36 – Gentlemen and Gentle Women

"No matter how clever a spellcaster thinks she is she'll never be able to ward herself against everything at once. Not you. Not me. Not the Simbul herself. There's always a way through." -Laspeera Inthre, Mageduels: A Manual

Imoen's stomach fluttered when she felt the buzz in her satchel. She leaned forward on the log by the campfire and her hand shot into the bag, eager to fish the mirror out.

"Heya!" she chirped by way of greeting, looking down at the familiar image on the surface of the glass; sandy hair and purple cloak and all. "Was just thinking of calling you up. I've got exiting news! We're heading your way! Just started huffing our way through the Cloakwood today, and we're going to help you with yer mission as soon as we can! Though…I think Coran's going to insist we bag ourselves a wyvern on the way there.

"You know," she went on, "Cloakwood isn't nearly as bad as you said. You made it seem downright impassable, but so far it's just a regular forest. Of course we did fight one of those hunting parties of forest-goblins already. Glad you warned us 'bout always watching the treetops!"

When she finally took a breath Xan nodded his head slightly. "That's…good. I suppose," he managed, a cautious tone in his voice. Thinking about it, Imoen realized that his cloak looked a lot less bright than she remembered. It was muddy, stained and torn in places.

Hmm. And was he more morose than usual? It was so hard to tell. "You okay Xan? Though uh…I guess you're never completely okay huh? Part of yer charm."

"I suppose I am…less 'okay' than usual," Xan admitted. He took a deep breath and began to tell his story.

Imoen's eyes grew wider and wider as the elf calmly told her of the failed assault on the Cloakwood fort; the plan, the sudden appearance of Tazok. All of it. "I may be the only survivor now," Xan said once he had finished. "I have not seen Kivan or Faldorn since then. And I've no doubt that the Black Talons are hunting us. From time to time I hear the dogs."

"Well just hold tight okay." Imoen bit her lip, then added: "We're coming to rescue you."

Xan shook his head slightly. "Holding tight is not an option. I must stay on the move. And I will likely be long dead before you get anywhere close."

"Damnit Xan! Stop talking like that! Less doom and more invisibility spells. Keep moving, keep yer head down, and we will sweep in ta rescue you. I promise!"

"Imoen, you have to be realistic-"

"I have to do no such thing, mister! I'm under no obligation at all to be realistic! You hear me?"

"I…hear," Xan managed. "I suppose I should know by now." Was that a wistful smile on his face? "You are not realistic at all. It is part of your charm."

He looked like he was about to say something else, then his eyes flicked from side to side and his face grew tense. "I must go now. It sounds as if the hunters grow closer." There was a waver like the surface of a pond being disturbed, then the mirror went dark, reflecting only the night sky above and leaving Imoen's heart sinking and her stomach in knots.

Curled up beneath the overhang, Xan kept his breath low and his ears open. The braying of the hounds definitely sounded more distant now, receding through the trees. Minutes ago the hunters had been close enough that human voices could be heard, but now there were only echoing howls and half-hearted yips.

The blue steel of the moonblade sat across his lap, and it would have been comforting to grip the sword as he waited for doom or salvation to find him in his hiding place. Unfortunately the glow the moonblade always took on in his hand was too much of a liability.

Yes, the hounds are gone now. No barking at all. He dared not hope too hard, but Xan was sure that his gambit had worked. The illusion he had conjured had drawn the hunters away and sent them down the wrong path. Supposedly the spell was powerful enough to duplicate odors, but he had been unsure whether it was precise enough to fool hunting dogs. Apparently it was, and at least for now the pack was tracking the ghost of Xan's scent.

There were no sounds in the forest now save the chirping of crickets and the call of a nightingale. Xan allowed himself a deep sigh. Then another. Perhaps he would get to see the cheerful girl again after all. 'We're coming to rescue you.' She had sounded so sure of it, though Xan knew there were still leagues and leagues of treacherous forest between them.

Suddenly the darkness of the woods was blocked by a burning orange figure, leaping from the rock and landing smoothly right in front of Xan. Easy breaths became a horrified gasp as the tall and thickly muscled intruder stomped forward, the hood falling from its face. Pointed ears came clearly into view.

Doom or salvation?

A hand latched around Xan's throat, hard as iron, and he was roughly shoved back against the rock. He found himself feebly clawing at the fingers as they closed tight and squeezed the breath from him.

Doom then, he thought, somehow calm as the fingers clamped down and he let out a high-pitched, involuntary "Hrrk!"

