59 – That Terrible Beauty

"Trust no appearances in the wilds of Faery, for there is nothing there that is not mutable" –old star elf saying

A flick of Ramazith's wrist sent the air wavering before him, faster than Imoen could hope to react. It struck her with a wave of numbness, every muscle locking and deadening as she bent in a vain attempt to dodge aside.

No! No! No! Shit! She wobbled like a poorly balanced statue, then tipped, a sharp jolt of pain piercing her left side where she struck a nearby desk and hung there. Somewhere out of her field of vision she heard the nymph Abela shriek, and she could see Coran nearby, standing completely still in the open and making no noise.

He'd gotten locked in place by the damn spell too! Double-shit! Ramazith was facing her and Coran, arms stretched out as his side and fingers pointing to the floor. He took a breath.

So this is how it ends huh? The most frustrating thing was being a bundled up ball of tension and terror, and having no way to let it out, heart flopping near the exploding point. She just had to scream; to cringe away and curl up and shiver and shake, but every muscle was held tight and taut, pins and needles dancing in her chest.

Some detached and curious corner of her mind (the same part that kept wondering if air elementals could hear or smell, and if so how?) noted what the spell paralyzed and what it left working. Her lungs still pushed and pulled breath, of course, but every facial muscle, eyes included, was stuck, making it impossible to look about beyond a narrow field of vision.

A scent struck Imoen's nostrils as she took in a labored breath. Overcooked meat. And in the corner of her vision there was smoke, rising from the stairwell.

And instead of pointing at his prisoners, Ramazith's fingers continued to face the floor as he chanted, going through a nasal intonation that Imoen didn't recognize. "…zekure..."

Oh. She knew that word! An abjuration, if she wasn't mistaken. Maybe I'm not about to die, just yet.

A transparent sphere of blue light bloomed around the mage, confirming Imoen's guess, and at the same time she caught movement along with the smoke at the top of the stairs. A man climbed into view from there, dressed in a powder-blue jacket and darker trousers, along with a lot of what Imoen guessed was enchanted jewelry. He appeared to be much younger than Ramazith, perhaps in his thirties, but there was something haggard and hollowed-out about his features: puffy blue-black around his eyes, skin saggy as if he had recently lost a great deal of weight, his hair a tangled mess, and uneven stubble grew from his cheeks and chin.

There were also flickering lights dancing about the newcomer; some sort of enchanted protection by Imoen's guess, and when his eyes fell on Ramazith they sharpened with rage and hate. "Your creatures are ash now, Ramazith!" the man hissed. "And you're about to join them!"

The older mage just rolled his shoulders, and instead of talk he replied with lilting draconic words and a wave of his hand, a bolt of white light flying forth. The blast knocked the newcomer a few paces back and he nearly stumbled down the stairs, but managed to steady himself, the glowing aura about him flickering out and falling away.

The man retorted with a spell of his own, which made the air before him distort and take on a pinkish tone. Just in time too. Ramazith had been conjuring a bolt of green, glowing acid, and when he threw it at his foe it simply scattered against the wall and began to drip down.

"So," Ramazith noted, "you're not quite as addled as you appear, are you Ragefast? I assumed your obsession over that thing had made you too crazed to remember the steps of a proper wizard's duel."

"My Abela is not a thing!" Ragefast snarled.

"Your Abela, huh?" the older man taunted, carefully backing away.

Ya bleedin' moron! Imoen thought, wishing she could at least shout advice while she was stuck being a hapless spectator. He's stalling you. Don't talk when ya can be flinging spells!

"When I found her she was halfway withered already, out here in this ugly city and away from her grove. It would have been such a waste of valuable reagents, if you had let her die like that." As he spoke Ramazith reached behind him and snatched up a scroll from a nearby bookshelf.

