Chapter 1:
The Paladin
Rictor Alexander sat quietly at his seat, sipping his mead and enjoying the warmth of the inn. The wizard school at CandleKeep was not only one of the finest learning academies on the Sword Coast, but it also sported a large and hospitable inn.
Rictor's garb marked him to any observer as a knight of some order. He wore a white surcoat bearing the emblem of Helm, God of Order over a finely crafted breastplate, greaves and gauntlets. A worn but sturdy shield and an elegant looking antique broadsword leaned casually against the side of his bench.
The paladin of Helm looked out over the other patrons of the inn. Many of them wore their weapons easily and appeared to be seasoned adventurers. One particular group caught his attention above all the others. A party of loud and probably extremely drunk mercenaries, bearing the red garments and equipment that marked them as members of the Crimson Shield.
The Crimson Shield was a mercenary company with a poor reputation as drunks, bullies, and ingrates, and this group fit the bill perfectly. They were sitting around a large table in the center of the main hall, singing loudly and shouting jeers at anyone who passed. The heads of several goblins sat in the middle of the table, disgusting "trophies" of fight the group had recently been in. They boasted to any one who would listen of the great battle in which they had killed these creatures, waving the heads about and generally ruining as many appetites as they could.
Rictor had no respect for them. First of all, killing a few goblins was no great feat of expertise for any experienced fighter, but more so, he was disgusted by the callousness and even enjoyment that marked their talk of killing weaker foes. Though goblins were evil creatures, Rictor killed only when he had to, and even then he took no pleasure in it and felt that it was a foul act, unfit for humanity.
Just then, a tallish, lean elf stepped in from the road, and Rictor knew there would be trouble as soon as he saw the looks the Crimson Shield were shooting at the newcomer. The strange elf stepped up to the bar and ordered a mug of some liquor and a skillet of spiced potatoes. Taking his food, he then went over and sat down quietly in a shadowed corner. Withdrawing a dangerous looking battleaxe from his cloak and laying it on the table, he took out a long, curved hunting knife from within his cloak and began slicing the potatoes.
Before long, Rictor noticed a member of the Crimson Shield gesturing towards the elf while speaking to one of his companions and mere seconds later, three of the mercenaries were up and walking towards the silent stranger. The elf obviously saw them coming, for he calmly set down his knife and put a hand on his axe.
The mercenaries swaggered up, and their leader leaned over the table, resting his hands directly in front of the elven stranger.
"Well boys, what have we here?" he declared brashly. "A skinny little pointy ears!" the other two snickered maliciously, anticipating the show they thought to be forthcoming. "C'mon little pointy ears," the lead fellow taunted, "Let's see if you can dance!"
The elven stranger fixed the mercenary with a cold glare, and without ever moving his eyes, spun out his hunting knife at blinding speed and slammed it into the table directly between two of the drunk's fingers.
"What!" Cried the outraged mercenary. "You wanna fight, elf?"
Rictor was about to stand up and interfere, when a robed wizard stepped over to the table.
"Pardon friend," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I had hoped to exchange words with this traveler, but don't let my meager business interfere with the dealings of the Great Crimson Shield, Slayers of TWO Goblins!"
The startled mercenary flushed bright red. He seemed about to reply but instead he stormed back to his table with his two comrades in tow. Minutes later the whole group stood up and started back over to the strangers' table, weapons in hand.
Now Rictor did intend to intervene. He stood up, picking up his sword in its sheath, and walked over to the brawl that seemed ready to erupt. Stepping between the opposing sides, he held his hands up peacefully. "Please, this isn't worth fighting over." He started, "It's only-" but the paladin never finished, for the lead mercenary threw a clumsy punch at him.
Rictor easily blocked the blow and pushed the mercenary back, but his patience had run out. He took a step back and drew his elegant looking broadsword, smoothing his blond hair back with his left hand. Swords were drawn all around the room.
"No fighting in the inn." Said a voice, and the would be combatants looked over to see the innkeeper pointing a heavy repeating crossbow over the bar at them. "You can kill each other all you like outside - I don't care - But NO FIGHTING IN THE INN."
"Alright then, we'll fight you three outside tomorrow at dawn," The lead mercenary said. "The field west of here."
The elf and Rictor each nodded, but the wizard wasn't happy. "Why not settle this now?" he asked.
"No," the mercenary shot back "tomorrow," and with that the Crimson Shield left.
"I don't need you help, either of you." The elf said venomously.
"I'm not doing this for you." The wizard shot back. "If we're fighting together tomorrow we'd better get acquainted. My name is Dyne Vülen. You are?"
"I'm Rictor Alexander."
The wild elf didn't respond at first. He walked off, saying only as he was leaving the room. "Kaven."
Dyne nodded and then retired to get some sleep and go over his spells. Bidding the paladin good night. Rictor watched them go marveling at how he was ready to fight to death beside complete strangers, both of whom were so incredibly different from him.
He sighed at the strangeness of it all, and slinging his sword and shield over his shoulder, he walked off to find some rest before the next day's battle.
