These Roads We Walk - Chapter One

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DEEKIN

There were many wonders in the world.

It had been above the shifting sands of the Anauroch that he had stood on the edge of Undrentide as it had been birthed from the earth, rising ungainly into the sky at the urging of it's usurper mistress, feeling it shudder at the pull of time and ancient magics best forgotten. Beneath the sands, as well, he had encountered a different sort of wonder, a poisoned altar to the Mistress of Poison, Talona, secreted away in a warren of tunnels filled with furtive, sinister scuttlings. He had even, on occasion, felt his soul writhing from his body toward whatever lay beyond for those such as he, only to find himself spasming on the chilled floor of a frozen labyrinth moments later.

In Deekin's humble opinion, some experiences you could do without.

Frequently, a bowl of good stew was just as inspiring.

The flight from Undrentide in it's final moments had been troubling to say the least. The little kobold liked to think he had grown since leaving the mountains surrounding now-distant Hilltop, but he would have been sceptical to find even the girthiest of warriors claiming they felt no ill effects from being rudely shunted from place to place via strange magics. He sat hunched on the ground now, breathing deep the scent of freshly turned earth and blinking in confusion in the dappled sunlight he suddenly found playing across his scales. There was the slightest of breezes in the air, bringing with it the smells of the wild, a veritable assault on his nose after hours, days, weeks spent marching through cramped tunnels.

Craning his neck about, confusion giving way to curiosity, Deekin realised he was standing in a crowded thicket, massive trees rising above him on every side. The ground was littered with wet leaves and vegetation, small holes indicating buried stores of some animal's personal supply of food, and beaten by the hooves of passing deer. Although the branches were intertwined high above his head, the sun was high and fierce enough to light the area, and he found himself stretching in appreciation for it's warmth over the cold corridors he had become used to.

It was then that he realised he was alone in his new appreciation.

For the past several months, Deekin had never been alone, but the sudden change didn't alarm him. Although he had grown used to seeing the Boss' torch light the way ahead of them, hearing the half-orc loudly complaining about everything from the weight of his pack from the itchiness of his clothing, Deekin had always remained self-sufficient. Growing up mostly scorned in the kobold tribe near Hilltop, even with Old Master's favour, he'd learned quickly how to take care of himself, even if mostly through an ingratiating smile or a stolen piece of meat stripped from a bone.

Speaking of which . . .

Already perking up, Deekin swung his small pack to the ground. The Boss had for the most part only given him the smaller things to carry, but his pack still buldged nonetheless with his own possessions and scavengings. The instant he opened it, the contents surged towards the opening. His lute was, he was relieved to note, still safe and intact slung across his back, although only closer inspection later -- and tuning -- would reveal any damage. He pawed through his pack; most of it were items of little consequence to anyone else, he knew -- a curiously shaped stone, pearlescent in colour. A long feather, soft and luxurious even to a curious claw, and sharp of quill. A wad of string, for emergies, and for playing. To Deekin, however, each was a treasure, and he was relieved to note everything seemed to be in place, not the least of which the thick sheaf of notes he'd accumulated over his travels, scraps and pages of parchment closely written with his own almost indecipherable scrawl.

And, most pleasing at the moment, several strips of dried meat.

These Deekin devoured with a relish he'd been unable to display for a long time. Rations had been closely watched over, but here he was confident he could hunt for his own food, even favouring a handful of edible roots if he couldn't manage to catch a rabbit or vole. As he chewed, he gazed around the area, yellow eyes darting quickly into every visible corner, nook, and cranny. While he knew Xanos might very well stride off on his own, he was certain the Boss would sooner slap an ogre's backside while slathered in cooking herbs than she would leave either of them alone.

Which meant, he decided, they'd been left in different places.

Magic, particularily wild magic without direction, was difficult and unpredictable even in the best of times. His own bardic songs and spells, proudly used, were, he believed, not powerful enough (yet anyway) to produce any real disastrous effects if he accidentally mispronounced a word with his mouth full. The Shadow Door the Boss had used to let them flee from Undrentide, however, was something different entirely, a relic scavenged from a shadow's throne. While the Boss hadn't seemed overly concerned about stepping through it (he did admire her, but she could be dismayingly stupid sometimes, he thought), a thousand worrisome tales (most of them having been told to him with particularily malicious glee by Old Master) had flashed through Deekin's small head as he'd inched reluctantly towards it before the half-orc had lost patience and thrown him through by the scruff of his neck.

