Paths
Their progress was painfully slow. Setting out at high noon, they hadn't gone even one fourth of the way to the river, near as Imoen could reckon, by the time the sun was setting. Even with help, Lysara still needed to stop frequently as the nausea and dizziness kept returning; and the less than half healed wound in her shoulder trobbed violently and near-constantly no matter what she did or didn't do.
In spite everything that had happened, Lysara found a subconscious thrill at being in the wilds, away from shaped stone and worked wood, out among the nearly untouched plant-life. She'd never in living memory been outside the walls of Candlekeep; and the wood elf in her heart delighted in simply being in a forest with the wild grasses, flowers and herbs, the trees and bushes; even the moss, which she had never particularly cared for before. It was a natural joy that pierced even the seemingly solid wall of emotion-swallowing nothingness that surrounded her.
"What's up?" Imoen asked when they paused short of twilight. Apparently she had noticed the strange energy that that seemed to have infected the elf, because she commented, "You seem… bubbly." 'Bubbly' was a word that had seldom applied accurately to the normally reserved elf.
"I… don't know," Lysara answered thoughtfully. She didn't understand it herself. "It's weird. It's kind of a… happy is the wrong word, but it's the closest I can come to describing this feeling. I almost feel like… singing and dancing."
"Oh, I get it." Imoen said, comprehension clicking in her quick mind. "You're in the woods for the first time. I think I read something about wood elves and how they're connected to the wilds once, but I can't remember what it is. Anyway, when you can stand without looking like you're gonna sick up, maybe you can dance. But I don't see how a little singing would hurt."
Lysara rolled her eyes. "Yes, mother," she said. She closed her eyes and relaxed, letting the forest fill her senses. The scent of the trees and their leaves, the peat moss that she was sitting on filled her nose. The softest breeze, the sound of small creatures moving among the branches, the running water of the river – not so far away to the east as they'd believed – and the flapping wings of a middle-sized bird filled her ears. Even the feel of bark against her, through her clothes where she touched the tree she was leaning against, and the feel of the sun filtered through the forest canopy touching her. It all had a beat to it, a tempo.
She couldn't help herself any more. As she rested her back against that ancient oak, she raised her voice to music that existed only in her mind, a music whose time she subconsciously kept with the beat of the forest's heart that she'd only just discovered. Where the words or the tune came from, she hadn't a clue. She didn't even understand the words she sang, yet it was clear that they were words, far too patterned for random gibberish invented on the spot. Her voice was pure and clear, and stronger than she thought possible at the moment. As she sang, the pain in her shoulder seemed to lessen, and the nausea that had forced her to stop and rest evaporated.
Imoen just sat there looking stunned as she listened, her jaw figuratively on the ground even several minutes after it was over. Then Lysara stood up, gingerly stretching her wounded arm out. Instantly, Imoen was next to her, carefully helping the elf back down as she nearly fainted on the spot.
"What's the big idea?" Imoen demanded protectively.
"Sorry..." Lysara said after her senses cleared. "I felt so much better after that; I just thought it might have helped me heal."
"Last I checked you've as much magic in you as a needle," Imoen commented with a half-smile and a forced chuckle. "Though to be fair the priests always refused to train you after… never mind that. Where'd that song come from? I've never heardanyone sing like that."
"That bad?" Lysara asked analytically. She thought she wasn't anything special, but she didn't think her voice was so horrible.
"Bad?" Imoen repeated incredulously. "Lys, it was probably the most beautiful thing I've ever heard… but it was so sad. I almost cried listening to it." Lysara felt her cheeks heating at the description, though the embarrassment remained absent. "Must be an elf thing," Imoen quipped, trying to make a joke of it.
"We should get going," Lysara said after a brief silence. Her senses were back to their normal level, and she'd lost most of the sounds that she'd been so very aware of only minutes before. "We've got a little daylight left, and we can make the river before dark, I think."
"As if," Imoen said. "It's at least a league east of here and you can barely stand up. Not that I mind helping you, but I've got my limits on how far I can carry you."
"Oh, so now I'm fat?" Lysara asked, sounding dead serious.
"Puh-lease," Imoen replied, not fooled in the slightest. "You're about as fat as a broomstick." She smiled and laid a hand on Lysara's shoulder. "I just don't want to push you too hard until that… hole in you knits up."
"It's close enough that I can hear running water," the elf countered. "Even if my ears are that much better than yours it can't be so far off."
They travelled a bit further that day, despite Imoen's continued protests, and before night had fully fallen, they were sitting on the river bank. The Cloak River was a wide band of water flowing from the north, on an inlet of the Sea known as Baldur's Cove, south into lands that Lysara had no knowledge of. And it was deep enough that they weren't going to bother trying to ford or swim across it. Trees crowded almost all the way to the bank, vast branches forming canopies that eclipsed the sky, with a vine or two hanging low enough to brush the water's surface. There was but a small band of rich-looking dark soil between the water's edge and the tree line, perhaps a pace wide that periodic flooding likely prevented from growing over. Imoen built a fire, and tried to catch some food, but Lysara eventually drifted off hungry.