Seeing this, his opponent swung into action, hands whirling round and round in something that Imoen recognized as a conjuration. It seemed a smart move to her: the wall of force (and Ramazith's magical globe,) kept Ragefast from flinging anything directly at his enemy, but he could at least send some conjured critter to nip at Ramazith's heels.

Unfortunately chatting had cost him. The scroll in Ramazith's hands turned to green fire just as the summoning circle in front of the wall welled up into existence, and before the conjuring was finished he flung the energy forward in a blast of green light. It ripped into the wall of force, flaring and burning it out of existence.

With a flash of fire and a stony rumble a creature rose up from Ragefast's conjuring circle, little wings arching upward. Its body was black as basalt and riddled with glowing red fissures; obviously an elemental critter formed from burning magma. Ramazith had launched into another spell just as the creature appeared, however, and before it had glided two paces across the room he aimed bent fingers in its direction, then waved them in a dismissive gesture.

The magma mephit seemed to shrink slightly, then with an understated poofing sound (that Imoen couldn't help but think sounded like a fart,) the creature just vanished, banished back to its home plane.

Ragefast's hands were spinning now, close together, a white light building between his palms as he aimed his next spell. There was a drawn, resigned look on his face however. His foe was one step ahead, and he knew it, and as he flung the blast of white energy at Ramazith he cast a forlorn look off in a direction Imoen could not follow. At Abela, perhaps?

Cracks ran through the shimmering globe that protected Ramazith, and it burst into countless moats of light, swiftly winking out. The mage ignored the brightness around him though, focused as he was on conjuring a spell of his own between his palms, where arcs of lightning danced. The electric currents multiplied and writhed as Ramazith twisted his hands one way, then another, then back slightly. Then a flick of his wrists launched the crackling ball forward.

Bereft of his protections, Ragefast took the orb full-force as it struck him in the chest, white-hot currents arcing all around him, and a thungerclap echoing through the library. It blasted him back against the nearby banister, showering the floor with sparks, and he slumped there, convulsing, as Ramazith marched forward.

Tendrils of smoke escaped the edges of his mouth as Ragefast steadied himself, his eyes clear enough for him to glance past Imoen and Coran once again. "Abela. My love. I'm so, so sorry…" he managed with shaking voice, just before Ramazith's hands took on a blue-white glow and swept down towards his head, trails of icy mist following.

Where the frost-wreathed hands settled trails of ice slithered out, a crystalline crackle sounding as they grew, and the man's entire head and neck swiftly turned a grey-white color. Ragefast's legs kicked briefly, then he stilled, his hair frosted and his face quite literally frozen solid. Stepping back and yanking, Ramazith toppled the limp body, and when it struck the floor a sharp, brittle crack echoed through the room as the man's head shattered into icy chunks.

Beyond Imoen's field of vision she heard Abela cry out once again.

"Such a fool," Ramazith muttered, stepping back and brushing his hands together as the frosty glow faded from them. He shot Imoen a glare. "Though between him and you two idiots I've been set back quite a bit." A shake of his head. "All my guardians destroyed, and the last harvest of tears wasted. Well, at least I have the materials to make two fresh ghasts."

He stepped forward, and once again Imoen wondered if she was about to die. But he was looking past her, and the gesture he made was casually commanding rather than arcane. "Here, nymph. Back to your cage. I promise this will all be over before the dawn."

"N…nu…no!" A shaking voice, hoarse and raspy.

Ramazith just shook his head impatiently. "I'm offering to do this painlessly. Why, only this morning you were beginning for a quick end, no? No more tears and pain. I'll simply harvest the components I need, you will be no more, and our business will be done. Provided you obey. If not…well, you know the kind of pain I can inflict."

"No…"

"Do not test my-"

"No! I must be FREE!" Fire lit Abela's voice now, and a ripple of energy flowed into Imoen's field of view and towards Ramazith, his brow rising in mild surprise. Between the cracks of the hardwood floor transparent vines appeared and uncoiled, slithering up to wrap round and around the mage's legs.

