Note: This fic is set some five years after the events in BG2:TOB contains
spoilers relating to the plot of BG2:SOA&TOB. If you haven't yet finished
these MOST EXCELLENT games, and don't want the ending ruined for you, do so
and THEN read this fic.
This is my first attempt at a fan fiction, btw, so I implore you to take that into account when reading and reviewing it :-) Baldur's Gate etc. is copyrighted by Interplay, Bioware and Wizards of the Coast – lovely people who have given us a series of games as deep and involving and downright fun. I intend this to be the first chapter of several, but only if people want to read it. If you want more, tell me in your reviews! ;-)
In the forest of Neverwinter, there is a Clearing. There are many clearings within the sprawling green mass, but you would know the instant you stepped into this one; it contains a hillock from which you can see the snow-land beauty that is the Spine of the World, and the Sea of Swords is clearly visible to the west. And, of course, its most notable feature: were you to walk into this Clearing without an invitation, several arrows would have been trained on your bobbing Adam's apple since an hour before your arrival.
It is in this Clearing that the Guild has its Headquarters, and has had for some time. The Guild or, as they are sometimes known, the Mageling Circle, was created some years ago by one of the kindest and gentlest souls ever to grace the Realms. It is this inception, and the adventures of this individual, to which our history refers. For it was the pleasure of this Bard, and indeed the honour, to have fought alongside this heroic adventurer in the names of justice and of freedom. And so I shall end this preface and move from the present to the distant past, shortly before my own acquaintance with either the Guild or the heroes associated with it.
******
The creation of an independent Guild of Thieves anywhere along the Sword Coast, and by 'independent' I mean one not associated with the Shadow Thieves, is no simple matter by any stretch of the imagination. Indeed it is a dangerous endeavour, and normally leads to brevity of existence for all involved; Shadowmasters take not kindly to those that would encroach upon their territory. And so it would have taken an extraordinary individual to form an independent Guild that did not merely operate in one Shadow Thief city, but operated in nigh on all of them.
Such an individual was sat on a log in this very clearing on a warm Flamerule evening some ten years ago. A burgundy, hooded robe hid the figure's features as it absently shaped a piece of lump-wood with a small craft-knife. This spot had been chosen for the Meeting – a meeting that would go down in history – because it was off the beaten track, while not being too difficult for practitioners of the Larcenous Arts to find; given sufficient direction, of course.
The sun was setting when two such practitioners, Guildmasters of the Shadow Thieves, arrived in the Clearing. Chairs had been prepared for them; well, chairs was the wrong word – the roots of the surrounding trees and been coaxed from their rest beneath the Earth and had knotted and twisted themselves in such a way as to make for several comfortable seats. Likewise, the larger roots had rose up and bound themselves to make a table, around which the seats were, that the meeting might have an official air, even though it was possessed of a natural, relaxed demeanour; very much like the host. It should give the reader an idea as to what esteem the 'host' of this Meeting was held in, that the spirits of the trees would adhere to these requests thus, with no need for any form of magical coercion.
The elder, and evidently senior of the two Shadow Thieves, bowed to their host. He cast an angered glance at his seemingly younger companion when, defiantly, the boy merely nodded his head vaguely in the robed figure's direction before taking his seat. Shortly afterwards, two members of the local grove of Druids arrived. They were mildly taken aback by the display of manipulated nature before them, but at the psychic assurance of the dryads and spirits of the woodland that they had consented, they took their seats only mildly awed that any non-Druid could have earned such respect from Mother Nature.
Just before the last rays of the sun crept beyond the horizon, two men in mage's robes, both extremely familiar to all present, though only known personally to the host, entered the clearing. Their arrival caused the younger Shadow Thief to start from his chair, but his superior's hand was swiftly forcing him back down. One of the wizards, wearing a flame-red robe and possessed of a grand white beard, grinned. The other, a much harsher person in both manner and mannerisms, was wearing entirely black. He carried a black staff at his side and, though once it had been merely a symbol, the host noted that the wizard seemed to be using it more as a crutch nowadays. Old age overlooked nobody forever, it appeared; not even the Chosen of Mystra.
Now that the entire expected company was present, the host stood up from the log and placed the knife and carving on the ground. The effect was quite startling; the setting sun at the host's back created a silhouette that made even the wizard in black shudder. The sun's light faded, and at that point one last person entered the clearing.
He was a broad man, and tall. His bald head bore a purple tattoo, and his prematurely aged face seemed to bear a childlike expression of innocence most of the time. He wore armour forged from Gorgon Hide, its green matching the trees that seemed to close up behind him. His belt bore twin sheaths; from both protruded ancient Dwarven hammers. The fabled Helm of Balduran hung about his shoulders, dangling by its leather chin-strap. All of this pointed to a seasoned warrior; a man that was not to be trifled with, lest his innocent face would darken to anger and the merry Abyss come to those that wronged him. What spoiled the effect was the yellowish hamster perched on his right shoulder.
"Boo says we got everybody, yes?"
His thick, Rashemen accent boomed out across the Clearing, causing some birds to scatter and some animals to take shelter.
The host simply nodded, and the warrior sat himself down on the now- vacated log, with a sickening crack that indicated the log would now be of little use to any not wearing splinter-proof breaches. The host grinned, though none could see it behind the oversized hood. And so the last seat, at the head of the table, was filled. And, almost immediately, the impatient Shadow Thief spoke.
"What are THEY doing here?" His senior attempted to silence him but, in this instance, the younger man would not be moved, "Harper! And no less than the fabled Elminster! And Khelben 'Blackstaff'!? I KNEW this was a setup!"
The senior Shadowmaster interrupted, "I must apologise on behalf of my friend. The journey has been long and arduous, and he has not borne it well. I extend the good will of my guild to you, High Harper Elminster; to Master Arunsun of Waterdeep; and to those Druidic persons present, and, of course, to our benevolent host."
His younger companion again subsided, only for the mage in black, known as Khelben 'Blackstaff' Arunsun – for the black staff he had carried for as long as any could remember – to shoot up from his chair and begin ranting, "Thieves! From my own city! I and my Moonstars will have your heads!"
That rebuke aggravated both Shadowmasters to the point where they began clamouring slurs and curses to the mage. The two druids stood up, trying to calm the three down, only to get caught up in the argument themselves. The only people not arguing were the host; Elminster, the mage in red; and the Rashemen Warrior, although he did seem to be holding an extended discussion with the hamster on his shoulder. The host, and Elminster, both grinned.
Slowly, the host raised a rod which had been concealed in the robe's right sleeve. With one wave, a sea of silence descended upon the table. It took the 'delegates' a few moments to realise that their voices were no longer working, and Elminster wished he could have painted a portrait of the moment when the fact became known to them, of their expressions as they turned to face their host, who had swiftly concealed the small ensorcelled rod about its person.
