53 – Firewine

"Looks disgusting, even by halfling standards." –Dwalimar Omen, on being shown a sample of Luiren Spring Cheese

When Ashura finally stepped out into the cool night air and began down the steps of the brewery she was beyond tired. Beyond relieved as well. Her arm was draped over Garrick's shoulder, her side pressed against his, and the weary pair supported each other as they descended one step at a time.

Earlier that evening they had enjoyed a shocking little reunion in the upper level of Gullykin's great communal building, which apparently served as the town hall, a brewery, the roof over an extensive wine and mushroom-growing cellar, and the local temple to the halfling gods all at once. When Ashura had crushed Garrick haplessly to her chest it had been one-handed, her left arm still hanging at her side and painful to move, but now that the priest of Yondalla had tended to her it seemed the arm wouldn't even need to spend a few days in a sling. There was just a little bruising and stiffness there now, competing with lingering aches all over her body from being squished beneath the oni.

Skie was going to remain in the temple overnight, watched over by the halfling healers who had warned that she may still have internal injuries, and the others had left the building long ago to set up for the evening. Gullykin didn't exactly have beds to spare for travelers –especially the kind that were human-sized– but the villagers had offered their stables, an adjacent barn with a large hayloft, and a great deal of food for their 'heroes.' There was also the promise of a feast tomorrow evening.

No doubt Ashura and Garrick's companions were enjoying that food and those beds of hay on the other side of the village by now. All but one of them at least. On a log near the bottom of the steps sat a tall, broad figure, slumped forward with his back to the temple. Ashura looked down incredulously at Dorn Il-Khan, his bone-hilted greatsword planted in the earth like a flag at his feet, the way he always left it. Surely he wasn't waiting for us?

The half-orc didn't turn his head as Ashura and Garrick stepped near, his eyes on the dark, open sky and his meaty hands clutching a pitcher of ale. Instead he lifted the pitcher to his lips and drank, leaving them in silence.

"Enjoy your revenge?" Ashura eventually asked.

"Aye," Dorn shot back without hesitation, then took another quick sip before wiping the foam from his lips. "It's the sweetest of things. Don't know if you'd understand."

"I might someday," Ashura said with a shrug. "Maybe if I ever catch up with the man who killed my father."

Dorn didn't ask about that, and another moment stretched on in silence. Eventually he tilted the pitcher back for another long gulp, finishing his drink. Maybe not asking was just his way of being polite. Though, in their little talks along the trail, Ashura had noticed that Dorn was much more the type to talk at you than have any sort of conversation; the sort of man who loved to tell you about himself and had little interest in whatever it was you were going on about. Really, she suspected that under the stoic warrior façade, he was mostly just a preening, self-centered prick.

At least Dorn's low, rumbling voice was pleasant to listen to when he was monologuing. And at the moment there was something she needed to know.

"This Simmeon," Ashura asked, breaking the silence. "He's a blackguard like you, right?'

That got his attention. Dorn's head swiveled and he narrowed his eyes on her, Garrick tensing a bit at her side. When the half-orc spoke his voice was calm and casual, at least. "That is not a title that many are familiar with."

"You pick up all sorts of obscure things when you grow up in one of the world's largest libraries," Ashura boasted with a slight smirk. Truth was Imoen had been the one who had actually pieced things together and brought it up while Ashura was recovering in her cot a few hours ago, but Dorn didn't need to know that.

'Think I've got Mr. Gruffinstuff figured out,' Imoen had whispered. 'I think he's a blackguard!' When Ashura admitted that she had no clue what that meant, Imoen had started talking about an old book she had read from Narfell, and Garrick had helped fill in some of the details.

"Blackguard," Garrick spoke up in a helpful tone. "A warrior who's made a pact with some sort of evil outsider to be their champion in the mortal realms, in exchange for power." He made a dramatic gesture with his hand, as if a blackguard was about to enter from stage right. "Often depicted in stories as sinister knights in black armor, who kidnap maidens and the like. The circumstances and conditions of the pacts vary a lot of course, and usually they don't actually involve kidnapping maidens. Demons tend to demand lots of wanton destruction. Devils want conquest in their names and absolute obedience. I'm uh…not sure what daemons ask for. Or urm…yugolothos, as they're sometimes called?"