Scowling down, Ramazith barked out a simple phrase and flicked a finger, and the vines blinked out of existence. "Didn't think you had it left in you," he muttered dryly. "But this is my tower." He raised a hand, aimed a finger. "One last chance to do this the painless way."

Before Ramazith could make his next move, painless or not, a scuffling sound from the bookcase behind him caught his attention and he began to turn – not quite fast enough. The streak of violet that plummeted from the top of the shelf struck him on the shoulders before he could adjust, and sent him teetering off-balance, dancing like a drunkard under the weight of a very irate halfling.

As she clamped her legs tight against Ramazith's shoulders and neck, Alora let out a wordless, high-pitched battlecry, one hand yanking on the mage's hair while the other whipped her sling around and around over her head.

"You let…" she shouted as she brought the sling and stone down hard across the crown of Ramazith's head.

"…her go you…"

Another diagonal swing struck, and at the same time a flash of light blurred across Ramazith's body, his skin seeming to take on a slate-grey color.

A protective contingency, Imoen realized. There was also a golden glow building from somewhere beyond her vision, burning a bit at the corner of her eye. Abela doing something, perhaps?

"…big dumb meanyhead!" The stone struck again, but this time instead of a boney crack the sound was low and dull, and it just turned Ramazith's head slightly as a little dust flew.

With a furious grunt the wizard turned and bucked, slamming Alora into a bookcase and knocking it over. Another slam and a sharp turn, and the halfling's fingers started slipping from his hair. He managed to grab her cloak then, half-shrugging and half-flinging her off of his shoulders and through the air.

Even as Alora flew she managed to flip, landing upright atop a nearby desk, springy as a cat. The mage followed her with fury in his eyes, blood dribbling through cracks in the protective layer of stone that covered his head, and he snarled out a string of arcane words like a curse. Red lights ignited on his fingertips, leaping and streaking through the study and towards Alora.

But even before Ramazith had started casting, Alora had skipped off the desk and dashed under a table, and as the buzzing bolts of arcane energy sought her out she wove around, over, under and through every obstacle she could find; scampering around table legs and under chairs. She vanished around a bookcase next, a shove from her passing hand toppling it over behind her.

Wait, can you actually evade magic missiles? Imoen found herself wondering. Alora was certainly trying, though a high-pitched yelp she let out a second or two later made it clear she hadn't been wholly successful.

The golden glow from the corner of the room blocked out the spot where Alora had retreated, stinging Imoen's eyes as the source of the light stepped forward. Not just gold – there were flashes of red as well; holes of furnace-fire that peaked out between the rays of sunlight.

Abela.

Abela was the source of it all, no longer timid, no longer cowering. A transformation had come over her, and she walked with surety and purpose, withered bark-skin lit from within and glowing like a glade in the hour before a sunset. Where the bark had fallen away to reveal dark, smooth patches, a fire burned as well: the red glow of cinders – the smoldering light of a burned forest.

The lights commingled and competed, red swelling and growing as another damaged leaf of gold flaked and fell away; more with each step. Abela had tossed the elven cloak aside, chin high, back straightened, each step taken with poise and precision as the glamor hanging about her grew and grew.

Red and gold; cinders and sunlight, dancing and flowing. Abela seemed to walk without haste, yet one moment she was on the other side of the room and the next she was right in front of Ramazith, before the mage even seemed to take it all end or react. Somehow her glow and her motions made time and distance fuzzy.

Imoen was certainly having trouble following. And that light! It was really stinging now, all her vision filling with fire and sun, her eyelids struggling against the magic that locked them in place as she fought to squint.

Alora's attack had knocked Ramazith to his knees, and now Abela's slender fingers grasped the kneeling mage's silk shirt with surprising strength, and forced him to look upon her. His jaw slackened, the fury drained from his face, and his eyes widened and glinted, suddenly awed. Gold and red merged now and became white.

Like sunlight on snow, filling everything. Blinding!