'Blackstaff' cast a vicious glare at the robed figure before reclaiming his seat, and the silenced thieves merely looked at one another in mild astonishment before eventually sitting down once more. The druids smiled at their host, whose method of solving an argument was possibly the most ingenious they had ever come across.
After a few moments under the influence of magical silence, their voices returned. This time, however, they used them more wisely, and introduced themselves. As had already been made plain, the Harper was the famed mage Elminster. The mage in black, Khelben Arunsun, was Lord Mage of Waterdeep and leader of a splinter-group of Harpers known as the Moonstars. The 'elder' thief was Shadowmaster Aran Linvail of Athkatla, who was acquainted with both the Rashemen and the host, and thus knew of the danger his friend had placed them in by crossing them. That younger thief was actually older than his fellow, and was the recently gazetted Shadowmaster of Waterdeep, an impetuous Elf with a mere ninety years of age behind him who went by the name Mourn Moondown. The druids were Pashar and Daelric, representatives of the Grove that inhabited this very wood. Beyond that, only two introductions remained. Well, three.
The host, silently, nodded to the Rashemen on his log, who loyally stood up and spoke, in his thick accent.
"I am Minsc, Warrior of the Ice Dragon Berserker Lodge. And this is Boo, my miniature Giant Space Hamster. I am here to protect my Witch, who sits before you."
He sat back down and continued his discussion with the hamster, which left only the host to be introduced. The figure stood up, threw back her hood and shook her naturally purple hair out of the robe's confines. Once it had been shorter than this; when she had first begun magical practises and had more than one accident as a result of the age-old Burning Hands spell. Now it had grown back to a happier length, and it seemed to have regained some colour, though Elminster suspected the young woman's prowess in the Art was responsible for that. Her fair skin was free of blemish, though two or three scars could be seen about her otherwise perfect face; remnants of battles long-since forgotten. Her blue-green eyes still shone with the innocence of a small child, though behind the glow they held a sagacity that was difficult to describe. Burgundy, Elminster noted, was definitely her colour.
She stood for a few long moments, her grace and beauty causing the men present to forget themselves and required them time to pick their jaws up from the ground beneath them; even the Elf was astonished by her prettiness, and he had always considered human women bland without exception. The one woman present, Pashar, simply smiled; she knew the game that the young mage was playing, and was moderately impressed at how well she played it.
When the host eventually did speak, it was one sentence:
"Heya, it's just me – Imoen..."
******
"You cannot be serious!" Linvail raised his voice slightly as his eyes scanned the paper before him. It was a manifesto of sorts, and its contents caused him some great consternation. "It will never work, Lady. And my fellow Guildmasters will be, shall we say, as difficult to convince otherwise as I am, myself."
"It is a difficult preposition for us, Imoen." Elminster's sage tones chimed in. "The Harper's are very much against organised crime; as Master Linvail will tell you. Asking us no less than to authorise such an endeavour is to place us in a very compromising position."
Arunsun nodded, although his expression remained thoughtful. Likewise, Mourn appeared deep in thought, though the way his eyes drifted frequently to the young mage indicated his thoughts were on another matter entirely. The druids had withdrawn to the edge of the Clearing so they might discuss the matter privately.
"I'm not asking you to authorise it, Elmo. I just want your assurance that we shall go unmolested by the Harpers until we are strong enough an organisation to survive such molestation, that's all. Besides, the Harpers are dedicated to Balance; this is an attempt to introduce a balance."
"To view it as such requires a great deal of lateral thinking child." Arunsun spoke, finally.
"How come? You have not shut down the Shadow Thieves who are, if you gentlemen will forgive me," she glanced to Linvail and Moondown, "by and large, an evil organisation. I merely propose the creation of a Guild dedicated to the ideal of stealing from the evil forces of the world; and defending those of good report from the Shadow Thieves and those like them. In your adventuring days, Elmo, I heard you gathered quite the hoard courtesy of those evils you despatched to the Abyss."
Elmo was Imoen's pet name for Elminster, and only she could use it without fear of reprisal from the wily old mage. This was mainly due to her foster Father's extensive involvement with the Harpers, though she liked to think that her own accomplishments had earned her some respect, too.
"But that's different..."
"I don't see how."
"Nor do I, Elminster." Arunsun spoke again, astonishing his old friend.
"You would support this?" Elminster asked, incredulously.
"I will not support any Guilds of Thieves within my fair city. I would not, however, hinder its development, though should it alter the Balance greatly my organisation would have no option but to intervene. Besides, an independent Guild that is prepared to let itself be hired as guards as well as 'procurers' could be of use to me. Assuming I qualify for a discounted rate." Khelben elaborated.
"Our Guild will have none of it. A rival Thieves' Guild working within our own cities? Never." Linvail stated.
"Scared of a little healthy competition? I'm not Bohdi, y'know. Not any more." Her tone darkened as she reminded the old thief what she had gone through at the time of their last meeting; experiences that were due in no small part to his actions. He had the good grace to lower his face, embarrassed.
"I'm scared of ending up in competition with those who have training in BOTH of the shadowed Arts. You propose a guild composed of Mages and Thieves."
"But no assassins", she added, "They go against my principle of 'Don't kill if you can possibly avoid it'."
Linvail conceded the point that they wouldn't cross paths with the Shadow Thieves in every area of the market. "I cannot speak for the Guild on something of this magnitude. When you invited me, I assumed you wished to be granted the rank of Shadowmaster; which I came prepared to convey upon you. I had no idea you had a project of this scope in mind. You ask us to give you time to build a Guild that will be at loggerheads with ours as soon as it is completed: some might call such a request unreasonable."
"We wouldn't do much business south of Baldur's Gate in any case. I would aim to centre our activities on the Neverwinter area, which is why I specifically asked you to bring the new Shadowmaster of Waterdeep; he will be my closest 'competition'."
Mourn did not respond. Instead, he stood up and walked over to the edge of the Clearing, deep in thought. As he did so, the two Druids returned. Pashar spoke for them.
"We are, in principle, in favour of this guild's creation, so long as it remains true to the mandates you have laid down for it. It will be allowed to operate freely in the Neverwinter forest provided it in no way threatens the Balance of Nature that we have cultivated here."
"I would not dream of affecting that balance, my Lady." Imoen bowed, and smiled.
Arunsun spoke, once more. "I have decided to grant you the half-year you request to put your house in order. For that period, you will not be the subject of any interest from my organisation or the guards of my City. If you take advantage of me, however, and make yourself fat on six months of free burglary, I shall kill you, personally."
At this threat, Minsc made a move to stand but a subtle gesture from Imoen had him sit back down with merely a grumble of displeasure at his Witch being thus abused.
Elminster, having considered all the options, slowly nodded. "Very well. You have your time to set up. The condition of this, however, is that one mage in thirty and one thief in thirty that you recruit shall be a Harper. They will ensure we are made aware if you attempt to seriously alter the Balance."
Imoen nodded; she had expected such a condition, and welcomed it. Harpers were chosen because of their abilities within their trade; having one in thirty of her troops Harpers would tip favour in combat towards her, and if publicised correctly, would deter people from attacking her guild members.
