Best Laid Plans
Damn her. Damn her. She is mocking me. She has to be. How can she know? How does she always know?! It is always the same; she waltzes in without a care in the world, and ruins everything! Does it matter a whit to her that I have prepared this for months?! That I – why must she always do this to me?!
Nashkel. The mines. The journey took many days. Five days before we were due to strike, I received word; the scouts claim the caravans are leaving the mines, laden with ore. They to and fro from the town, stockpiling, gathering. I had to see for myself.
I cursed all the gods that ever lived. From the edges of the forests, where further in, my warbands lay waiting, I crept across the grasses to cliffs and the mine basin. Work had resumed; the miners carted ore to the surface as if there had never been any disruption. The foreman bellowed and guards stood watch.
The town was no better. Veiled like the sirine, I entered this Amnish excuse for a hovel; this, their furthest northern outpost, was nothing like the 'civilisation' they claimed to hold. Drunks in the streets, defacing walls with their excrement; the entire populace seemed taken with wine. I did not have to go far to find out why. The talk could be hear before I ever passed under a thatched roof; the sung praises of some northern hero.
A heroine. A band of mercenaries led by a girl just out of adolescence, with dancing eyes and a cheery smile. Courageously they entered the darkness, bested the 'demons' below, and rid the mines of the infection; an evil half orc was behind it all, holed up so deep no one had found him. Using kobolds, he poisoned the ore, and slew any who entered, their terrible fire-arrows and traps scaring away the bravest of souls.
Sickening. That a town could be bested by kobolds. They laughed about it now, now that they had their precious trade back. Heaping riches and rewards on this girl, she and her companions – two half elves, and a northern berserker, and a foreign witch – banqueted with them for two nights, and left, laden with more ore than they could use. 'Gone to put a stop to the bandits', one drunk had declared, thumping his chest, teary eyed; his companion was worse. 'Did you ever seen anything like them? Heroes, I tell you. The best of men.'
They spoke of the man-giant's tattoos, his accent and the fuzzy orange rat on his shoulder; his skill and daring with a blade more like a cleaver than sword. They spoke of the quiet and reserved half elf, a true warrior of exact finesse, how his and his wife's arced swords sang death. The robed witch, with her exotic charm and beauty, her raven hair and purple garb; and the girl, always the girl.
There would be statues made of them. Statues to occupy the town square; statues made of iron.
It was enough to make even the most stoic scream.