[-]Upon awaking the following morning, Lysara felt that same wonderous feeling - if a somewhat lesser version of it - that had prompted her into singing the previous day. Leaving Imoen - she was a late sleeper usually - Lysara disrobed with some difficulty and waded into knee deep water. She seated herself in the water, letting it rush over her body as she carefully bathed herself, singing quietly to herself. It was nowhere near the powerful, compelling song that she'd sung yesterday, but still pleasant, at least to her ears.
Everything seemed so peaceful until she felt an unexpected splash from behind. She let out a surprised squeal, twisting to face the now wide-awake and grinning Imoen aggressively splashing water in her direction. Lysara tried to retaliate, but the first counter-splash made her reel again, and they both desisted. She just soaked, forgetting pain and weariness for a time, and then they took turns scrubbing each other's backs and doing what they could for their hair. Imoen had had the sense to have packed three bars of the hard lye soap favored by the monks in Candlekeep, but nothing for hair care.
"It's amazing how much better a bath makes you feel." Lysara commented as she dried off on Imoen's cloak. It felt like it had been a week since she'd last bathed. She'd had no idea how grimy she felt until she'd finished cleaning off. She was feeling well enough to stand now, and walk around unsupported a little.
"No kidding," Imoen replied, running her fingers through her own hair to try and get the rest of the water out. She eyed the wide, seemingly deep river skeptically. "Where's the bridge?"
"A mile or two and a very bad idea south of here," Lysara answered. "Assuming that the armored creep isn't patient enough – or doesn't have enough time - to be waiting there himself, odds are that he's got someone waiting for me there."
"Armored creep?" Imoen asked, suddenly grave, "Someone is after you? I thought… y'know…" She didn't need to complete the thought. Most people would assume that what had happened to Gorion the work of bandits or someone with a grudge against him, not someone out to kill her.
"Yeah." was all Lysara said. After a moment she detailed what she could remember of the attack to her friend. Imoen simply put her arms around her and hugged her tightly – but carefully - once the flow of words abated.
"Well," Imoen said after Lysara was finished, "you're in no shape for a fight, and I'm no match for any kind of soldier up close. I might make it past them since they're not looking for a human. I don't think they'd swallow it if we showed up together. If anything they're looking for a lone elf woman with some sort of wound. Or maybe just an elf woman; we don't know for sure if your attackers saw that bolt hit you. Maybe mister armor even thinks that the bolt killed you. It was... six or seven days ago, after all."
"Six days?" Lysara asked, shaking her head. "So I was out for… three, four days? It's possible. An armed contingent of private soldiers just standing on the only bridge out of Candlekeep would draw unwanted attention..." Lysara fell silent as she considered this.
"Okay, here's what I'm thinking:" Imoen said, breaking the long silence. "Assuming they're even there, we know they're not looking for a human. They're looking for a wounded elf. So!" She clapped her hands together, all but bouncing as she did when she was being devious. "We hide you in sight of the bridge – bless that elven vision of yours, 'in sight' is a lot farther for you than me – and I'll go ahead and check it out. I'll swing around west and cross the road first so they'll think I'm coming from the south. If it's clear, I'll signal you."
"And if it's not?" Lysara asked, shaking her head again. "They'd be on to you in a second if you tried to cross the bridge and then backed off."
"So I won't cross it," Imoen replied with one of her mischievous grins. "If the bridge is guarded, I'll act all scared and be all like," she pitched her voice up higher than normal and added a touch of fear and concern, "oh, I found this wounded elf girl in the forest, please come and help me!" Her grin changed to more wicked than mischievous, and she went on in her normal mischievous tone. "And then they'll follow me since…"
"… since they're looking for a wounded elf." Lysara finished the sentence. "And while they're gone, I just walk across and wait for you? What happens if they decide to settle for the girl they've got instead of the one they're looking for?"
"You know me," Imoen said with a conspiratorial wink.
Lysara just chuckled, remembering the mind-staggering number of times that Imoen had given the slip to the entire keep's compliment of Watchers. Common thugs wouldn't be able to hold her.
"And if Bastard One is there?" she mused at a possible hole in the plan.
"I don't think he will be."
"Why?"
"Because you were out cold for days after he… killed Mister G. If he had time to wait around and finish you off, he would've come back at daylight or just waited in the clearing until he could see well enough to find you. No; he's nowhere near here, I don't think. Whether he had 'other business' or just didn't want to wait around for soldiers investigating to show up, I don't know… no, he's long gone from here."
Imoen was a wonderfully free spirit, and a perpetual child, who usually suppressed any and all signs of her maturity. Her youthful manner and glib tongue rather belied her intelligence, and typically made people think she wasn't as smart as she was.