Muscles suddenly quivering to life, Imoen gulped in a breath and slid off the table she had been propped against. When she hit the floor she curled up, shutting her eyes tight and pressing a numb arm over them for good measure. The afterimage of Abela still danced before her though, the bald nymph's features cut like a diamond as her eyes burned with pure white wrath.

As she huddled she heard Ramazith angrily shout something, and it felt as if the pressure in the room suddenly shifted drastically. Something welling up – then came a deep crack and a loud BOOM. Imoen couldn't help but glance up past the spots in her vision, in time to see the ragdoll form of Abela fly across the library and crash into a wall, where she tumbled and slumped

Ack! Imoen tried to stand, a sharp ache in her head and every limb violently protesting. She managed to snatch up her dagger though, turning towards Ramazith, who-

-had his head tilted back, staring off at nothing, his eyes bereft of color. "What have you done!?" the mage snarled.

"Justice, it looks like," Coran quipped as he slipped in behind Ramazith, both daggers up and ready to stab. "And a lot less than you did to her."

The panic on Ramazith's face cleared, turning to a resolved scowl. "I make no apologies," he snarled, head back. Listening.

Imoen took a cautious step to the side, circling in towards the mage but ready to dodge any-which-way. Even wounded, blinded, and running low on spells, Ramazith sure seemed to be a pragmatic devil.

"You've no idea the fortune in spell components that creature carries around on her," the mage went on. His hands were out and open, ready to cast. "Her hide could be used to sew garments that are proof against all forms of magical fear. Her heart and blood are keys to forging items of command."

Don't do it you idiot. He wants you to-

"Not to mention that her nether bits-"

"You bastard!" Coran shouted, and Ramazith's smirk just grew as he spun and barked out a spell. A ray of scorching flame streaked from his fingertip, singing Coran's vest as he ducked and dodged aside. The mage seemed to anticipate the movement, and the ray followed, the books and parchment on a nearby shelf bursting into flames where it passed.

Luckily Coran managed to keep low, and the spell streaked just over his head, scorching a second bookshelf. Imoen shuddered slightly as she watched and silently marched forward.

If he hadn't been blinded… But now she was right behind the mage. Unnoticed.

She lunged and stabbed all in one motion, blade screeching as it cut through the stony protections Ramazith still wore. This time they did him little good; the dagger sank to the hilt and the mage's legs instantly bowed and went limp, arm flopping and spraying fire everywhere. With one hand Imoen struggled to grab the mage's arm and hold it steady, her other twisting the dagger as hard as she could.

It seemed she had stabbed the right spot though, judging by the way Ramazith folded up and the convulsions swiftly spent themselves. It wasn't until the flames sputtered out, however, that she finally let go.

Looking up from the limp mage's body, she saw that Abela had straightened up, apparently still alive. The flames were spreading rapidly too, dancing from bookshelf to bookshelf.

"Uh…" Imoen muttered in the general direction of the fire and her friends, Alora crawling out from the spot she had dived to and Coran patting his burnt vest. "You may want to snatch up everything you can. Because-" She cringed and turned her head as a burst of cinders went spinning up from the floor and threatened to get in her hair. Gods, this place was such a firetrap. Ramazith must have only used the scorching spell because it was the last thing he had left.

She gave the dead mage a quick search (Nice amulet. And he seemed to wear a magic ring too,) and the other two thieves went about ransacking the study as well, picking up every gem and knickknack that looked to be worth something and hastily stuffing the objects into their bags, along with some of the spell-scrolls that weren't on fire (portable and valuable things, those.) While they did that, Imoen rushed to the nearest window and got to work on the warding traps, and the latch.

In contrast to their bustling, Abela stood straight and still in the center of the room. A gentle sweep of her head surveyed the corpse of her tormentor and the growing flames, and every graceful motion shed more and more of her withered skin. "A cleansing fire," the nymph remarked to herself over the crackling, her voice now melodic; the rawness gone. "To burn away the ugliness. Good."