Come to think of it, Deekin had spent a lot of time being hauled around by the scruff of his neck recently.

His stomach placated, Deekin meticulously relaced his pack and picked it up again. While the lure of sitting down and giving his talons a rest for a while was great, finding the Boss was greater (and, he supposed, Xanos as well, if the half-orc should happen to crop up along the way.). There would be plenty of time for recollections later.

And besides.

The Boss could surely look after herself for now. And she had all the gold for a suitably comfy room at the nearest Inn.

TWEN

Forcing herself to remain calm, Twen allowed her hands to explore the one she clutched, heart beating an unsteady tattoo of fear against her rib cage. Perversely, the fact that her vision remained stubbornly dark alarmed her more than the thought that she was holding the hand of a fallen companion, and guilt suffused her face with colour. Her hands ran over the broad fingers encased in an unyeilding metal guantlet, up the wrist, where she abruptly encountered what was undoubtably a cuff of chainmail. Drawing in a breath, she strained to remember; had Xanos been wearing a set of chainmail? The half-orc had been infuriatingly inconsistent about his choice in armor, constantly calling a halt in their march to shuffle through the packs. You are the one who insisted Xanos pursue other venues than the gifts I am given through my magics, he'd snapped irritably at one point, you will wait while Xanos finds the proper equipment to unleash his full potential.

Please be alive, Twen thought now, recalling her irritated snort, please be alive, and I'll never lose patience with you again, no matter how big-headed you get or how many times I have to rearrange the packs after you've pawed through them.

Blinking fiercely in an attempt to dispell the darkness, she carefully felt further up the arm, breathing in the stale air as she did so. Her palms slid over a chest, broad but still and unmoving, and up until they encountered a strong, slack jaw.

Hardly daring to breathe, Twen slid her hands tentatively over the face.

. . . not . . . not . . . not him!

"Xanos, you wonderful idiot!" Twen cried aloud, jumping at the sound of her own voice and laughing in embarassment at her skittishness. The sound rang back at her, wherever she was, amplified from all directions as though she had a chorous of her sisters with her, each as delighted at her discovery as she. True, someone else lay dead beside her now, but it was likely merely the husk of some long-dead adventurer, and at least she knew it wasn't Xanos, slain by a wayward pulse of magical energy, or perhaps a last vengeful spell flung at their backs as Undrentide had collapsed.

Even as she registered this, she realised as well the darkness that had plagued her vision had begun to lift. She remembered a time, seemingly decades ago, back in those first tentative days of training in Hilltop, when she and the other students had stood curiously nearby to watch Dorna Trapspringer attempt to disassemble a simple trap on an empty chest. Distracted, so she'd said, Dorna had slipped and set it off, a startlingly bright flash that had set her reeling back, swearing. For the next three hours, her vision had been almost completely black, leading to many poor jokes on both the part of Twen and Mischa Waymeet as they had followed the sour dwarf about the farm sniggering good-naturedly. Eventually, of course, Dorna had been able to see again, and not one to forgive so easily, she had --

Still touching the fallen man's face, Twen's fingers suddenly sank into something soft and wet that yielded --

Twen snatched her hand back, shaking it furiously, lips twisted into a moue of disgust. It coated her fingers, sticky and cloying, a clot of something falling into her lap, only starting to cool, and she had seen enough in these few months out in the world that her mind only weakly tried to reject what it was. Even as she tried to blindly stagger to her feet, her other hand flew over the ground until she felt the hilt of her broken blade beneath it's grasp.

As her hands closed around it and she sought to make sense of the dim shapes her eyes now offered her, a hand clapped over the back of her neck, and she let out a startled shout as she was toppled forward. Her jaw struck the ground, teeth clicking shut painfully on her tongue hard enough to illuminate her vision with bright stars. Before she could struggle, could bring the broken sword about, the a hard weight dropped down onto her back. A voice so close to her ear that she felt dry lips caress it's tip whispered, "Please do not struggle. There is no need to discompose yourself. It will all be over soon."