Sy-tel-quessir blood runs so very hot.

"You denied me my vengeance!" Kivan hissed in elven, shaking the frailer man like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. "You charmed me and forced me to flee!"

"Cor…correction," Xan managed to croak out. "I saved your…" A cough. "…your miserable life." If he was going to die he would die in the right! "Something you could not…do…for our…gakk!"

Kivan bared his teeth and snarled, then with another heavy slam against the rock he released his grip and took a step back.

His hand flying to his burning neck and rubbing, Xan struggled for breath. Hot blood, but not always deadly. Someone had once told him that the sy-tel-quessir did not consider each other friends unless they had brawled at least once, and that even their mating (performed out in the open,) appeared the same as brawling to an outsider; affection and violence all rolled together.

Then again the elves of Evereska said a lot of things about the outside world that Xan had found to be untrue. His people were an insular and stodgy bunch, in all honesty.

By the time Xan managed to cough his way back to even breaths Kivan had dropped to the earth with a sullen look on his face, sitting cross-legged.

"You would not have had your vengeance," Xan ventured in a hoarse voice. His mind was running through spells that would incapacitate the wild elf, just in case, but the rage seemed to have passed. "That dreadful ogre lived up to his reputation. He shrugged off blows that would have killed a normal man. Blows that should have at least slowed him."

"I would have had my vengeance," Kivan sighed, "had my arrow landed a few finger-widths higher. I was aiming for the monster's eye."

Xan inclined his head. "And I very much wish vengeance had been yours. Much as we wish to think that our will can drive the course of events, battle often comes down to blind luck."

A grunt was the only reply for a long while. Eventually Kivan broke the silence. "Maybe. But it's my fault. My fault that the lad and the woman were killed."

Xan shrugged slightly. "It was only a matter of time. That big fool eagerly leapt in front of any blade he could find. I'm actually surprised he lasted this long."

Kivan just glared silently. A sharp glare. Hm. Perhaps that was a bit callous. I forget that beneath the hood he actually does have feelings. "I feel somewhat responsible as well," Xan added. "I hesitated when the ogre appeared and you attacked. I should have simply acted. If the mages had been incapacitated our plan may have worked in the end. Despite your idiocy."

If Kivan had even noticed the barb he showed no sign. He just stared at the dirt between them, and they sat in silence as the crickets made their racket and the nightbirds cried.

"As for the woman," Xan eventually said, "I think she may yet live. I renewed the geas upon her but four days ago, and have not felt it expire."

He had hoped that would reassure Kivan, but the wild elf's scowl just deepened. "Pray she does not last long then. For her sake."

Shar-Teel's eyes snapped open and she immediately surged up, sheets flying back as her hands clawed out. She had expected to wake up in bonds, like the ones she had felt on her wrists and ankles earlier when she was fading in and out of consciousness. Instead she found herself on a featherbed in a clean, sparse room with a floor of packed dirt and walls of stone.

Odd.

Her bare feet slapped the earth as she leapt from the bed and charged the nearby door.

Solid oak and firmly locked. So this was a cell after all, if a strangely comfortable one. And instead of prisoner's rags she was dressed in a soft green chemise, made of silk. Odd and odder. A little more self-inspection and she noted that her wounds were gone (obviously healed by magic,) and that someone had bathed her while she was unconscious. Bathed her and dabbed her with perfume that smelled of lavender, her hair washed, combed, and even braided.

She clenched her jaw tight and her upper lip curled. What was the game here? Had she been made presentable to serve as some sort of whore?

At least the fools had been careless. A few kicks to the bed and she had one of its legs dislodged, easily snapping it off. Not the best of clubs but it would do. For good measure she ripped a long strip from the bedsheet and wound the fabric up, holding it in her other hand. A club and an effective garrote. Her jailers were fools indeed. There was a reason most dungeon cells just contained a little pile of straw for bedding.

Finally Shar-Teel backed into a corner of the room that would be a blind spot to anyone opening the door, crouching against the wall. She relaxed her muscles, ready but not tensing. This could be a long wait, she knew. No need to get all sore or antsy.

Long and dull, but waiting was a part of the mercenary's life she had learned to deal with. Much as she loved the bloodshed, the waiting took up most of the job. Waiting for orders. Waiting in the forest for a camp of men to finally go to sleep. Waiting for the perfect time to launch an ambush.

Eventually her patience paid off and the door swung inward. There was a female voice, half-humming and half-muttering to herself. "Mmm bother and bother." Then a young woman in a roughspun dress stepped into view, her hair pulled back beneath a white kerchief and a pile of folded fabric in her arms. The servant gasped when she saw the state of the bed.