"Yup," Imoen agreed absently, finding a chain of tiny glyphs on the windowsill and making it evaporate with a pinch of powder, before teasing the window fully open. "Just so long as we aren't cleansed with it."

Abela didn't seem to hear. A turn of her heel, and she glared down into the milky eyes of Ramazith's corpse. "And good that he shall be consumed with it!" She seemed to shiver and lose her poise slightly, head shaking, voice transforming, more flakes of gold falling to floor. Even with the roar of the gathering flames, Imoen thought she heard a faint tinking sound each time a piece of the nymph hit the floor. It had her looking over, curious.

"An ugly thought," Abela went on, in the voice of the wounded prisoner once again. "I shouldn't…"

"It's understandable," Imoen said. "What he did to you…" Cutting off pieces. Harvesting tears. Gods! "No reason not to be glad."

The nymph drew herself up and took a deep breath, liquid eyes tightening with resolve. Most of the withered bark-like skin on her face had fallen away, and beneath was smooth and black, tinged with red. Not the raw red of bared muscle or tendons either; it was a glow. Cinders. Magma.

"And you're free now," Imoen hastened to add, unease creeping into her voice, along with a cough as she started to taste the spreading smoke. "We just have to get outa here."

"Yes," Abela agreed, taking a deep breath as if the air was pure and clear, the fire that backlit her nothing. "Free. I had…forgotten what that meant." Straightening back to her full height made the last of the clinging bark-skin crack and flake away –tink tink tink- taking the last wisp of ragged gossamer that had been clinging to her with it.

Beneath she was all smooth and gleaming obsidian, tinged with caldera-red; stone instead of wood, all magma and no sunlight. Her surfaces rippled with each motion, clear and defined like waves of cooled basalt, the features of her face sharp as volcanic glass. She stood there and she stretched, bald and sharp and whole and nude and terrible and beautiful to behold, the faint glow at her edges bright and burning.

Imoen blinked, afterimages dancing. Then she found herself staring again, transfixed.

Before Imoen could think to look away –try to break the trance– Abela simply inclined her head gracefully and said: "Thank you." The light about her danced and grew, a white-hot glow replacing the red; the very air yawning open.

Barely visible beyond the brightness of the conjured portal, Imoen thought she saw streaks of pink and violet bundled up by spiraling clouds. The crackle and roar of the burning bookcases mixed with birdsong, and through the gate strange forms seemed to bob along on delicate wings, their outlines briefly cutting off the streaks of sunlight that were shining through.

A gateway to world of the fey, Imoen guessed; the strange space through which creatures like Abela could walk. The nymph turned towards it, taking a step through the portal. Then she paused, glancing over her shoulder, and over the growing glow Imoen thought she could see a wicked, renewed life in her eyes. "I'd offer you a lock of my hair," the nymph said, pointing a finger at her head, unabashed, "but well…you can see."

Then she laughed; bells chiming with irony and mirth. A few more steps through the portal, then it collapsed, and there were only flames.

Uh. Did we just accidently release something...dangerous? Imoen wondered. But there was no time to think further on that; they were all coughing now, the whole chamber lit by a wicked orange glow and smoke rolling steady along the ceiling.

With the last of the wards stripped away, inside and out, Imoen shoved the leaded glass wide open and wriggled through the narrow window, out onto the wider pagoda roof. Her companions slipped out right behind her, and for a moment they coughed and tried to draw in a few good lungfuls of clean air.

Poor Alora looked rather beat up, her clothes torn and a red welt covering one cheek, but she only moved with a little stiffness, and when Coran asked if she'd be able to climb down she gave him an offended look and said: "Well 'course I can!"

It was an easy enough matter, as it turned out, to climb down from one tiered rooftop to the next, each one slightly wider and easier to navigate. Especially easy for Imoen, since she had a spider climb spell ready for exactly this part.