Linvail stood his ground and refused to answer either way.
All was going as she had expected. She was confident that the Shadow Thieves would let her be; maybe they would make one or two attempts upon her life, but once those failed they would leave her alone. Convinced that this brought the Meeting to a close, she waved her hand and the forest opened itself once again.
"I thank all of you for your time, and wish you a safe journey home."
This swift and unexpected dismissal took most of her guests aback; barring Elminster whom virtually nothing surprised; and Minsc, who stood up to escort the guests away from the Clearing back to the paths of Neverwinter Forest. The Druids bowed to Imoen, and left silently.
Blackstaff did likewise, casting a curious glance at Elminster when the other mage did not make to leave, but did not question his old friend's motives for staying.
"I see that we have overstayed our welcome, Mistress Imoen. Very well, I shall take my leave, along with Mourn, and shall give you a response from our Guild within two Tenday." Linvail bowed and left, led by Minsc and followed by Mourn.
Once all was quiet, Elminster and Imoen standing alone in the Clearing, the roots of the trees began withdrawing into the ground. Imoen turned to the eldest of the trees and knelt before it, kissing her fingers and then touching the base of its trunk. She remained there for a few moments.
In silence, voices carry; more-so than they do in the bustle of a street. And Imoen had exceptional hearing. She could not make out the noise of the druids, for they were even more knowledgeable of woodlore than she, and Blackstaff seemed to have teleported himself somewhere beyond her observation. But she could hear the thieves.
"So what do you think?" That was Linvail.
"I think today was very profitable." Mourn.
"How so?"
"Well, me handling a little competition will serve to show the Council of Shadowmasters that I deserve a more prestigious locale than Waterdeep."
"You fancy my job, Moondown?"
"Oh yes, Aran. But I fear I have not the stomach to live in that stench-ridden city of yours, teeming with unwashed Humans and Halflings. No offence."
"None taken."
"And besides, I finally met her."
"Who?" Aran's voice was distant; he was thinking again.
"Her, of course! Possibly the fairest human in the Realms: Imoen Bhaalspawn."
The last word reverberated throughout the forest. In a split second, Imoen had risen to her feet and flung her arms into the air. Elminster recognised the opening gesture of an incantation and had the good sense to hide behind one of the trees. The instant transformation from innocent maiden, in need of her huge Rashemen to protect her, to an Archmage who was of such awesome power that she had turned down overtures from the Harpers, Drizz't Do'Urden, the Shadow Thieves, the Hathran Sisterhood and even the Red Mages of Thay without so much as a word of reprisal, was utterly astounding. Her blue-green eyes, eyes which would have caused much greater stirring within the heart of Elminster were he thirty years younger, turned pure obsidian, then burned bright with the fire of a hundred suns as she began to call the triggering phrase of the spell.
"Ilsertum Meras Polostrassa!"
She heard Linvail give a yelp of surprise, but not so much surprise as was contained within the 'yip' give by his companion, whom Imoen had transformed into a pretty little tricolour cocker spaniel. Elminster appeared from behind his tree and placed a hand on the young mage's shoulder. She snapped around, but calmed down instantly as she remembered herself, the fire in her eyes dying.
"You shouldn't have done that, my girl." Elminster's voice was so like Gorion's at times that it brought a tear to Imoen's eye.
"I'm not a Bhaalspawn... Not any more. I'm just Imoen..." She sniffed.
"I know, I know. How long?" Elminster asked, curiously.
"He'll change back in about three hours. I was feeling generous; I've never been described in such a complimentary fashion before... But..."
"Don't worry, Imoen. I think you handled them all very well. Especially Khelben. He was the worry, in my book. If his little splinter group, not to mention his city Guard had decided to cause you grief your Guild would have had no chance."
Imoen sat on the grass, legs crossed, and smiled up at the old mage.
"They trust me, I think. An irony; I'm the last of my kind, the last of the progeny of Bhaal to walk the world of Toril, and they hated us for so long... And yet, now, they trust me."
"You have earned their trust, my dear, and their respect. I assure you that only you could have put forward that proposal without finding yourself skewered by Linvail, then incinerated by Arunsun; even I would have been met with more hostility than yourself." He paused, then gave her a fatherly embrace because the one man she would have wanted to see her now could not hug her himself. "You handled yourself as a grown woman, and a Great Mage. You honour Gorion in the way you have blossomed; his tutelage has not gone to waste."
"I hope not, Sir..."
There was an awkward pause before Elminster spoke again. "I heard you found the lost tower of Paelios the Great... And in it, I'd wager, his Spellbook?"
Imoen nodded, quietly, and pulled away. "And his twisted Demi-Lich, who did not want to part with it."
Elminster saw a memory of pain flash across Imoen's face, and he winced in sympathy. "Evidently you were victorious. Congratulations – I am unsure as to whether I would have survived such a battle, given my frail health."
"I was victorious at no small cost, I assure you. But he will trouble Faerûn no more."
Elminster raised an eyebrow. She seemed to have her health, and she had demonstrated with her casting that her mind was well enough; her Rashemen had not perished, and she travelled with few companions besides him. What loss could be so grave and yet so concealed? Still, he reasoned she would tell him when and if she wished to. "Did you find-?"
"Yes!" She interrupted, her voice breaking with grief. "Yes, I found it. And it didn't work..."
Elminster lowered his head. It had been a long shot – no, it had been longer than a long-shot. "There may be other ways?"
"No... This was my last chance. I failed him."
"Poppycock!" The elder wizard interrupted. "You have given three years of your life to this task – a task I doubt he would have appointed to you, in any case. Do you think he would wish to see you suffer so?"
"He risked all, sacrificed much, to save me from Jon Irenicus, when I was imprisoned for nothing less than my own impudence and stupidity."
"Have you forgotten so much already, child?"
"I am NO CHILD!" Her grief turned to anger. The elderly wizard before her wished for the entire world that he might relieve her of this self- imposed burden.
"He rescued you because you and he shared a bond greater than love, life OR death. You were kinfolk in spirit long before you knew of the blood- ties you bore. I ask you again, would he wish you to suffer thus on his behalf?"
"Of course not..."
"Then why do you punish yourself so?" Elminster's voice was soft.
"Because he left her – he left them both in MY care! Don't you understand that? He left her, and his unborn child, when he took up the mantle of the immortal. And it was my responsibility to care for them."
"Do you think Aerie blames you?"
"I know she does... She will not see me, even now." Imoen's voice was quavering, and Elminster feared she may lose control completely, but she regained her composure. "I was responsible for her son's death; for the death of my nephew. If I had been there, as I swore I would, when the earth shook-"
"You would have been buried in the mountain as well, that is all. You are powerful, Lady Imoen, but even you cannot stand up to Nature Herself. 'No one man can shore up a mountain'."