Shame it's not a man. Shar-Teel pounced anyway, but she went gentler than she would have if it had been an armed guardsman. Gentle by her standards at least.

A blow to the back of the knee dropped the servant-girl, sending the bundled clothes flying as she hit the floor. In an instant Shar-Teel was behind and on top, tightening the wound-up sheet around the startled girl's neck. A little twisting and pressure turned the scream the servant was trying to let out into a strained croak. Shar-Teel waited the space of a breath, choking tight and firm with the sheet, then she hissed: "Don't you make a fucking sound!" in the servant's ear. Next she eased the pressure, just a little, and let her prisoner breathe.

For Shar-Teel 'gentle' meant you might live. Maybe.

Once her prisoner had gasped a bit Shar-Teel whispered again. "Now, you're going to answer every question I ask, and answer it truthfully, or the pressure's on again and not letting up 'till you're dead. Understand?"

"Ya…yes," the servant squeaked.

"Good. Now tell me-"

A sudden jolt through every muscle of Shar-Teel's body interrupted her. She found herself completely locked into place, hands and legs and scowl and all.

There was a dramatic sigh behind her, and something pressed firmly against Shar-Teel's side and pushed her over. Her makeshift garrote and club slipped from her hands as she fell, trapped in the same position she had been in on top of the servant; a knee bent and awkwardly stuck in the air.

An unseen woman's voice spoke with a vaguely Calishite accent. "Tazok said you would be trouble. I see he did not exaggerate." Another push and Shar-Teel was on her back, looking up at the newcomer. The Calishite's powder-blue dress was of a far better make than the servant's and she had an imperious air, nose upturned.

Bloody mages. Shar-Teel would not be gentle with this one if she ever got the chance.

Shaking her head, the Calishite clicked her tongue. "There was some suggestion that we dress you up like a proper lady before returning you to your loving father. I suspect that may be an impossible task, but we shall see."

A good thing Xan had told them to watch the branches and treetops. He had said that tasoli ambushes and giant spiders would come from there; the nimble critters able to move from tree to tree and spring down on unaware travelers. Sure enough, in two days hiking through the Cloakwood they had spotted two separate bands of the feral forest-goblins up in the branches, still and silent as leaves; their little cat eyes the only thing giving them away.

Noticing the green critters early had allowed Imoen's band to strike preemptive-like, filling several of the tasoli with arrows and quarrels before they got close enough to thrust spears. Naturally it was Coran who saw them first, keen elven eyes and all that, and he didn't hesitate to start plinking arrows into the branches.

Imoen had held off at first, not shooting until the tasoli were rushing towards them with deadly intent. Didn't seem right to just start shooting critters just for being green and a bit ugly while lurking in a treetop. What if these particular goblins were just hunting for deer and would have left them alone if they hadn't shot first?

She had said as much to Coran, at the campfire the night after the first encounter, and he had chuckled and shook his head. 'They are always dangerous,' he had insisted before regaling the group with tales about war-bands of tasoli that had threatened his village back in Tethyr. Plenty of hunters he knew had stories of children going missing in the forest, and the searches had led to raids on tasoli tribes and revealed countless picked bones and elven and human corpses skewered over cookfires.

It made for some grizzly campfire tales (and Coran seemed to relish in the telling,) but Imoen was not entirely convinced. Second or third-hand stories and such. Didn't strike her as a good reason to murder every green goblin with a spear you come across. Still, the next day when they spotted a clump of Tasoli in the trees ahead she hesitated a bit less, joining in fast once the arrows started flying. It was her job to shoot stuff, grim though it was.

Of course when she spotted the first giant spider she didn't hesitate at all with the arrows. She shot as many she could before the squirming, eight-legged thing got close. Yick!

Xan had been right about the Cloakwood's terrain as well. At first it seemed little different from the tall trees and uneven ground of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, but as they went deeper it grew steep and rocky and the trees got taller and broader than any Imoen had ever seen. A few days travel and it became a wild, primeval place; much of the wood untouched by man or axe for ages.

After a long, sweaty afternoon climb over mossy stones and around clawing brambles it was nice when they finally came to level ground and something close to a wide, open field. Imoen had just started feeling grateful and a little relaxed when movement drew her eyes and everyone turned and froze at the sight of a figure following them through the high grass and flowers.

