Jessi: I do not own Forgotten Realms. All characters are mine. Thank you for chosing to read this story and, please, do not forget to leave a review. Critism is fine too!

Chapter One: Targ

Targ leant on the wall, his mouth set in a grim line and his brow furrowed deeply. The frown was directed at the small group that crowded the dirt track that ran past his farm. Specifically it was aimed at the couple sitting on identical bay horses of the finest stock if Targ was any judge.

Although Targ's garb was good, strudy cloth, much better than any farmer should be able to afford except for best, its practical cut seemed akin to rags compared to the strangers' apparal.

The woman wore a long, frilled gown, ridicously unsuited for riding. A triple string of white perals were hung about her neck and decorated the silly, frivolous mass of hair. The man's tunic was silk, a symbol of unimaginable wealth up in this part of Amn where most of the people were farm workers. The sleeves were slashed in, what Targ supposed, what was the latest fashion in Athkatla this year. This only served to cruelly emphasis his fat arms. He was grossly overweight; privately Targ was disgusted that the food he produced on his farm went to fill the tables of people like these.

"My answer is no," he stated flatly, arms crossing over his chest.

The nobleman's eyes narrowed, this one was obviously used to getting his own way,

"I assure you that the rewards are great."

"I know, I heard you. My answer, however, is still no."

"Why not? I demand that you see to this beast!"

Targ reached behind the wall and picked up the hoe that was there. Immediently there was movement amongst the guards. The farmer smiled, but it was not a pleasent one,

"I am a retired dragonslayer and a good thing too," he hefted the hoe onto his shoulders, "Go back to Athkatla. Maybe you can find mercanaries crazy enough to go after a dragon. Now," the unpleasent smile widened, "I believe that this is my land."

For every retired fighter there always seemed to be a dozen peiople waiting to pluck him out of his retirement. For a dragonslayer this went doubly so.

Though Targ had only killed two dragons in his entire career, and this with a score of adventurers behind him, it seemed that there was no rest for him.

From the profits he'd made from the dragons' horads he'd brought this farm and still had enough left over to but it again three more times. In time he'd married a woman from the local village, hardworking and kind Mari, and together they had a single child.

Lowri took after her mother and for that Targ was thankful. Instead of his grim features the only things his daughter had inherited from him were his steely grey eyes and that streak of toughness that hid beneath the surface like steel over silk.

Her pretty face, framed by flame-coloured hair, also hid a sharp mind and quick wit. Targ was considering sending her to learn magic from a trusted mage friend.

"Another employer Father?" her eyes were watching the hoe that he still carried. When the former dragonslayer grinned she continued, "Did you scare them again?"

"They wouldn't take no for an answer."

"I wasn't disapproving, Father," Lowri smiled as she walked into the comfortable house, "Dinner is nearly ready. I'll bring Menji in then we can eat. After all," her grin widened, "we don't want you breaking anything, do we?"

Targ's laugher followed her out into the yard.

Lowri whistled sharply, bringing Menji, a massive moorhound that looked to have a wolf somewhere in his ancestory, up to the house.

She glanced up at the darkening sky then frowned. There was something up there, a dark speck against the clouds. That was too large to be a bird wasn't it?

The sharp scream provoked Targ into moving faster than he'd ever thought he was able to do. He brushed the table as he darted past, sending a plate to the floor where it shattered into white shards. What he saw froze him to the spot.

The massive beast completly filled the yard, its wings held up high above the building. The scales shone a deep, blood red in the waning light, but even that couldn't conceal the multitude of scars that decorated its hide. White fangs stood out in its wide maw and a single eyes glowed like a moltan orb. The other was blinded, scar tissue covering that side of its face.

This was Barustrysori, the second dragon that Targ had killed.

In his front paw he clutched a madly screaming Lowri.

Targ watch helplessly as the red wyrm, began beating his wings, lifting himself into the air. Leaving, leaving with Lowri...

"An eye for an eye dragonslayer!" the voice boomed across the land as the dragon vanished rapidly from sight.

An eye for an eye.

It had been Targ's sword that had plunged into Barustrysori's eye, closing it forever. The dragon had fallen, had tumbled down the mountainside, into one of the deep gorges that remained permently in shadow.

But the wyrm had survived... and had taken Lowri.

Targ could have stood the destruction of his farm or his house. But the theft of Lowri...

Menji whimpered, a rare sound from the dog that had fought wolves and emerged the victor.

"Lowri... I will get you back."

It took remarkably little time to pack. Now Targ moved to the orantly carved chest that stood in an alcove. His fingers pressed down on three of the carved dragons, and a sharp click annouced that the chest was open.

From inside he took a wrapped object. The wrappings he discarded to reveal Cau, the sword the had blinded the red wyrm. Its very name was draconic, meaning to "shut" the eye- to blind someone.

Next was the half plate armour which he slowly donned, relishing in the fact that it had remained free of rust.

Finally he pulled out a saddle meant for a war horse and made his way to the stables.

Rhawn had been an expensive purchase but one he'd never regretted. Less than five years old, bred for strength and stamina, with a coat of many different shades of grey, Targ had brought him for the sum of two hundred gold coins.

Once saddled the beast strained at the reins as if keen to start the journey.

Targ would kill Barustrysori, that was certain. But to do that he'd need help.

And he knew where he could find it.