One of Dorn's tusks seemed to rise slightly as he looked over at Garrick. Was he grinning? "Yugoloths want whatever they can get. Spirits of pure self-interest. Sometimes that makes them tricky to deal with, but in other ways they can be quite straightforward. A favor for a favor."

"And you've agreed to perform favors for..?" Ashura asked.

"Ur-Gothoz. A Nycoloth Lord. 'The Claws of Vengeance.' A fitting patron, I believed. Especially when I drew the summoning marks in rat's blood on the stone floor of the Luskan cell where I had been left to starve."

"The cell Simmeon put you in," Ashura said with a nod. "And Simmeon himself?"

"He is a blackguard. Yes. A formidable warrior, granted strength by his patron Azothet: 'The Serpent of Perdition.' It is the reason we followed the man for years. He was the strongest among my little band."

There was another long pause, and Ashura pondered ending this conversation and dragging Garrick towards the barn and the promisingly soft hayloft. Before she could, Dorn spoke on. "I was a simple warrior then, though my orc-blood gave me strength enough to impress the others. It was beneath a temple buried in ice that I read a scroll detailing the power of Ur-Gothoz, and how to draw his attention. It caught my eye among the treasures we had pilfered, and I entertained the notion of using power such as Simmeon wielded to supplant him as leader. He was not treating me particularly…well at the time."

Yeah. Get Dorn talking and he sure goes on. No interest in my dead dad, but he's happy to tell all about his old companions and this former leader. In that deep, brooding voice of his.

Dorn's scowl grew as he continued. "He had been...kind when we first met in the streets of Luskan. But something changed somewhere out in the wastes. More and more he simply treated me like a stupid brute, never missing a chance to point to my orc-blood."

Sheesh, he almost sounds like a jilted lover talking.

"And the others followed his example. Still, at the time the price written of in the scroll seemed too steep. I was content enough with ale and gold."

"Until?" Ashura prompted.

"We were enjoying our spoils in a little village called Barrow when a group of hired killers caught up with us, sent by some lord we had offended. They attacked us in the tavern, the two spellcasters among them throwing flames and lightning everywhere, and Kryll replying in kind. You saw how reckless she could be with her spells.

"By the time we finished dealing with the assassins the tavern was a smoldering ruin. The battle had taken us out into the village square, and perhaps a score of the frail little peasants lay dead, either from the fire or from simply getting in the way. I was standing over the broken body of the last assassin when I heard Simmeon speak in a sly, knowing voice just behind me. 'This simply will not do, will it?' he said. 'People will blame us.'

"Then Kryll said: 'No, they'll blame the half-orc berserker. Especially when they find him knee-deep in the slaughter.'" Dorn shook his head. "They had been planning and waiting for a moment like this, it seemed. Our band had developed an unpleasant reputation, and I was to be the scapegoat. I even heard later that Senjak and Dorotea had been spreading rumors that I was the leader. 'Dorn's Nightraiders' or some such nonsense." He snorted.

"That is a pretty silly name," Garrick agreed.

"They overwhelmed me, and then left me under one of Kryll's spells, unconscious until I was found by the local authorities and dragged to Luskan. 'The half-orc berserker.'" Dorn's hands were clenched tight, as was his jaw, and he had turned to glare off at the bright windows of Gullykin and the fields beyond. "I had never lost control on the battlefield in my life. At Barrow my blade struck none of the scampering little peasants, though I saw Senjak's stray arrows and Simmeon's wide blows fell a few of them. But of course all would blame the savage half-orc."

He let out a bitter little laugh. "And perhaps I became more of the monster they wished to see me as, in that sunless cell in Luskan. I remembered each symbol from the summoning scroll, and with nothing to lose I made my pact. The slaughter on the way out was quite…indiscriminant."

He turned from the darkness and glanced from Ashura to Garrick and back again. Maybe he was expecting her to say something? 'Oh no Dorn! You're not a savage beast! Beneath that gruff exterior I see the wounded soul of a poet!'

Or perhaps he was challenging them to rebuke him? 'You seemed pretty berserk to me when you went after Kryll.' But Ashura didn't indulge or insult him; just gave him a long, even look while Garrick glanced over at her, deferring.