"'But likewise, no one man can rent it asunder.'" She finished the quotation; another piece of rhetoric from the Wise Alaundo. "The mountain collapsing-"
"Wasn't your fault. Yet you have spent the three years since that awful tragedy trying to atone for it."
"It's so hard, Elmo... He was a Godchild himself, the boy. And resurrecting them is no mean feat. With the Bhaalspawn, I guess it was not as much an issue – we were conceived by an avatar of a fallen god. But my nephew..."
"Your nephew was a demi-god, and sits now on his father's lap, in the War Room of The Triad, plotting the downfall of evils across the Realms." Elminster smiled. "Would you take that from either of them?"
Imoen did not answer; she merely wiped her teary eyes. "I fear, Elminster, what I may have sacrificed in my attempts to find magical methods of raising the boy. I realised how much of myself I was losing – how much I had already lost – when I fought the twisted, undead remnant of Paelios..."
Elminster sighed; that was her fear. "That only happens to those mages who delve into Necromancy for their own benefit. What you have done has been for the benefit of another; you have never lost sight of that, I know."
"But I looked into that fallen mage's eyes, and I saw my own, and I suddenly felt dark; I felt cold, and so very alone. I felt more alone in that brief instant than ever before in my life: more than when I first saw Gorion's body lying cold and dead in that glade east of Candlekeep; more than when Jonoleth Irenicus locked me in that jar in Spellhold and diced with my mind and my soul; more than when I said goodbye to my brother at the Throne of Bhaal."
Elminster smiled, gently. "Such loneliness comes with powers as great as those you possess, Imoen; surely your time at Candlekeep taught you that much. How many of those 'learned sages' showed the barest glimmer of affection for another being?"
"Gorion..."
"Your foster-father was a different sort of sage. Much like you, he was taught by Road, not by Rote. The path of adventure gave him a different outlook on the world to the other men of Candlekeep. But even he, when he first realised the scope of what he could become, was terrified by it. And you, like he, have faced it and denied it. He would be ever so proud of you, Imoen."
The young mage smiled, slightly, remembering Gorion and Winthrop and her other friends of Candlekeep. She had returned their shortly after her brother accepted his godhood, learning much from its ancient and dusty tomes – those same tomes she had mocked as a child, for being almost as old as the other inhabitants. As an Archmage in her own right, she had a new respect for such literature.
While she had been engrossed in study, Minsc had returned to Rashemen. The noble warrior had spent the long journey expecting to be turned away at the gates of him homeland for failing in his Dajemma; his test of manhood. Instead, he had been welcomed with open arms. Skalds were already singing of his accomplishments while in Baldur's Gate and along the length of the Sword Coast. Minsc returned to the hero's welcome he deserved, and remained there until he received word from Imoen that she had need of him. He had travelled with her, a loyal companion and friend, ever since.
The thought that Gorion had faced similar trials was comforting, in a way; it proved to her that all mages could feel thus, not just the evil, or more importantly those who had once carried the taint of Bhaal. She looked up to the elder wizard and her blue-green eyes shone with admiration and love for a man who had always been to her like a second father. "Thank you..."
"No thanks are required, my girl. We all, at some time, need somebody to help us remember just how steady the ground beneath us is. By the way, I like that latest scroll you published! What's it called again?"
"'Imoen's Fighting Phantom'. It's selling fairly well, actually – one more source of income with which to finance the setup of my Guild."
"I found it very useful when set upon by some less-than-intelligent thugs just south of Shadowdale last month – I cast it a few times and left the bandits to work up a sweat fighting the three illusory barbarian spirits it created." Elminster chuckled.
Imoen smiled, warmly, and laughed. "Well, it always does my heart good to hear of yet another satisfied customer."
At that point, Minsc returned, a slightly bemused expression on his face; more bemused than usual. "Boo says that you turned that man into a dog for calling you 'that name'. You promised Minsc you wouldn't do that any more, remember?"
Imoen smiled, and then did her best to look admonished. "I apologise, my noble protector. It shall not happen again, I swear."
This more than satiated Minsc, who grinned and let out one of his Rashemen-accented belly laughs. "Minsc and Boo didn't like that one, anyway. Boo said he smelled funny."
Imoen smiled. She had learned to trust 'Boo's' judgement on several occasions. As to whether or not Boo truly was a miniature Giant Space Hamster, Imoen had once laughed at the prospect, but now, with some years of magery behind her, she began to wonder. She had tried several psychic spells, and spells that conferred upon the caster the ability to speak with animals, and yet they seemed to have no effect when it came to Boo. When Boo squeaked, he just squeaked; according to the spell, his squeak's meant nothing. Imoen knew this could not be true, so she investigated the matter further. Though Minsc took some convincing to allow experiments upon Boo, and eventually Imoen had been forced to place the warrior in a magical slumber to examine the rodent more closely, the results of the investigation were astonishing. Mainly, that Boo was completely immune to any type of divining magic and, it would seem, was Toril's only immortal hamster; he did not age, and he could not be harmed through any conventional or magical means. He was truly astounding. Imoen had promised to devote more time to a study of Boo once her Guild was set up and she had time to indulge such scientific whims.
"Tell Boo that I'll remember that next time I see Mister Moondown."
Minsc nodded and wandered over to the other side of the clearing, chattering away to his little yellow companion. Elminster dusted down his robe and turned his head to face the forest.
"And now I must away with me. I trust we shall not be as long between meetings from now on, yes?"
"You mean now that I'm not wandering the world any more." Imoen grinned, impishly. "My door shall ever be open to you, old friend."
The older mage simply nodded, smiled, and vanished into the forest. Minsc walked back to Imoen's side, both of them staring in the direction the mage had set off in; he was gone. Imoen folded her arms and smiled.
"He has style, doesn't he." She asked, rhetorically.
"Boo thinks he's not as doddery as he makes out to be. Minsc agrees."
"As do I, my old friend." She gave Minsc a playful hug with one hand, tickling Boo's chin with the forefinger of her other. "And now we must away once again."
Minsc looked a little saddened; this worried Imoen a little, for it was rare for the berserker warrior to be anything other than jovial. "What's wrong, Minsc?"
"Boo was just getting used to the forest again, as was Minsc." His voice was as downcast as his face. Imoen tried to buck them both up.
"It won't be long – and this time, when we come back we'll be back for good. I promise." She gave a cheerful giggle. Minsc reacted to this in a way she would never have expected.
"Yes!" He picked Imoen up and swung her around in circles. "My witch has her laugh back! Boo is overjoyed!"
Imoen found that she could not stop laughing. Had she really not 'giggled' in as long? By Mystra, Elminster was right. She might have lost herself, had it not been for his words. She made a note to give him a proper 'thank you' next time they met. Maybe she could make him a personalised piece of magical ware – something unique, just for him; a "Ring of Elminster", perhaps? She was pondering what magicks to endow the ring with as she, and her Protector, and his miniature Giant Space Hamster headed off into the woods. Once they passed through Neverwinter Forest, they would take the road north to a tavern she was familiar with. There was somebody there she needed to see.