Weapons were ready in a snap and Ashura got in front, but the man that was jogging towards them waved empty hands in the air. He was huffing and well out of breath when he got close, bending over to grip his knees.

A tall man, tanned, handsome and well-muscled; he looked even more the classic swashbuckler from a lurid storybook than Coran could on his best days. Or at least he dressed the part: a snappy outfit of leather and muted brown wool with a little gold trim here and there for dash, open at his chest and bare at his arms beyond some leather bracers. There was a case slung over his shoulder that looked the size and shape of a lute, along with a curved sword at his hip. He had a black, immaculately trimmed goatee and long hair tied smartly back, the satisfied sneer on his face present even as he puffed hard from his run.

Look up 'rake' in the dictionary and you'd probably see a picture of this fellow, next to the gardening implement. Least that was the look he seemed to be going for. It made Imoen a bit suspicious, and Ashura looked downright ready to start swinging her blades. She was glaring hard at the newcomer.

"Sorry if I seem out of breath," the man panted, putting careful and dramatic enunciation to every word. "A battle you see. I was ambushed by a dozen gnolls farther on the trail. I handily dispatched them of course, but thought better of fighting their six ogre friends."

"Uh huh," Ashura grunted.

The man ignored her glare. "A jest. A jest." He looked around. "Gentlemen, gentlewomen. May I introduce myself? I am Eldoth Kron." A theatrical flourish of his hand. "You have been quite the pain to track down."

Ashura shifted to more of a fighting stance, eyes sharp as daggers. "You're an assassin aren't you?"

The exaggerated act slipped a bit and Eldoth looked genuinely taken aback. "Uh? No. Why on Toril would you think that?"

Silence, cold eyes and colder steel were the only answer from Ashura.

"Well," Imoen spoke up, trying to cut through the awkwardness. "Why did you track us? And who were you tracking exactly?" He really didn't seem like he had expected the hostility.

"Apologies. I had hoped to find you in more civilized climes." He reached to a bag at his belt and pulled out a large bottle of sloshing liquid. "I've been searching for the survivors from Eddard Silvershield's caravan, you see. I'm an acquaintance of the lad's family, and had hoped to learn his fate, though I suspect after all this time it's rather grim."

"He's dead, yeah," Ashura stated flatly.

Eldoth nodded and pulled the cork from the bottle. He didn't look too shaken by the news. "Selgauntian brandy," he said. "An offering of peace while we talk?"

"Are you kidding?" Ashura growled.

He gave her a puzzled wince.

"She uh, thinks it might be poisoned," Garrick offered helpfully.

"Ah," Eldoth realized with a frown. "You really are a strange one." With a flick of his wrist he brought the bottle to his lips and took a long, dramatic gulp. "It's perfectly safe. If you wish I suppose I could down it all myself." A chuckle.

Coran stepped forward. "Not a chance of that friend." He reached out a hand. "I'll have a taste." With a smirk back towards Ashura he added: "I can be your royal poison-tester, m'lady."

Ashura shrugged as Coran took a drink. "So what do you want from us caravan guards? Hiked all this way just to hear that Eddard's dead?"

"A little more than that," Eldoth admitted as he shared the bottle. "Eddard's father -the wealthiest man in Baldur's Gate I might add- has been eager for news of his son. I hope to be the one to deliver it to him, with your help testifying. I had wished to find Eddard himself of course, but you caravan guards," he swept a hand in their direction, "are the next best thing."

"This is good stuff, by the way," Coran noted, offering the bottle to the others. "Smooth but with a bite. Reminds me of someone." He grinned at Viconia, who ignored him.

"If you aren't dead in a few more minutes I'll take a swig," Imoen offered. "So save me some."

"You're hoping for a reward from the family or something?" Ashura asked. That did seem a weak reason to go running through a forest famous for deadly monsters, Imoen had to agree.

Eldoth shook his head. "Suffice it to say I just wish for a legitimate reason to meet with Entar Silvershield. In his estate."

"So you're trying to assassinate this Entar guy?"

Eldoth groaned, an offended look on his face. "Why is it always assassinations with you?" There was some frustration in his voice as he added: "I am not an assassin!"

"You want in for a burglary," Imoen guessed as she reached for the brandy and decided to live dangerously. When it touched her tongue she cringed a little. Strong stuff. Sweet after the first bite, though. It left a warm tingle behind.

"Exactly!" Eldoth said with a grin and a snap of his fingers. "This lovely lady gets it. And by your look I'd guess you're familiar with the concept of a good heist. I intend to snatch up Entar Silvershield's most prized possession, you see. The old man once slighted my family, and I wish to pay him back. But first I need a way in."