There had certainly been some strange twists and turns, but in the end the three thieves made it down to the street and hit the stones running, wrapped up in their cloaks and doing all they could to avoid the eyes of curious onlookers who may have spotted the burning tower. Thankfully no sort of authorities seemed to have arrived yet, and they met no one as they zipped through the maze of back alleys that would eventually lead, roundabout, to the door of the Three Old Kegs.

Long before that –a good three turns short by Imoen's estimation– a figure swung out of the darkness to meet them: tall, lit harshly by the bobbing magelight he had conjured, and huffy as ever, his hands hidden by his sleeves. "I see that despite your pretenses of 'tact' and 'stealth,'" Edwin noted, with a nod in the direction of the tower, "everything ended with fiery explosions anyway. A pity I was not there."

"To blast that impertinent mage yerself?" Imeon asked, bending over a bit to catch her breath. She stole a few glances over her shoulder. Would the Fist be searching already? Probably not. And Ashura, Garrick and Xan were here anyway, just behind the red wizard, Viconia leaning against a wall a little farther away, in the shadows. In theory they had all been waiting to kick in the front door of the tower, spells blazing and swords swinging and crossbow thumping, in the case of everything going to the Abyss and Imoen calling on them with her enchanted mirror. In practice the damn paralysis spell had nixed that option.

"Just so," Edwin agreed. "You heard what that presumptuous fop attempted on me, did you not?! A charm spell! To a guest under his roof, no less!"

Imoen let out a tired chuckle. Yeah, you sure had it rough. "A guest who was attempting to steal something out from under his nose."

"Irrelevant!" Edwin snarled. "He did not know."

Shaking her head and pushing past the Thayan, Imoen kept walking. "In any case, we should sort things out someplace farther away from a burning wizard's tower."

Edwin towered over her still as she took quick steps towards the relative safety of the inn, his shadow falling over her, thanks to his magelight. Just no bloody concept of stealth!

"That's all fine and good," Edwin stated, holding out an expectant hand, "but what of my book?"

"Ya ya ya," Imoen muttered as they walked side by side, still trying to scuttle as fast from the site of the disaster as she could. Reaching into her bag, she slid the thick, gold-embroidered tome out.

Edwin gleefully took it with both hands, and as Imoen handed it over she got a good look at the cover, extravagant lettering threaded with gold and gleaming in the conjured light. She bit her lip, heart sinking, and Edwin stopped in his tracks as well, peering down at the cover critically.

There, stitched in extravagant but clear Thorass script, were the words: 'The Full and Tangled History of the Nether Scrolls, by Aldanon the Absent-Minded.'

Imoen's hand shot up and clamped against her mouth before she could let out the series of curses that came to mind. Mask's forked tongue! It's the wrong book!

Meanwhile Edwin was turning the tome over in his hands, lips twisting this way and that appraisingly. Then, to Imoen's shock, those lips quirked up into a fox-like smile. "Yes," Edwin stated in a low voice. "This will do. Perhaps more than do. (What a fascinating subject matter. Far more useful than meditation techniques.)"

"But…it's not the book…" Imoen stammered.

A slight, allowing nod. "As I told you (as if you were paying attention,) Ramazith has a fine collection of rare and expensive books. (Or he had one at least. A shame about the fire, and that you lacked the wit to snatch more of his collection up.)"

"So you just cared about…" Imoen's eyes widened and then she snapped her fingers, everything clicking into place. "You just wanted a book that would get you into Candlekeep! That's what this is all about."

Slipping the tome under his robe, Edwin nodded. "Not that it's any business of yours, but that is a fine and well-educated guess. Perhaps you're not quite as stupid as you look."

Next he adjusted his robes a little, straightening up. "A pleasure doing business with you. Siltir varak – keev." There was a slight waver and a woosh as air rushed in to occupy the space where the red wizard had just been. And with that he was gone.

