke clearly in the conspicuously silent hall. "Be it known to all those of evil intent, that a bounty has been placed upon the head of Cyrus Anwar, the step-son of Gorion. Last seen in the area of Candlekeep, this person is to be killed in quick order. Those returning with proof of the deed shall receive no less than 200 coins of gold." By then Jaheira and Khalid had already risen from their seats, while Khelben Arunsun had not only reached the common room himself but had walked in Cyrus wake all the way to the conspicuous corner booth. "As always, any that reveal these plans to the forces of law shall join the target in their fate."
The mage hissed, turned back on Cyrus and gave up all attempts at diplomacy, suddenly raising his free arm to –
Cyrus crushed the bones in his hand.
"Aaaaargh!" The man suddenly fell to his knees with a howl of pain, Colour Spray fizzling harmlessly and forgotten. "Aaaaaugh! Ghhrk-gah!"
"I am a gentle man at heart," the dwarf spoke in the ensuing silence broken only by an evil man's gasps of agony. Even Bentley Mirrorshade's steps as he crossed the hall were entirely soundless. "But I must say that the idea of you bringing dissent into this peaceful place is one I find… displeasing." He squeezed the man's hand harder, making his whole body jerk through a wail and interrupting his intent to punch him for all the good it would have done. "The good gnome Bentley Mirroshade did not turn a place of evil and death into one of repose and merriment just for pretentious individuals like yourself to bring strife in it." He gestured with his head in the direction of Dorn Il-Khan. "That half-orc over there may have slaughtered more than one village down to the last babe," all patrons of the Friendly Arm Inn suddenly gasped, leaned back, ducked away or otherwise expressed their horror at his revelation, "but at least he did not come in here seeking to inflict any unrest." He ignored the inner flare of appreciation in said half-orc's soul at witnessing his action, despite that the outrage and anger at being so suddenly outed to everyone ignited in the demon worshiper to a far greater extent. His approval only filled Cyrus with shame. Fortunately, he would not have to bear it long. "Unlike yourself."
The evil mage – Tarnesh – reached into a pocket and pulled out a dagger which he made to aim at the dwarf's face but Cyrus just squeezed his already injured hand with crushing force, making him drop the knife from the latest body-wracking flare of agony. "Aaaayyee! Augh-gh!"
There was clear terror shining from the man's rotten soul now, amidst all the pain. Not quite the same yellow as his father's, his fear had always been justified and righteous, but it was light all the same.
Cyrus was determined to make more light shine from the man in the short time left to him. "Now, I happen to like this place as it is," Cyrus said as Imoen gracefully slipped past them to lean against the frame of the large double entrance, incidentally sending Tarnesh's dagger sliding away with the barest hit of her toe. "And I greatly respect and admire the good proprietor."
Bentley Mirrorshade abruptly shut his mouth instead of acting on his clear intent to demand that they take this elsewhere. His indignation suddenly wasn't quite strong enough to mask his tentative curiosity as to where this was going, or the fact that he was still moved emotionally from earlier, no matter than he was thoroughly embarrassed because of everything that had occurred upstairs.
"So you see," the dwarf continued in the silent stillness of the inn's main chamber. "I simply must insist we take this outside."
Ternesh glared at up at him – hate not nearly enough to mask the terror and pain, neither the inside nor out – and grit his teeth. "I'll k-kill you y-yet!"
Bravado of course. Though Cyrus supposed the pain might have left him feebleminded and oblivious to the two harpers that had made their way over, or the identity of a certain Archmage that seemed torn between amusement and exasperation in the background. Pain tended to leave people dazed and oblivious to everything beyond their immediate surrounding after all.
"Perhaps," anything was possible. "I still must insist that any attempts to achieve such be taken outside though. I hope you understand."
Tarnesh glared, despite the pallor of his face and the sweat pouring off his brow.
Cyrus allowed any semblance of amusement to leave his expression and steadily increased the strength of his grip.
"Aaaah!" He broke almost immediately. "Alright, alright!" he shrieked.
Cyrus smiled in satisfaction and healed his hand – a clear flare of white – but did not release him. No sense in rendering him incapable of casting his spells. Part of the goal behind this whole charade was to test himself against magic in a controlled environment after all.
Now for the second half of the goal. "Still, before we get on with things I believe we should nonetheless ensure this is not just some great misunderstanding. So! Introductions!" He ignored the way Khelben's self-light shifted in place. It was not the first time he made the Archmage palm his face, nor would it be the last. "You are known as Tarnesh, of course. Son of Hanesh, whom you stabbed to death with a kitchen knife when you were twelve, along with your mother and twin sister whose bodies you then sold to a necromancer in exchange for being taken on as an apprentice." He did not share in the various reactions of the onlookers or the wide-eyed shock on the man himself. He wasn't one to talk, seeing as he almost killed his father and teacher too, when he was around that age. And with a chest of all things. "I, as you know, am Cyrus Anwar." He gave a small bow though he did not break eye contact. His posture settled back into one just as outwardly relaxed as before, even if his eyes probably betrayed how very not amused he was by the whole situation. Not that it mattered. Nothing would matter much in short order. "And yes, as your note stated, I am the son of the sage Gorion of Candlekeep. Though as your note did not specify, I am also the offspring of that rather unpleasant specimen who sowed his oats during the year 1348 and the decades leading up to it." Khelben's soul suddenly flared with panic but he finished before his teacher managed to say anything. "You probably know him better as Bhaal."