Eventually Dorn reached down to his belt and pulled a small bag free. It clinked as he tossed it, and Ashura caught it on reflex. "I had been waiting for you," Dorn stated. "That's half of what I have, just as promised. The rest is yours once we finish Simmeon."

She gave him a weary half-smile. "Thanks."

"I pay my debts. I'm not a-"

"Savage? Never said you were."

He nodded and turned, making to lift his sword from the dirt.

"So when this is over," Ashura asked, "you're really going to give up the rest of your money? All of it?" Turning back, Dorn shot her a glare, but she cut him off before he could speak. "What I mean is: you're going to go starve and sleep in ditches? After your revenge?"

"Giving it all up for revenge is the entire point," he growled, lifting his sword and turning away. "Sacrifices made, however many it takes. There is no other way to be a true champion of The Claws of Vengeance. And in the end, gold and blood all spent and spilled, I shall be free." With that he walked away.

Says the man who sold himself to a Nycoloth Lord.

Once Dorn was gone Garrick turned and whispered, very softly and conscious of not being overheard. "Seems like he's mostly trying to convince himself."

"Yep."

"I don't have time for your silly games." Dorn's head turned away as he spoke, eyes focused on the piece of blackened armor in his lap. It was one of his heavily jointed gauntlets, which he was cleaning with an old stained rag.

"Oh?" Shar-Teel asked sarcastically, fists planted on her hips. She was leaning forward so that she loomed over him. "You've got an urgent appointment somewhere, huh? Maybe with your hands and some halfling-made butter in the loft the barn?"

His only reply was a slight grumble as he continued to scrub at the joints of his gauntlet.

But Shar-Teel was not letting up. "Well, if you aren't going to make a date with that butter it seems like you've got plenty of time to me. Your armor's almost spotless, and we still have half the day before the little knee-biters throw their feast for us 'heroes.' Time for some recreation, I say! And like all real, red-blooded warriors, nothing gets my blood pumping like a good duel."

Glowering silence.

"Even the stuffy little squire we marched with for a while liked to show off his skill with a blade," Shar-Teel went on. "He was a limp-dick about it of course. Insisted on 'sparring' instead of getting to it with real steel. The coward. Still a tougher man than you though. Do you even have the balls to wave around a wooden sword?"

Dorn continued to ignore her.

They were seated on a patch of soft grass near the barn where the party had been offered shelter; the low, domed huts of Gullykin all around and the noon sun high overhead. Here the trees were short and stubby, the sky wide and open, and flat-bottomed clouds beyond counting lined the pale blue, white and puffy as cotton.

The halfling village was built on a high plateau overlooking the great 'gully' (really the dry bed of the river that had once run through Firewine,) that gave the place its name. A low stone wall ran between the village and the cliff, more a warning than an obstacle, and the land around was rough and scrubby, most of it a sandy dun-color spotted with gnarly, stubborn trees and the occasional cacti. There were a few patches of green as well, like the meadow where the companions sat, and other nearby spots where they could see halflings grazing their cattle.

Beyond the village there were other high, flat stretches of land that overlooked the gorge, much of the space covered in vineyards where the sapphire-blue grapes the hin favored hung in thick bunches from the vines. They were a week or so from ripening enough for the wine harvest; an event the villagers spoke of eagerly.

"Gods," Ashura grumbled from the other side of the little meadow, a winecup in her hand. "Just fight her already. She's going to do this all day if you don't."

"Yeah," Imoen agreed through a mouthful of soft bread and softer cheese. They were enjoying a little midday picnic with some food and drink the villagers had gifted them. "Ess-Tee has at least seven-hundred more ways to call you a coward, not to mention nine-hundred unflattering things to compare your manhood to. If you want to spare your virgin ears you really should just club her with that big old sword." She munched thoughtfully, then added: "Or get clubbed. She'll only spend half the day bragging after that."

Shaking his head slightly, Dorn looked up into Shar-Teel's glaring eyes. "You don't duel women, correct?"

She nodded. "It's a rule of mine."