To Be Continued...
This is my first attempt at a fan fiction, btw, so I implore you to take that into account when reading and reviewing it :-) Baldur's Gate etc. is copyrighted by Interplay, Bioware and Wizards of the Coast – lovely people who have given us a series of games as deep and involving and downright fun. I intend this to be the first chapter of several, but only if people want to read it. If you want more, tell me in your reviews! ;-)
In the forest of Neverwinter, there is a Clearing. There are many clearings within the sprawling green mass, but you would know the instant you stepped into this one; it contains a hillock from which you can see the snow-land beauty that is the Spine of the World, and the Sea of Swords is clearly visible to the west. And, of course, its most notable feature: were you to walk into this Clearing without an invitation, several arrows would have been trained on your bobbing Adam's apple since an hour before your arrival.
It is in this Clearing that the Guild has its Headquarters, and has had for some time. The Guild or, as they are sometimes known, the Mageling Circle, was created some years ago by one of the kindest and gentlest souls ever to grace the Realms. It is this inception, and the adventures of this individual, to which our history refers. For it was the pleasure of this Bard, and indeed the honour, to have fought alongside this heroic adventurer in the names of justice and of freedom. And so I shall end this preface and move from the present to the distant past, shortly before my own acquaintance with either the Guild or the heroes associated with it.
******
The creation of an independent Guild of Thieves anywhere along the Sword Coast, and by 'independent' I mean one not associated with the Shadow Thieves, is no simple matter by any stretch of the imagination. Indeed it is a dangerous endeavour, and normally leads to brevity of existence for all involved; Shadowmasters take not kindly to those that would encroach upon their territory. And so it would have taken an extraordinary individual to form an independent Guild that did not merely operate in one Shadow Thief city, but operated in nigh on all of them.
Such an individual was sat on a log in this very clearing on a warm Flamerule evening some ten years ago. A burgundy, hooded robe hid the figure's features as it absently shaped a piece of lump-wood with a small craft-knife. This spot had been chosen for the Meeting – a meeting that would go down in history – because it was off the beaten track, while not being too difficult for practitioners of the Larcenous Arts to find; given sufficient direction, of course.
The sun was setting when two such practitioners, Guildmasters of the Shadow Thieves, arrived in the Clearing. Chairs had been prepared for them; well, chairs was the wrong word – the roots of the surrounding trees and been coaxed from their rest beneath the Earth and had knotted and twisted themselves in such a way as to make for several comfortable seats. Likewise, the larger roots had rose up and bound themselves to make a table, around which the seats were, that the meeting might have an official air, even though it was possessed of a natural, relaxed demeanour; very much like the host. It should give the reader an idea as to what esteem the 'host' of this Meeting was held in, that the spirits of the trees would adhere to these requests thus, with no need for any form of magical coercion.
The elder, and evidently senior of the two Shadow Thieves, bowed to their host. He cast an angered glance at his seemingly younger companion when, defiantly, the boy merely nodded his head vaguely in the robed figure's direction before taking his seat. Shortly afterwards, two members of the local grove of Druids arrived. They were mildly taken aback by the display of manipulated nature before them, but at the psychic assurance of the dryads and spirits of the woodland that they had consented, they took their seats only mildly awed that any non-Druid could have earned such respect from Mother Nature.
Just before the last rays of the sun crept beyond the horizon, two men in mage's robes, both extremely familiar to all present, though only known personally to the host, entered the clearing. Their arrival caused the younger Shadow Thief to start from his chair, but his superior's hand was swiftly forcing him back down. One of the wizards, wearing a flame-red robe and possessed of a grand white beard, grinned. The other, a much harsher person in both manner and mannerisms, was wearing entirely black. He carried a black staff at his side and, though once it had been merely a symbol, the host noted that the wizard seemed to be using it more as a crutch nowadays. Old age overlooked nobody forever, it appeared; not even the Chosen of Mystra.
Now that the entire expected company was present, the host stood up from the log and placed the knife and carving on the ground. The effect was quite startling; the setting sun at the host's back created a silhouette that made even the wizard in black shudder. The sun's light faded, and at that point one last person entered the clearing.
He was a broad man, and tall. His bald head bore a purple tattoo, and his prematurely aged face seemed to bear a childlike expression of innocence most of the time. He wore armour forged from Gorgon Hide, its green matching the trees that seemed to close up behind him. His belt bore twin sheaths; from both protruded ancient Dwarven hammers. The fabled Helm of Balduran hung about his shoulders, dangling by its leather chin-strap. All of this pointed to a seasoned warrior; a man that was not to be trifled with, lest his innocent face would darken to anger and the merry Abyss come to those that wronged him. What spoiled the effect was the yellowish hamster perched on his right shoulder.
"Boo says we got everybody, yes?"
His thick, Rashemen accent boomed out across the Clearing, causing some birds to scatter and some animals to take shelter.
The host simply nodded, and the warrior sat himself down on the now- vacated log, with a sickening crack that indicated the log would now be of little use to any not wearing splinter-proof breaches. The host grinned, though none could see it behind the oversized hood. And so the last seat, at the head of the table, was filled. And, almost immediately, the impatient Shadow Thief spoke.
"What are THEY doing here?" His senior attempted to silence him but, in this instance, the younger man would not be moved, "Harper! And no less than the fabled Elminster! And Khelben 'Blackstaff'!? I KNEW this was a setup!"
The senior Shadowmaster interrupted, "I must apologise on behalf of my friend. The journey has been long and arduous, and he has not borne it well. I extend the good will of my guild to you, High Harper Elminster; to Master Arunsun of Waterdeep; and to those Druidic persons present, and, of course, to our benevolent host."
His younger companion again subsided, only for the mage in black, known as Khelben 'Blackstaff' Arunsun – for the black staff he had carried for as long as any could remember – to shoot up from his chair and begin ranting, "Thieves! From my own city! I and my Moonstars will have your heads!"
That rebuke aggravated both Shadowmasters to the point where they began clamouring slurs and curses to the mage. The two druids stood up, trying to calm the three down, only to get caught up in the argument themselves. The only people not arguing were the host; Elminster, the mage in red; and the Rashemen Warrior, although he did seem to be holding an extended discussion with the hamster on his shoulder. The host, and Elminster, both grinned.
Slowly, the host raised a rod which had been concealed in the robe's right sleeve. With one wave, a sea of silence descended upon the table. It took the 'delegates' a few moments to realise that their voices were no longer working, and Elminster wished he could have painted a portrait of the moment when the fact became known to them, of their expressions as they turned to face their host, who had swiftly concealed the small ensorcelled rod about its person.
'Blackstaff' cast a vicious glare at the robed figure before reclaiming his seat, and the silenced thieves merely looked at one another in mild astonishment before eventually sitting down once more. The druids smiled at their host, whose method of solving an argument was possibly the most ingenious they had ever come across.