The Paladin
Rictor Alexander sat quietly at his seat, sipping his mead and enjoying the warmth of the inn. The wizard school at CandleKeep was not only one of the finest learning academies on the Sword Coast, but it also sported a large and hospitable inn.
Rictor's garb marked him to any observer as a knight of some order. He wore a white surcoat bearing the emblem of Helm, God of Order over a finely crafted breastplate, greaves and gauntlets. A worn but sturdy shield and an elegant looking antique broadsword leaned casually against the side of his bench.
The paladin of Helm looked out over the other patrons of the inn. Many of them wore their weapons easily and appeared to be seasoned adventurers. One particular group caught his attention above all the others. A party of loud and probably extremely drunk mercenaries, bearing the red garments and equipment that marked them as members of the Crimson Shield.
The Crimson Shield was a mercenary company with a poor reputation as drunks, bullies, and ingrates, and this group fit the bill perfectly. They were sitting around a large table in the center of the main hall, singing loudly and shouting jeers at anyone who passed. The heads of several goblins sat in the middle of the table, disgusting "trophies" of fight the group had recently been in. They boasted to any one who would listen of the great battle in which they had killed these creatures, waving the heads about and generally ruining as many appetites as they could.
Rictor had no respect for them. First of all, killing a few goblins was no great feat of expertise for any experienced fighter, but more so, he was disgusted by the callousness and even enjoyment that marked their talk of killing weaker foes. Though goblins were evil creatures, Rictor killed only when he had to, and even then he took no pleasure in it and felt that it was a foul act, unfit for humanity.
Just then, a tallish, lean elf stepped in from the road, and Rictor knew there would be trouble as soon as he saw the looks the Crimson Shield were shooting at the newcomer. The strange elf stepped up to the bar and ordered a mug of some liquor and a skillet of spiced potatoes. Taking his food, he then went over and sat down quietly in a shadowed corner. Withdrawing a dangerous looking battleaxe from his cloak and laying it on the table, he took out a long, curved hunting knife from within his cloak and began slicing the potatoes.
Before long, Rictor noticed a member of the Crimson Shield gesturing towards the elf while speaking to one of his companions and mere seconds later, three of the mercenaries were up and walking towards the silent stranger. The elf obviously saw them coming, for he calmly set down his knife and put a hand on his axe.
The mercenaries swaggered up, and their leader leaned over the table, resting his hands directly in front of the elven stranger.
"Well boys, what have we here?" he declared brashly. "A skinny little pointy ears!" the other two snickered maliciously, anticipating the show they thought to be forthcoming. "C'mon little pointy ears," the lead fellow taunted, "Let's see if you can dance!"
The elven stranger fixed the mercenary with a cold glare, and without ever moving his eyes, spun out his hunting knife at blinding speed and slammed it into the table directly between two of the drunk's fingers.
"What!" Cried the outraged mercenary. "You wanna fight, elf?"
Rictor was about to stand up and interfere, when a robed wizard stepped over to the table.
"Pardon friend," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I had hoped to exchange words with this traveler, but don't let my meager business interfere with the dealings of the Great Crimson Shield, Slayers of TWO Goblins!"
The startled mercenary flushed bright red. He seemed about to reply but instead he stormed back to his table with his two comrades in tow. Minutes later the whole group stood up and started back over to the strangers' table, weapons in hand.
Now Rictor did intend to intervene. He stood up, picking up his sword in its sheath, and walked over to the brawl that seemed ready to erupt. Stepping between the opposing sides, he held his hands up peacefully. "Please, this isn't worth fighting over." He started, "It's only-" but the paladin never finished, for the lead mercenary threw a clumsy punch at him.
Rictor easily blocked the blow and pushed the mercenary back, but his patience had run out. He took a step back and drew his elegant looking broadsword, smoothing his blond hair back with his left hand. Swords were drawn all around the room.
"No fighting in the inn." Said a voice, and the would be combatants looked over to see the innkeeper pointing a heavy repeating crossbow over the bar at them. "You can kill each other all you like outside - I don't care - But NO FIGHTING IN THE INN."
"Alright then, we'll fight you three outside tomorrow at dawn," The lead mercenary said. "The field west of here."
The elf and Rictor each nodded, but the wizard wasn't happy. "Why not settle this now?" he asked.
"No," the mercenary shot back "tomorrow," and with that the Crimson Shield left.
"I don't need you help, either of you." The elf said venomously.
"I'm not doing this for you." The wizard shot back. "If we're fighting together tomorrow we'd better get acquainted. My name is Dyne Vülen. You are?"
"I'm Rictor Alexander."
The wild elf didn't respond at first. He walked off, saying only as he was leaving the room. "Kaven."
Dyne nodded and then retired to get some sleep and go over his spells. Bidding the paladin good night. Rictor watched them go marveling at how he was ready to fight to death beside complete strangers, both of whom were so incredibly different from him.
He sighed at the strangeness of it all, and slinging his sword and shield over his shoulder, he walked off to find some rest before the next day's battle.