"Well, I don't duel people who are not champions of Azothet. It's a rule of mine. I'm saving my fury for Simmeon and Simmeon alone. Now be gone!"

Shar-Teel huffed slightly and scrunched up her face, refusing to back away. "Bah!" A glance down, then she looked back at him. "Come on. Just to first blood!"

"I've seen how reckless you can be with a blade," Dorn snarled. "I'll not be hobbled or maimed on the eve of my duel. The one and only battle that matters to me. Call me a coward or whatever you wish. I care not." With that he put the cloth away, standing in his threadbare trousers and torn vest to gather his armor. Before he left he gestured towards the other side of the field. "Why not duel one of these men instead?"

Xan and Garrick shared an uncomfortable look.

"Hrmph!" Shar-Teel turned and spat. "They already know that they're complete wimps. What's the point?" As Dorn turned to leave, she shouted after him. "Once this Simmeon bastard is dead you owe me a duel!"

"Fine," Dorn growled in a half-hearted tone as he lumbered off.

Wine and cheese. Cheese and wine. There seemed to be nothing the hin of Gullykin loved more. Not that Ashura was complaining; she had enjoyed a great deal of wine already, and the halflings seemed to keep refilling her cup when she wasn't looking. She also certainly wasn't going to turn down a free meal. Though, when Gandolar Luckyfoot, the village headman, had told them there would be a feast in their honor tonight she hadn't expected it to consist almost entirely of a dizzying assortment of cheeses.

The thirty-foot long series of feast-tables the halfings had set up near the village square was littered with countless plates and bowls of the stuff, in a wide variety of shapes, sizes, colors and smells (the smell part being something that Skie and Xan had instantly started complaining about.) There were white wheels both spotted and plain, blue wedges with a golden rind, and other wedges of orange, violet, and even green. There were grainy white loafs of cheese that seemed solid as rocks, crumbly and curded stuff piled up in bowls, and pots full of cheese that had been melted into a gooey pudding. Gandolar had proudly explained that every family in the village had a long and unique artisanal tradition when it came to cheesemaking, competing over the years to produce the most unique product from the milk of their cows, goats and sheep.

Of course there was a small selection of food beyond the dairy sort; mostly soft bread that the halflings seemed to treat as cheese-delivery devices. In addition there were some tough, chewy sausages, buttered tubers, spiced squash, shavings of soured cabbage, and steaming rolls of beef and mushrooms wrapped up in fresh cabbage.

Music and dance seemed to be something the villagers loved nearly as much as cheese and wine, and they were carrying on with full abandon. Fiddles sawed, pipes tweeted, Garrick's harp twinkled along, and the drums tapped in time with it all at a brisk pace that matched the bare, fuzzy feet of the skipping and twirling dancers. They were stirring up dust in the village square beneath the light of blazing torches, a larger 'bonfire' glowing to the west.

That roaring fire had once been the home of Jenkal, the halfling who had secretly collaborated with the oni, set ablaze once the tunnel leading into the ruins had been collapsed and the house stripped of anything of value. The sudden blaze had come as a bit of a surprise for the outsiders, especially since they had watched the halflings drag a captured and bound Jenkal inside shortly before the fire started and the village posse came running out. It seemed that despite their friendly round faces and pastoral ways, the halflings could be quite merciless.

'Waste of real estate," Shar-Teel had remarked dryly as the flames began to crackle.

Gandalor Luckyfoot had shaken his head. 'No one here would want to live in a house on top of the hole that nineteen of us were dragged down into. Best to leave it a grave.'

Above the dusty patch where the dancers stomped a macabre trophy was piked atop a sturdy wooden pole, easily mistaken for a carnival prop if you didn't know where it came from. It was the severed head of the oni that had been terrorizing the village, jaw slack and tongue lolling out; its once-sneering eyes now glassy and dim. The halflings all seemed happy to twirl around it in celebration like it was a Greengrass pole, another reminder that these quick-laughing, cheese-loving folk could be rougher than they looked.