After a few moments under the influence of magical silence, their voices returned. This time, however, they used them more wisely, and introduced themselves. As had already been made plain, the Harper was the famed mage Elminster. The mage in black, Khelben Arunsun, was Lord Mage of Waterdeep and leader of a splinter-group of Harpers known as the Moonstars. The 'elder' thief was Shadowmaster Aran Linvail of Athkatla, who was acquainted with both the Rashemen and the host, and thus knew of the danger his friend had placed them in by crossing them. That younger thief was actually older than his fellow, and was the recently gazetted Shadowmaster of Waterdeep, an impetuous Elf with a mere ninety years of age behind him who went by the name Mourn Moondown. The druids were Pashar and Daelric, representatives of the Grove that inhabited this very wood. Beyond that, only two introductions remained. Well, three.
The host, silently, nodded to the Rashemen on his log, who loyally stood up and spoke, in his thick accent.
"I am Minsc, Warrior of the Ice Dragon Berserker Lodge. And this is Boo, my miniature Giant Space Hamster. I am here to protect my Witch, who sits before you."
He sat back down and continued his discussion with the hamster, which left only the host to be introduced. The figure stood up, threw back her hood and shook her naturally purple hair out of the robe's confines. Once it had been shorter than this; when she had first begun magical practises and had more than one accident as a result of the age-old Burning Hands spell. Now it had grown back to a happier length, and it seemed to have regained some colour, though Elminster suspected the young woman's prowess in the Art was responsible for that. Her fair skin was free of blemish, though two or three scars could be seen about her otherwise perfect face; remnants of battles long-since forgotten. Her blue-green eyes still shone with the innocence of a small child, though behind the glow they held a sagacity that was difficult to describe. Burgundy, Elminster noted, was definitely her colour.
She stood for a few long moments, her grace and beauty causing the men present to forget themselves and required them time to pick their jaws up from the ground beneath them; even the Elf was astonished by her prettiness, and he had always considered human women bland without exception. The one woman present, Pashar, simply smiled; she knew the game that the young mage was playing, and was moderately impressed at how well she played it.
When the host eventually did speak, it was one sentence:
"Heya, it's just me – Imoen..."
******
"You cannot be serious!" Linvail raised his voice slightly as his eyes scanned the paper before him. It was a manifesto of sorts, and its contents caused him some great consternation. "It will never work, Lady. And my fellow Guildmasters will be, shall we say, as difficult to convince otherwise as I am, myself."
"It is a difficult preposition for us, Imoen." Elminster's sage tones chimed in. "The Harper's are very much against organised crime; as Master Linvail will tell you. Asking us no less than to authorise such an endeavour is to place us in a very compromising position."
Arunsun nodded, although his expression remained thoughtful. Likewise, Mourn appeared deep in thought, though the way his eyes drifted frequently to the young mage indicated his thoughts were on another matter entirely. The druids had withdrawn to the edge of the Clearing so they might discuss the matter privately.
"I'm not asking you to authorise it, Elmo. I just want your assurance that we shall go unmolested by the Harpers until we are strong enough an organisation to survive such molestation, that's all. Besides, the Harpers are dedicated to Balance; this is an attempt to introduce a balance."
"To view it as such requires a great deal of lateral thinking child." Arunsun spoke, finally.
"How come? You have not shut down the Shadow Thieves who are, if you gentlemen will forgive me," she glanced to Linvail and Moondown, "by and large, an evil organisation. I merely propose the creation of a Guild dedicated to the ideal of stealing from the evil forces of the world; and defending those of good report from the Shadow Thieves and those like them. In your adventuring days, Elmo, I heard you gathered quite the hoard courtesy of those evils you despatched to the Abyss."
Elmo was Imoen's pet name for Elminster, and only she could use it without fear of reprisal from the wily old mage. This was mainly due to her foster Father's extensive involvement with the Harpers, though she liked to think that her own accomplishments had earned her some respect, too.
"But that's different..."
"I don't see how."
"Nor do I, Elminster." Arunsun spoke again, astonishing his old friend.
"You would support this?" Elminster asked, incredulously.
"I will not support any Guilds of Thieves within my fair city. I would not, however, hinder its development, though should it alter the Balance greatly my organisation would have no option but to intervene. Besides, an independent Guild that is prepared to let itself be hired as guards as well as 'procurers' could be of use to me. Assuming I qualify for a discounted rate." Khelben elaborated.
"Our Guild will have none of it. A rival Thieves' Guild working within our own cities? Never." Linvail stated.
"Scared of a little healthy competition? I'm not Bohdi, y'know. Not any more." Her tone darkened as she reminded the old thief what she had gone through at the time of their last meeting; experiences that were due in no small part to his actions. He had the good grace to lower his face, embarrassed.
"I'm scared of ending up in competition with those who have training in BOTH of the shadowed Arts. You propose a guild composed of Mages and Thieves."
"But no assassins", she added, "They go against my principle of 'Don't kill if you can possibly avoid it'."
Linvail conceded the point that they wouldn't cross paths with the Shadow Thieves in every area of the market. "I cannot speak for the Guild on something of this magnitude. When you invited me, I assumed you wished to be granted the rank of Shadowmaster; which I came prepared to convey upon you. I had no idea you had a project of this scope in mind. You ask us to give you time to build a Guild that will be at loggerheads with ours as soon as it is completed: some might call such a request unreasonable."
"We wouldn't do much business south of Baldur's Gate in any case. I would aim to centre our activities on the Neverwinter area, which is why I specifically asked you to bring the new Shadowmaster of Waterdeep; he will be my closest 'competition'."
Mourn did not respond. Instead, he stood up and walked over to the edge of the Clearing, deep in thought. As he did so, the two Druids returned. Pashar spoke for them.
"We are, in principle, in favour of this guild's creation, so long as it remains true to the mandates you have laid down for it. It will be allowed to operate freely in the Neverwinter forest provided it in no way threatens the Balance of Nature that we have cultivated here."
"I would not dream of affecting that balance, my Lady." Imoen bowed, and smiled.
Arunsun spoke, once more. "I have decided to grant you the half-year you request to put your house in order. For that period, you will not be the subject of any interest from my organisation or the guards of my City. If you take advantage of me, however, and make yourself fat on six months of free burglary, I shall kill you, personally."
At this threat, Minsc made a move to stand but a subtle gesture from Imoen had him sit back down with merely a grumble of displeasure at his Witch being thus abused.
Elminster, having considered all the options, slowly nodded. "Very well. You have your time to set up. The condition of this, however, is that one mage in thirty and one thief in thirty that you recruit shall be a Harper. They will ensure we are made aware if you attempt to seriously alter the Balance."
Imoen nodded; she had expected such a condition, and welcomed it. Harpers were chosen because of their abilities within their trade; having one in thirty of her troops Harpers would tip favour in combat towards her, and if publicised correctly, would deter people from attacking her guild members.