Coran chuckled. "Now that sounds like a good lark. I've seen the estates in Baldur's Gate but I never dared that place. It's an impressive house, and impressively secure-looking."

"Not that I object to a little burglary," Imoen interjected, "but we're a bit busy at the moment."

"I suspected as much. Few wander the Cloakwood on a whim. Speaking of which." Eldowth rubbed the back of his head. "Regardless of whether you wish to help with my plan or not may I ask if I could..?"

"Tag along?" Imoen asked with a raised eyebrow, followed by another sip of brandy.

"Help you with your business here. Safety in numbers and all that. When I started following your trail I had no idea how dangerous these woods could be. There was this most unsightly nest of giant spiders I barely managed to avoid."

"May be more than you want to chew," Ashura said, waving her hand to decline when Imoen offered her the brandy. Apparently she still suspected poison. "We're here to rescue a friend."

"Not a bother," Eldoth stated confidently. "I've been known to rescue damsels in distress myself."

"We're also hunting wyverns," Coran put in with a grin.

"Hm. Nasty beasts."

"There's a bounty."

Eldoth perked up at that. "Well, I've been known to dabble at being a hunstsman. Not my forte but…"

"And we're going to ransack a fortress full of mercenaries," Ashura added. "Old dwarven clanhold. Gods know how deep, and full of these annoying assholes from Iriaebor who have a bone to pick with me. We're going to kill every last one of them."

"Oh. Well…" Eldoth grimaced and glanced back at the forest path he had emerged from.

Viconia gave a haughty snort. "Bah. He expects us to help him with his scheme but won't risk his neck or lift his sword in return. What a useless little male."

Eldoth seemed to puff up just a bit, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. "M'lady, I assure you that I am far from useless. I can lift this sword just fine." He clapped his hands. "I'll be happy to help with your little…adventure or whatever it is, if you assist me in Baldur's Gate after it is all said and done."

Ashura shrugged. "I won't turn away a helping sword." A glare. "If you really are an assassin playing some game though…"

Eldoth sighed and rolled his eyes.

"How did you manage to track us anyway?" Imoen asked.

"Easy enough. There was a trail of dead tasoli."

"Of course."

"They pursue us still," Kivan stated grimly, his head cocked as he listened in the still afternoon air. "Close now."

"Of course they are," Xan sighed. He could hear the yips of the hounds just as well. Such a useless gesture: trying to flee from the hunters. His feet chafed from the water sloshing in his shoes and every muscle in his body ached, but the hounds just got closer and closer, even after two pointless days following every stream they could find in an attempt to throw them off. He suspected magic was being used to track them now, after the first hunting party had failed. For the hundredth time that day Xan wished that he knew a good ward against scrying, but that sort of spell was beyond him.

Which left them with few options. "Turn and fight?" he asked the ranger, exhaustion in his voice.

"Seems it will come to that," Kivan admitted. He glanced at the halberd in his hand; the walking stick he had managed to hold onto the entire time. The gnoll weapon had always struck Xan as an odd thing for the ranger to carry along with his longbow, but perhaps it was similar to the spears the wild elf hunters trained with. "Wish I had my bow," Kivan added. "We could lay a better ambush that way."

Xan shrugged and looked down at his moonblade, drawn but useless-looking in his hand. "We must make do with what we have. I have always been a terrible fencer, but," -he swung the sword weakly- "here I am, unworthy yet carrying this blade."

The taller elf actually chuckled and clapped Xan on the shoulder. "You're worthy enough." He looked around. "Best we choose our ground."

In the end they found a decent wall of jutting rocks, rich with moss and lichen and accessible by a narrow, uphill path through brambles. The two elves would be trapped of course, but the hunters would have to come two-by-two at best. A good place for a hopeless last stand.

Once the shielding spell was firmly in place around Xan's body he turned to his companion. "I shall try to find you in Arvandor."

Kivan shook his head slightly, planting his halberd and watching the path where the hunters would soon emerge. "Not dying today. Got unfinished business."

A grim chuckle. "May the Black Archer keep you then, till your business is concluded."

"And may Labelas guide you through long days," Kivan said, a blessing in the name of Xan's patron god. It was a noble gesture, all in all.

The barking was close now, and with his pulse pounding in his ears Xan readied his empty offhand. He had a spell of confusion ready. If he could time it right and strike the bulk of them it might even do some good. Perhaps Tazok himself would clear the rise, and if the spells landed right Kivan could die with his bloody debt repaid. It was as cheerful a thought as Xan could muster at the moment.