The first immediate result of that statement was an instant of silence.
The second immediate result was the mass of Friendly Arm patrons reacting to him in an even more intense and varied range of horror/fear/everything than they had when he tossed out that bit about Dorn. That was okay. He wasn't about to be afraid of their fear or begrudge it, especially when it was justified.
The third result was by far the strangest and managed to derail the others two entirely.
"Oooooh!" Khelben Arunsun swayed on his feet and collapsed in the booth occupied by the lone dwarf in the hall with an astonishing amount of dramatic flair that was not faked in the least. The Archmage then slouched against the back rest as if he'd suddenly lost all strength. "I can't take it. You've killed me. My heart's given out from the stress."
Cyrus blinked. Perhaps it wasn't his father's heart he should be worrying about?
He turned his head to look at him, peering through clothes and flesh to the heart within. "No it hasn't." He blinked again to refocus his sight on the physical world. "And if it had I'd probably be able to heal it anyway now."
The man only groaned again and sunk his face in both hands, elbows propped on the tabletop. "And it did not occur to you that perhaps it would be better to not risk giving me a heart attack by proclaiming your status as Bhaalspawn to all and sundry?"
"As opposed to only 'those of evil intent' knowing?" He asked dryly, completely unbothered by the thoroughly upended mood in the common room of the inn he was standing in.
"Oh, Mystra!" Khelben dropped his hands on the tabletop and hung his head in despair. "Ask a stupid question." He looked up and somehow didn't glare at Cyrus this time. He was – Cyrus looked without looking to the soul within – still affected by the hug of earlier? How pleasantly surprising. "But you don't ascribe to even that notion, do you?"
"What's the point in hiding it anyway?" Horrified fascination from all corners. "Everyone with a stake in matters, good or evil, already knows. The best that the alternative can allow is for me to hide my lineage for a while and manage to establish some sort of reputation only for everything to come crashing down in a year or two when someone inevitably finds out through whatever means and discredits not only me but everyone associated with myself as well." He shrugged. "Possibly one of the others of Bhaal's blood seeing as we're due the fulfilment of Alaundo's prophecy at this point anyway." He squeezed Tarnesh's hand to warn him against any sudden moves on pain of having his bones crushed a second time. The man had been trying to sketch another spell with his non-dominant hand, the nerve. "This way I can get it all out of the way from the start and not have to worry about it."
The Archmage sighed and looked longingly at the mug of ale to the side.
The lone dwarf in the inn looked admirably unperturbed by the whole thing and gamely pushed the nearly-full drink for the man to take.
Cyrus decided to finally give him a proper look, though it only confirmed what he'd already known.
4 foot six, long white hair, long white beard arranged in braids held in place with clasps shaped like little bronze hammers, no lines of death on him at all, like Tethtoril, though he had an anvil and hammer instead. Hammer and anvil interposed over a dwarf-shaped haze that looked like glass coloured all shades of fire.
A Sonnlinor then. A high priest of Moradin. One who'd not been at the inn the evening before. Lacking lines of death was distinctive in a way that Cyrus would have noticed regardless of how inwardly focused he was.
What a coincidence.
Khelben Arunsun flashed the dwarf a grateful smile and proceeded to empty the ale mug in one go, which was quite impressive.
"Well," Cyrus said flatly, looking away from his teacher to the still-kneeling mage whose hand he still hadn't let go of. "I suppose we may as well get this over with before I drive someone else to drink today." Bentley snorted where he stood between his two 'waitresses' and immediately pretended he hadn't. "Then I can try to live my life until the next assassin your Bhaalspawn employer sends after me." Tarnesh wasn't the only one taken aback by his statement but Cyrus would be lying if he did not find it ironic. "Oh. You didn't know? How unfortunate. For you."
Cyrus healed the man's hand again before finally releasing him.
Tarnesh fell on his backside, then scrambled to stand and put as much distance between himself and the dwarf as possible, face pale and gaunt compared to when he'd come in.
So, naturally, Imoen chose that precise moment to toss the man his pouch back.
Tarnesh fumbled the catch and had to scramble to pick it up from the floor.
Cyrus waited for the terrified assassin to get his bearing and try and fail to glare at him. Then he gestured at the door, not at all perturbed by the fact that the people watching would disperse throughout the Sword Coast and spread the news of what he'd just revealed everywhere in a matter of days. "After you. I insist."