Between filling the winecups of the 'heroes' and shoveling food their way, the halflings also constantly pestered the outsiders to come over and dance, though none had accepted the offer so far. At first the feast had sat too heavy in Ashura's stomach for her to even entertain the notion of dancing, and then Garrick had joined in with the band. He looked to be having a grand time at the moment, apple-cheeked from drink and exertion (mostly drink,) as he strummed along and led in the singing, belting out some song about a comely milkmaid outsmarting a marauding pack of goblins. It would be awkward, Ashura figured, towering over the crowd as she twirled through it. Especially without Garrick. Maybe once his song was done, and she'd had a few more cups of wine…

Imoen probably would have been happy to spin and stamp with the halflings (and at least she wasn't that much taller than them to begin with,) but she and Xan had disappeared a little while ago. Skie had quietly excused herself as well, hardly in the mood for celebrating, and Dorn and Viconia hung back, the half-orc awkward and glowering, while the drow just sat in a dark corner where she watched the festivities from beneath her hood.

When they had first learned of Eldoth's betrayal and what came of it, Ashura's initial reaction (along with thinking 'Well, good riddance,') had been to glance over at Viconia, but if the dark elf had felt any sort of emotion over her one-time-lover dying she hid it well. She had even seemed coldly smug, crossing her arms at her chest and saying: 'Just as I predicted. The male grew too ambitious. A pity.'

'A pity.' That was the extent of drow grief, Ashura supposed.

Besides Garrick, Shar-Teel seemed to be having the most fun. She was singing along with the rest of the chorus, her face as rosy as Garrick's and her arms draped over two jolly halfling men as she swayed from side to side and butchered the lyrics. It was good to see her drunken down to a somewhat benign state, at least for the moment.

Last was Earl Hagar, who still wore a weary look but seemed to be having a pleasant conversation with Gandolar Luckyfoot at the other end of the table. Pleasant and cheerful, though he hardly seemed to be in the mood for dancing.

Shifting in her seat and finishing off her cup, Ashura set it down. Yeah, she'd definitely have to prod Garrick into dancing once he was done with his song. How often were they in a situation where she was comfortable going around without her armor these days? Though even in the heart of the village she wondered if it was a little risky, and she still kept her swords at her hip.

At least one dance, definitely. But first she had to pee.

Pushing off from the nicked wooden table, Ashura's head felt a little floaty, and she wobbled a bit with the first few steps before finding her stride. That wine must be stronger than I thought. Or she had lost count of how much she had actually downed, what with the nimble little hands constantly refiling her cup.

Forcing her way along a straight line, Ashura walked in the shadows of the huts and stout trees, searching for a conveniently private spot. Halflings seemed to be milling about everywhere, and soon she found herself walking farther, towards a nearby vineyard.

She missed her infravision a bit, if not the cumbersome helmet that went along with it, but the light of the moon and the distant fires proved enough to see by. A spot between tall rows of staked-up grapevines seemed private enough, and once she had relieved herself and retied her belt she started back, guided by the distant torches. As soon as she stepped out of the vineyard, however, a figure in the darkness caught her eye, beyond the vines and near the edge of the cliff.

Ashura's hand instinctively drifted towards a sword, but she recognized the posture and silhouette before she grasped the pommel. Frowning, she walked over to investigate.

Skie was hugging her cloak tightly about herself to ward off the autumn wind, and her hood was pulled up over her head. As Ashura approached, the girl slowly turned from the open gulf before her, eyes puffy and damp. Hope she wasn't pondering what I think she was, Ashura thought as she neared, though there didn't seem to be any surprise or guilt in the look Skie gave her. Only weary sadness.

Once they were standing side by side Skie's eyes returned to the sharp drop and the cliff-face on the far side beyond. "I just can't believe it," she muttered into the darkness, her voice drained of emotion. Then she tried to laugh, though all that came out was a bitter little huff. "This is 'adventure' huh? Death and betrayal and everything constantly getting turned upside-down?"

"Yep," Ashura agreed. There was silence for a time, then she added: "I know the feeling."

Turning her head slightly, Skie gave her a glare. "Really? You've been stabbed in the back by the man you loved?!"