Linvail stood his ground and refused to answer either way.
All was going as she had expected. She was confident that the Shadow Thieves would let her be; maybe they would make one or two attempts upon her life, but once those failed they would leave her alone. Convinced that this brought the Meeting to a close, she waved her hand and the forest opened itself once again.
"I thank all of you for your time, and wish you a safe journey home."
This swift and unexpected dismissal took most of her guests aback; barring Elminster whom virtually nothing surprised; and Minsc, who stood up to escort the guests away from the Clearing back to the paths of Neverwinter Forest. The Druids bowed to Imoen, and left silently.
Blackstaff did likewise, casting a curious glance at Elminster when the other mage did not make to leave, but did not question his old friend's motives for staying.
"I see that we have overstayed our welcome, Mistress Imoen. Very well, I shall take my leave, along with Mourn, and shall give you a response from our Guild within two Tenday." Linvail bowed and left, led by Minsc and followed by Mourn.
Once all was quiet, Elminster and Imoen standing alone in the Clearing, the roots of the trees began withdrawing into the ground. Imoen turned to the eldest of the trees and knelt before it, kissing her fingers and then touching the base of its trunk. She remained there for a few moments.
In silence, voices carry; more-so than they do in the bustle of a street. And Imoen had exceptional hearing. She could not make out the noise of the druids, for they were even more knowledgeable of woodlore than she, and Blackstaff seemed to have teleported himself somewhere beyond her observation. But she could hear the thieves.
"So what do you think?" That was Linvail.
"I think today was very profitable." Mourn.
"How so?"
"Well, me handling a little competition will serve to show the Council of Shadowmasters that I deserve a more prestigious locale than Waterdeep."
"You fancy my job, Moondown?"
"Oh yes, Aran. But I fear I have not the stomach to live in that stench-ridden city of yours, teeming with unwashed Humans and Halflings. No offence."
"None taken."
"And besides, I finally met her."
"Who?" Aran's voice was distant; he was thinking again.
"Her, of course! Possibly the fairest human in the Realms: Imoen Bhaalspawn."
The last word reverberated throughout the forest. In a split second, Imoen had risen to her feet and flung her arms into the air. Elminster recognised the opening gesture of an incantation and had the good sense to hide behind one of the trees. The instant transformation from innocent maiden, in need of her huge Rashemen to protect her, to an Archmage who was of such awesome power that she had turned down overtures from the Harpers, Drizz't Do'Urden, the Shadow Thieves, the Hathran Sisterhood and even the Red Mages of Thay without so much as a word of reprisal, was utterly astounding. Her blue-green eyes, eyes which would have caused much greater stirring within the heart of Elminster were he thirty years younger, turned pure obsidian, then burned bright with the fire of a hundred suns as she began to call the triggering phrase of the spell.
"Ilsertum Meras Polostrassa!"
She heard Linvail give a yelp of surprise, but not so much surprise as was contained within the 'yip' give by his companion, whom Imoen had transformed into a pretty little tricolour cocker spaniel. Elminster appeared from behind his tree and placed a hand on the young mage's shoulder. She snapped around, but calmed down instantly as she remembered herself, the fire in her eyes dying.
"You shouldn't have done that, my girl." Elminster's voice was so like Gorion's at times that it brought a tear to Imoen's eye.
"I'm not a Bhaalspawn... Not any more. I'm just Imoen..." She sniffed.
"I know, I know. How long?" Elminster asked, curiously.
"He'll change back in about three hours. I was feeling generous; I've never been described in such a complimentary fashion before... But..."
"Don't worry, Imoen. I think you handled them all very well. Especially Khelben. He was the worry, in my book. If his little splinter group, not to mention his city Guard had decided to cause you grief your Guild would have had no chance."
Imoen sat on the grass, legs crossed, and smiled up at the old mage.
"They trust me, I think. An irony; I'm the last of my kind, the last of the progeny of Bhaal to walk the world of Toril, and they hated us for so long... And yet, now, they trust me."
"You have earned their trust, my dear, and their respect. I assure you that only you could have put forward that proposal without finding yourself skewered by Linvail, then incinerated by Arunsun; even I would have been met with more hostility than yourself." He paused, then gave her a fatherly embrace because the one man she would have wanted to see her now could not hug her himself. "You handled yourself as a grown woman, and a Great Mage. You honour Gorion in the way you have blossomed; his tutelage has not gone to waste."
"I hope not, Sir..."
There was an awkward pause before Elminster spoke again. "I heard you found the lost tower of Paelios the Great... And in it, I'd wager, his Spellbook?"
Imoen nodded, quietly, and pulled away. "And his twisted Demi-Lich, who did not want to part with it."
Elminster saw a memory of pain flash across Imoen's face, and he winced in sympathy. "Evidently you were victorious. Congratulations – I am unsure as to whether I would have survived such a battle, given my frail health."
"I was victorious at no small cost, I assure you. But he will trouble Faerûn no more."
Elminster raised an eyebrow. She seemed to have her health, and she had demonstrated with her casting that her mind was well enough; her Rashemen had not perished, and she travelled with few companions besides him. What loss could be so grave and yet so concealed? Still, he reasoned she would tell him when and if she wished to. "Did you find-?"
"Yes!" She interrupted, her voice breaking with grief. "Yes, I found it. And it didn't work..."
Elminster lowered his head. It had been a long shot – no, it had been longer than a long-shot. "There may be other ways?"
"No... This was my last chance. I failed him."
"Poppycock!" The elder wizard interrupted. "You have given three years of your life to this task – a task I doubt he would have appointed to you, in any case. Do you think he would wish to see you suffer so?"
"He risked all, sacrificed much, to save me from Jon Irenicus, when I was imprisoned for nothing less than my own impudence and stupidity."
"Have you forgotten so much already, child?"
"I am NO CHILD!" Her grief turned to anger. The elderly wizard before her wished for the entire world that he might relieve her of this self- imposed burden.
"He rescued you because you and he shared a bond greater than love, life OR death. You were kinfolk in spirit long before you knew of the blood- ties you bore. I ask you again, would he wish you to suffer thus on his behalf?"
"Of course not..."
"Then why do you punish yourself so?" Elminster's voice was soft.
"Because he left her – he left them both in MY care! Don't you understand that? He left her, and his unborn child, when he took up the mantle of the immortal. And it was my responsibility to care for them."
"Do you think Aerie blames you?"
"I know she does... She will not see me, even now." Imoen's voice was quavering, and Elminster feared she may lose control completely, but she regained her composure. "I was responsible for her son's death; for the death of my nephew. If I had been there, as I swore I would, when the earth shook-"
"You would have been buried in the mountain as well, that is all. You are powerful, Lady Imoen, but even you cannot stand up to Nature Herself. 'No one man can shore up a mountain'."
"'But likewise, no one man can rent it asunder.'" She finished the quotation; another piece of rhetoric from the Wise Alaundo. "The mountain collapsing-"
"Wasn't your fault. Yet you have spent the three years since that awful tragedy trying to atone for it."