The headquarters of the Flaming Fist Mercenary Company managed to appear grand, imposing, and pristine all at once; a squat hexagonal fortress of sturdy stone, with evenly placed battlements and slanted red-slate roofs atop the inner keep. Twelve-foot long banners hung from the clean granite walls, their fields the same even shade of red as the rooftops, and the sigil within displaying the hand and flame that Imoen had seen on many a guardsman's chest piece throughout the city and beyond.

Four sets of wooden stocks were set up on prominent display just before the gates of the fortress, empty save for one that held some poor sod, wrists and neck bound, dirt caked into his face and the frayed rags that he wore. The prisoner shivered miserably in the cool autumn air, and though his face was mostly covered by disheveled hair Imoen couldn't help but think that she recognized him from the Thieves' House, and found herself wondering how hard it would be to open the contraption up without anyone noticing.

A little to the west of the fortress the street opened onto a broad courtyard, a grey stone fountain in the center where white foam gushed perpetually into the air. Beyond, against the city wall, stood a plain wooden structure that Imoen guessed was a gallows, though there were no nooses attached to the broad overhead beam at the moment.

Instead a fat little gnome in rumpled red robes and a feathered hat stood upon the platform, waving his arms as he preached to a tiny crowd of smirking day-laborers and bored-looking guards. Before Imoen and Xan reached the gates of the Fist compound and entered, they caught a bit of the little guy's enthusiastic sermon: something about how Cyric had personally declared the gnome the ruler of all the cosmos. The crowd jeered and taunted him as he prattled, but he seemed to ignore that.

Once they had passed through the gates of the fortress and the preaching had fallen away, Xan stopped, taking a deep breath and looking ahead with a great deal of dread. The look on his face made him appear more like an elf about to march to his own execution, rather than a business call.

Shaking her head slightly, Imoen spoke up. "The Flaming Fist Mercenary Company!" she announced, blurting out what first popped into her mind, in an attempt to distract her boyfriend. "They act a bit more like a government than mercenaries, don't they? Guess they started out small and stumbled into this big, permanent contract for the city? Or something."

Xan gave her an incredulous, sidelong look.

"It's got me thinking," she went on. "We need a spiffy name for our mercenary company too, don't we? Best if it covers our big, unifying theme too. Though…hrm." She scrunched her face up in thought.

"We have a unifying theme?" Xan asked as he began to walk forward, a bit less ill-at-ease.

"None that I can think of." Imeon giggled. "We've got what? A drow priestess, a sweetly naïve bard, an elven detective, two ferocious sword-ladies, a halfling T-word who helps part-time, and a sex-crazed woodsy elf? And whatever I am, of course." She shook her head. "We can't exactly call ourselves The Order of the Randomly-Collected, Dangerous Misfits,' now can we?"

"Why not?" Xan asked, deadpan. "It seems apt."

"Well yeah, but it just wouldn't distinguish us from all those other little mercenary bands, now would it? We at least need a unifying color scheme. Maybe if I could get the others to dress in violet like you, me and Alora…"

The inside of the fortress was lit by torchlight and a few narrow, slotted windows, and at first they traveled down a long hallway that emptied out into a broader vault of mortared stone. Thick walls, solid and dark; this seemed a true castle, and reminded Imoen a bit of the interior towers at Candlekeep. Or the Watcher's barracks.

Oh. That's different though. In addition to side-passages there were quite a few barred doors through which tiny prison cells were visible. Only one was occupied: a weathered old man in rags sat upon the wooden slat that served as a bed. "Sheesh," Imoen whispered. "We walked right into the dungeon?"

Xan shrugged, his voice low as well. "I suspect that this is where they hold rowdy drunks and other undesirables who are making a nuisance of themselves, to be tossed out the next day. The true dungeons are deeper within."

There were armored folks as well, looking bored at their posts in front of branching hallways. Xan approached one of the soldiers, who gave the elf a suspicious look. "I need to speak with Commander Scar," the Greycloak explained.