Ashura met her eyes and glared right back, voice even. "Not exactly, but there's been a lot of stabbing. Not to mention that just this spring me and Ims didn't have such a different life from yours. We were contemplating doing just what you did in fact: running away from our safe, boring home and finding adventure in the big wide world. Then, just before we went and did it, my father took me on an unexpected trip and got murdered right in front of me the very first night." Turning, Ashura glared off into the darkness. "From there we kept getting attacked by assassins. Gods only know why. And then we managed to meet up with two of my father's old friends, who took us in like surrogate parents. Then they got killed within a tenday, stabbed in the back by companions we never should have trusted. Of course I didn't have a choice, because one of them put a bloody charm spell on me.

"And it's been like that ever since. Assassins, and monsters, and battle, and some good friends dead along the way." She fought back tears that were welling up in her eyes; struggled to keep her voice even. "So yeah. Adventure. The constant and terrifying struggle for your life."

After a moment she glanced over at Skie again. The girl looked pained as ever, lips scrunched up and eyes downcast. Yeah. Nice peptalk there Shura. She wondered what the author of The Tome of Leadership and Influence would have to say about this.

Reaching over, Ashura carefully placed an arm across Skie's shoulder, and when there was no resistance she held on, squeezing the girl's upper arm. "We can take you back to your father, if you want," Ashura said, the fire drained now from her voice as she looked out at the great black gorge beneath the open sky and stars. "Or you can stay with us. Though now that you know all about 'adventuring' I'd certainly understand if you don't want to." A chuckle. "Or we can find you a job as a barmaid in Beregost. Whatever you want."

Skie leaned against her a little. "Really?"

"Yeah. You've more than earned your place with us. And well…you're my friend." Damn. Her eyes were certainly getting cloudy now. Probably the wine. Or just…everything.

Regardless, tears crept down Ashura's cheeks and her voice caught slightly as she spoke on. "Think on it. It's a big, open world out there." She paused. Her voice was a bit more composed when next she spoke, but the world still blurred. "And full of better people than Eldoth. Dorn's paying us well, not to mention the reward Hagar's promised once we return him to his wife. It's certainly not seven gold tradebars, but your share could be enough to find a new start."

Ashura pursed her lips for a moment, then added: "Hmm. Or we could just buy you some goats right now, and you could make a living here in Gullykin. I bet the halflings would love a new neighbor. And one of their heroes too!"

Skie chuckled slightly. "Skie Obreena Silvershield III, the goatherd. I just can't picture it."

Wiping her face with the heel of her free hand, Ashura turned slightly and tugged at Skie's shoulder. "Well, we'll take care of you. We'll find something. For now, let's go back to the feast. I need some more wine."

Skie bit her lip and turned her head away. "Really don't feel like celebrating right now."

"I understand," Ashura agreed, her voice soft. But I'm not leaving you on the edge of this cliff. "Of course no one has a better excuse than you to get completely, blindingly drunk."

"That is a good point," Skie muttered through a forced smile.

"Come on then." And with that Ashura guided her friend around. Still holding Skie's shoulder, she began to walk back towards the music and the waving torches.

Once she had safely deposited Skie at the banquet table and taken up another cup, Ashura promptly sought Garrick out. With a tap and a tug on his shoulder she managed to drag him out among the spinning couples, where they danced with the halflings on the well-packed dirt. Beyond that the rest of the night became a blur of wine, cheese, and more wine.

Author's Note: It seems halflings can be rougher than they look.

As some may have noticed, Dorn's backstory and quest has been changed quite a bit here. For instance in the game Dorn and Friends just sort of mindlessly slaughtered everyone in Barrow, because *evil!* Then Dorn gets the full blame. This seemed really silly and not in tune with what I see as neutral evil characters. Callous disregard for civilian casualties and opportunistic backstabbing felt much more appropriate, and I like the idea of Dorn being bitter that everyone *assumes* he's a rampaging maniac instead of him actually being one.

Also, in the game Simmeon only becomes a blackguard at the last minute to…have a better chance against Dorn or something? It's kind of silly. Giving the two of them a longstanding rivalry tied to the blackguard class felt a lot more natural. And the Enhanced Edition is a little unclear about what kind of fiends Ur-Gothoz and Azothet are (I think he's supposed to be a demon and she's supposed to be a devil? Maybe?) But I've always had a soft spot for yugoloths/daemons, the underused and often neglected incarnations of Neutral Evil, so that's what I decided to make them.