"It's so hard, Elmo... He was a Godchild himself, the boy. And resurrecting them is no mean feat. With the Bhaalspawn, I guess it was not as much an issue – we were conceived by an avatar of a fallen god. But my nephew..."
"Your nephew was a demi-god, and sits now on his father's lap, in the War Room of The Triad, plotting the downfall of evils across the Realms." Elminster smiled. "Would you take that from either of them?"
Imoen did not answer; she merely wiped her teary eyes. "I fear, Elminster, what I may have sacrificed in my attempts to find magical methods of raising the boy. I realised how much of myself I was losing – how much I had already lost – when I fought the twisted, undead remnant of Paelios..."
Elminster sighed; that was her fear. "That only happens to those mages who delve into Necromancy for their own benefit. What you have done has been for the benefit of another; you have never lost sight of that, I know."
"But I looked into that fallen mage's eyes, and I saw my own, and I suddenly felt dark; I felt cold, and so very alone. I felt more alone in that brief instant than ever before in my life: more than when I first saw Gorion's body lying cold and dead in that glade east of Candlekeep; more than when Jonoleth Irenicus locked me in that jar in Spellhold and diced with my mind and my soul; more than when I said goodbye to my brother at the Throne of Bhaal."
Elminster smiled, gently. "Such loneliness comes with powers as great as those you possess, Imoen; surely your time at Candlekeep taught you that much. How many of those 'learned sages' showed the barest glimmer of affection for another being?"
"Gorion..."
"Your foster-father was a different sort of sage. Much like you, he was taught by Road, not by Rote. The path of adventure gave him a different outlook on the world to the other men of Candlekeep. But even he, when he first realised the scope of what he could become, was terrified by it. And you, like he, have faced it and denied it. He would be ever so proud of you, Imoen."
The young mage smiled, slightly, remembering Gorion and Winthrop and her other friends of Candlekeep. She had returned their shortly after her brother accepted his godhood, learning much from its ancient and dusty tomes – those same tomes she had mocked as a child, for being almost as old as the other inhabitants. As an Archmage in her own right, she had a new respect for such literature.
While she had been engrossed in study, Minsc had returned to Rashemen. The noble warrior had spent the long journey expecting to be turned away at the gates of him homeland for failing in his Dajemma; his test of manhood. Instead, he had been welcomed with open arms. Skalds were already singing of his accomplishments while in Baldur's Gate and along the length of the Sword Coast. Minsc returned to the hero's welcome he deserved, and remained there until he received word from Imoen that she had need of him. He had travelled with her, a loyal companion and friend, ever since.
The thought that Gorion had faced similar trials was comforting, in a way; it proved to her that all mages could feel thus, not just the evil, or more importantly those who had once carried the taint of Bhaal. She looked up to the elder wizard and her blue-green eyes shone with admiration and love for a man who had always been to her like a second father. "Thank you..."
"No thanks are required, my girl. We all, at some time, need somebody to help us remember just how steady the ground beneath us is. By the way, I like that latest scroll you published! What's it called again?"
"'Imoen's Fighting Phantom'. It's selling fairly well, actually – one more source of income with which to finance the setup of my Guild."
"I found it very useful when set upon by some less-than-intelligent thugs just south of Shadowdale last month – I cast it a few times and left the bandits to work up a sweat fighting the three illusory barbarian spirits it created." Elminster chuckled.
Imoen smiled, warmly, and laughed. "Well, it always does my heart good to hear of yet another satisfied customer."
At that point, Minsc returned, a slightly bemused expression on his face; more bemused than usual. "Boo says that you turned that man into a dog for calling you 'that name'. You promised Minsc you wouldn't do that any more, remember?"
Imoen smiled, and then did her best to look admonished. "I apologise, my noble protector. It shall not happen again, I swear."
This more than satiated Minsc, who grinned and let out one of his Rashemen-accented belly laughs. "Minsc and Boo didn't like that one, anyway. Boo said he smelled funny."
Imoen smiled. She had learned to trust 'Boo's' judgement on several occasions. As to whether or not Boo truly was a miniature Giant Space Hamster, Imoen had once laughed at the prospect, but now, with some years of magery behind her, she began to wonder. She had tried several psychic spells, and spells that conferred upon the caster the ability to speak with animals, and yet they seemed to have no effect when it came to Boo. When Boo squeaked, he just squeaked; according to the spell, his squeak's meant nothing. Imoen knew this could not be true, so she investigated the matter further. Though Minsc took some convincing to allow experiments upon Boo, and eventually Imoen had been forced to place the warrior in a magical slumber to examine the rodent more closely, the results of the investigation were astonishing. Mainly, that Boo was completely immune to any type of divining magic and, it would seem, was Toril's only immortal hamster; he did not age, and he could not be harmed through any conventional or magical means. He was truly astounding. Imoen had promised to devote more time to a study of Boo once her Guild was set up and she had time to indulge such scientific whims.
"Tell Boo that I'll remember that next time I see Mister Moondown."
Minsc nodded and wandered over to the other side of the clearing, chattering away to his little yellow companion. Elminster dusted down his robe and turned his head to face the forest.
"And now I must away with me. I trust we shall not be as long between meetings from now on, yes?"
"You mean now that I'm not wandering the world any more." Imoen grinned, impishly. "My door shall ever be open to you, old friend."
The older mage simply nodded, smiled, and vanished into the forest. Minsc walked back to Imoen's side, both of them staring in the direction the mage had set off in; he was gone. Imoen folded her arms and smiled.
"He has style, doesn't he." She asked, rhetorically.
"Boo thinks he's not as doddery as he makes out to be. Minsc agrees."
"As do I, my old friend." She gave Minsc a playful hug with one hand, tickling Boo's chin with the forefinger of her other. "And now we must away once again."
Minsc looked a little saddened; this worried Imoen a little, for it was rare for the berserker warrior to be anything other than jovial. "What's wrong, Minsc?"
"Boo was just getting used to the forest again, as was Minsc." His voice was as downcast as his face. Imoen tried to buck them both up.
"It won't be long – and this time, when we come back we'll be back for good. I promise." She gave a cheerful giggle. Minsc reacted to this in a way she would never have expected.
"Yes!" He picked Imoen up and swung her around in circles. "My witch has her laugh back! Boo is overjoyed!"
Imoen found that she could not stop laughing. Had she really not 'giggled' in as long? By Mystra, Elminster was right. She might have lost herself, had it not been for his words. She made a note to give him a proper 'thank you' next time they met. Maybe she could make him a personalised piece of magical ware – something unique, just for him; a "Ring of Elminster", perhaps? She was pondering what magicks to endow the ring with as she, and her Protector, and his miniature Giant Space Hamster headed off into the woods. Once they passed through Neverwinter Forest, they would take the road north to a tavern she was familiar with. There was somebody there she needed to see.
To Be Continued...