"What for?" the guard growled back.

"Greycloak business. I have had dealings with him in the past."

The soldier rolled his eyes, but he did turn and shuffle down the hall, and Xan watched him go with arms crossed over his chest, fretting. "Scar was eager to work with me, last time," the elf muttered, voice low. "And met me out here. What could have changed in the weeks that we were out in the countryside?"

"Like I told ya," Imoen whispered back. "It's probably nothing, and Scar will explain and sort it all out in a minute. You just get all worked up with dread way too easy."

Unfortunately they were left standing there, waiting, for quite some time, and she watched Xan fidget a bit as the poor elf's trepidation just grew and grew. Eventually the guard they had pestered returned. Alone.

"Scar said he didn't know of any Greycloak," the man told them with a bored shrug. "And that he's not to be disturbed. Sorry."

Xan's eyes widened, then narrowed considerably, and he took a step forward. "Now see here-"

"Hey now," the guard preempted him, one hand going to the hilt of his sword, but the other was held up and open in a placating gesture. "I don't like giving petitioners the runaround, but those were the big man's orders. I follow 'em. Chain of command and all that shite."

"But something is very wrong here," Xan insisted. "I have met the 'big man' myself. And he is, as you described, very big. Bald as well, with a scar that runs from his right cheekbone to his chin. He carries a belt of throwing hatchets, has a jolly disposition, and he is left-handed. And when last we met he was extremely concerned about the evidence I had brought him regarding the Iron Throne merchant cartel and their slaver operation in the Cloakwood."

The soldier narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, pondering.

"He asked that I assist him in and investigation, finding people who had gone missing through the sewers," Xan continued, "freeing him up to look into the Iron Throne. A task we performed, I will have you know." He gestured towards Imoen. "She slew the oni that was snatching people from the streets herself, and I reported all of this to Scar."

The Fist guard nodded. "Yeah, I remember hearing 'bout that. And the Iron Throne huh? Everyone knows they're closer to a crime syndicate than a merchant house. I didn't know Scar was-"

"That's because he's doing no such thing," a deep, dry voice crackled nearby. The soldier shot to attention and Imoen and Xan turned towards the source: a man with short, dirty-blonde hair, streaks of grey punctuating his close-cropped beard and temples. The sigil of the Fist was stamped upon the breast of the crisp red uniform he wore.

No armor, so Imoen's first guess was that he was some sort of warmage. Great.

"Commander Dosan!" the soldier barked, saluting.

The commander shot the newcomers a glare, crossing his arms as he stepped closer. "We've looked into this Iron Throne matter," he stated tersely. "And found nothing. So you will stop sowing…" he waved a dismissive hand, "whatever it is you are trying to sow in the ranks of my men. And kindly leave."

"I would first speak with Scar-"

"No," Commander Dosan insisted, in a voice that left no room for questioning. "You will not."

A moment passed in silence as Xan glanced from soldier to commander, then to the doorway, then back again. He took a breath, hands at his side.

"And you will make no attempt," the commander preempted, "at using your Art here in our fortress, enchanter. There are wards, warmages, and the full force of the Flaming Fist ready to come down on the heads of any who cross us here. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do," Xan admitted, stiff as a board.

"Good." The commander violently stabbed the air with his fingertip, pointing in the direction they had come. "Now go!"

End of Part Four

Author's Note: Abela's transformation (and the odd turn her quest took,) was inspired a bit by the vengeful/dangerous dryads and nymphs you often encounter in RPGs, who tend to represent the dangerous side of nature or an aspect of nature that's been defiled, often encountered in burning forests.

And what's going on with Scar is a slight departure from the usual game plot, but it will all be explained. The name of the next part of the story is 'Conspiracy,' by the way.

Oh, and once again I just want to give my heartfelt thanks to all the people who've reviewed, faved, or just continued to read this story. Hearing that you're (hopefully) entertaining people is very rewarding, and I really appreciate it.