Two hunting hounds bounded into the clearing, immediately followed by a dark haired man in fine blue clothes. He was grinning ear to ear, hands raised high, and there was a faint shimmer all around him.

Xan's mouth fell open briefly, then his jaw tightened and his lips formed a hard line. My old friend, the abjurer. It was easy to guess what would happen if he threw a confusion spell forward now. Orderly lines of hobgoblins marched behind the mage, spreading out: two, four, six, then eight.

With a resigned sigh Xan pointed his fingers. The spell was his one hope, even if it was about to vanish in a flash of counterspelling. No hope at all really, but that had always been his lot.

Before Xan could begin his pointless incantation there was a flash of black fur nearby. For less than a heartbeat a great cat alighted on a nearby rock, then it flew down and collided with the abjurer, forepaws turning the man's body slightly as its jaws parted and teeth gleamed. There was a flash of color when the fangs and claws struck some sort of barrier, but with a crackle the clamping jaws prevailed and the magic broke in a shower of energy and blood.

The two figures rolled, and once they had settled the black cat shot to its feet and shook the limp man by his neck. A few thrashes and then it tossed the abjurer to the ground, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles and his neck a mangled ruin that pumped gushes of red across the grass.

The hobs had swung into action, aiming arrows at the panther and drawing swords, but by then Xan had found his voice. A toss of his wrist threw the spell of confusion into their midst, and the orderly lines shattered. There were shouts of alarm, howls of rage, useless chittering, and not a single arrow flew at the great cat before it leapt onto the nearest goblin.

Kivan followed the panther without hesitation, his halberd cleaving out and then stabbing with the spike at the disorganized soldiers, and a moment later Xan shook himself and joined. A holding spell locked a few of the creatures that were still putting up a fight into place, and as Kivan and the panther ran after the ones that had fled, Xan walked over and numbly delivered a killing blow to each immobilized hobgoblin.

One slice across the throat. Then a second, and a third. In moments the slaughter was finished and he found himself standing alone on the hill, surrounded by corpses. With a cringe Xan noticed that the fallen abjurer was still breathing; fast deep breaths through a mouth smeared with bubbling blood, his eyes wide and twitching. His neck looked broken and torn open, but apparently not all the life's blood had spilled.

Pressing his lips together and stepping closer, Xan took a deep gulp of breath before finishing the job the panther had started. As he pulled his moonblade free of the shuddering body he felt no sense of satisfaction; just ice in his knotted stomach.

What an ugly occupation he had found himself in. Perhaps he should have taken up accounting instead, as his sister had once suggested. 'You're so tidy Xanisteirial, and you've a good head on your shoulders. You should find yourself a nice, safe trade.'

Grunts and screams echoed from the low ground, and in little time Kivan appeared again, walking up the path with the panther padding along just behind. It did not surprise Xan in the least when the cat's gleaming fur rippled and the muscular shoulders narrowed, becoming a dark-haired girl and rising from four legs to two. Faldorn's tired, tattooed face looked up from her tangled hair, and once again the wild-girl's mouth was smeared with blood. Xan found it disquieting; how readily she became a predator and did not hesitate to bite. Still, it was good that she had survived.

"You found us," Xan observed. "My thanks for the timely intervention."

Faldorn shrugged slightly. "Never lost you."

"You..?" Xan gave her a puzzled look. "Were you…an animal this whole time? Why didn't you tell us?"

Plopping down on the grass cross-legged, the druidess shrugged again. "As a raven I could follow you just fine, and safely. No reason to change back."

With a heavy sigh, Xan sunk to the earth as well and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Of course."

He could have said something about the importance of a chain of command. Lectured about how every member of the war party should have a clear role. And communicate. And follow a coherent plan even in the most chaotic of circumstances. But really, he knew he would never be able to control the actions of these two maniacs who seemed to be following him.

Oh, what is the point?

Author's Note: The gentle women from the chapter title are Shar-Teel and Faldorn, of course.

Eldoth is a strange one: his character is a paragon of selfishness but you meet him on the way to a big dungeon invasion that he's happy to tag along and help you with it, putting his personal quest off as long as the player likes. He also introduces himself by telling you his incredibly sleazy plan upfront, which doesn't really fit a conniving manipulator-type. I tried to tweak that just a little, with him presenting himself as a loveable rogue and being a bit reluctant about the whole Cloakwood mission.