That was exactly how Imoen liked it.
"What if they leave a lookout on the bridge?" Lysara poked at another hole in Imoen's plan.
"If they leave one… you'll have to deal with him," Imoen said, all trace of mirth slipping away. "Just one you can handle if you get the drop on him. I know… it's horrid… but I'm not going to let you die out here…" Lysara didn't like it, but she couldn't find any fault with Imoen's logic or reasoning. After a moment, she nodded.
"Okay… I'll do it." And she had to force the bile back down. What had to be done, could be done, she had been taught. But that didn't mean she had to like it.
[-]The plan went off perfectly. There was no sign of the armored fiend at the bridge, but there were seven heavily armed people, five men and two women. All of whom – to Lysara's immense relief - followed Imoen readily when she went to pull her diversion, not even leaving one of their number to watch. Lysara used her bow as a crutch and crossed un-harassed, if slower than she would have liked, and settled down just off the road out of sight of the bridge. About three hours after that, Imoen came hurrying down the road, casting hurried glances left and right, and over her shoulder behind her as well. Lysara picked up a small stone and tossed it onto the pavement in front of the girl's feet. At first, she gave no reaction, as if she hadn't even noticed the rock; but glancing once more over her shoulder, she turned into the woods and joined her friend, relief practically radiating off of her.
"There you are," she whispered. "I showed them down south and gave 'em the slip. No idea where they are now, but they're pro-o-obably on to me."
"Why?"
"I cut their horses loose. Thought about keeping one for us, but decided against it. A stolen horse is kind of hard to hide, and would draw the wrong kind of attention when we finally get to the inn." Glancing back at the road, she added, "Still, they've probably discovered their mounts are gone by now."
"We should get moving… and stay off the road for now," Lysara supplied.
"A most wise stratagem, young lady," an old man's voice came from behind Lysara. She drew with her good hand as she spun – almost knocking herself out again - to find an old man calmly standing there, leaning on a thin, twisted piece of wood his own height, though it would most likely have been twice that and then some had it been straight. He looked very old and frail, dressed from head to toe in gold-trimmed scarlet robes, with a wide brimmed hat in the same color scheme that was very tall and tapered to a point. His beard and moustache were both pure snowy white, the former of which was nearly long enough to reach his feet, and his eyes were a sparkling blue that made him look far younger than his wrinkles and beard did. And the aura of power coming off of practically everything he wore made her weapons look like un-enchanted twigs. That neither of them had noticed him and his garish clothing astounded her.
"Pardon me, young ladies," he said as he rested against a tree. "I need to catch my breath, if you do not mind my sharing the shade here?"
"No, of course we don't mind," Lysara said cautiously as she put on a forcedly welcome smile and eased her sword back into its sheath. She didn't have the slightest idea who this man was, but felt that it wouldn't do to act nervous and suspicious around every stranger, even if they just appeared out of thin air. A wounded elf was one thing, but a wounded elf who treated everyone like she thought they'd put a dagger in her back was asking for just that to happen, and must less likely to receive aid from others for it. Besides, with the sheer amount of magic radiating off of him, Lysara thought that he was almost certainly capable of flattening the both of them without breaking a sweat. So instead she pasted a smile on her face and forced her pose to casual. Imoen caught on and mimicked her.
"Hey, it's a free road," Imoen said with a disarming grin.
"Yes, yes…" the old man said as he sank down to the ground with a grateful sigh, "apart, of course, from the bandits choking off every inch of it save the one which leads to Candlekeep. One must wonder at the mental health of those who choose to wander, when they could be home before a warm fire with a glass of mulled wine. I must wonder, if I might ask, which category the two of you would fall under: desperate, or deranged."
"So lemme see if I understand your question right." Imoen chimed in before Lysara had a chance to frame a reply. She knew she should have been angry, should have been demanding an apology, but still… nothing. "You're travelling this road, asking us, complete strangers to you, whether we're sane or not, for travelling this road?"
"Ah, point well taken." the old man said with a satisfied nod. "I shall think of you instead as determined, young lady. I think a small token of apology is in order for my rude behavior."
With that, he reached into a small pouch and withdrew a book which was bigger than its former container was. This he handed to Imoen, saying: "Here you are, young woman. I think you will find this… most instructional on the use of your subtle talents."
"Wow," Imoen said, opening the hard book and thumbing through the first few pages. "This is… incredible. So easy to understand…"
"I thought a woman of your obvious intelligence and skill would glean a great deal out of that particular tome. I wrote it myself, after all; and do not give copies out to just anyone. As such I must warn you – politely – against attempting to copy or sell it. You may take notes, but the book truly wouldn't like either of those other actions. As for you…" And he turned to Lysara. "What gift might I grant you, Madame?"
"I need no token of apology." Lysara said, holding up her good hand. "Just a name to go with the apology will do. After all, it is rather rude to start asking about one's mental state before you've introduced yourself."
"Ahh, another well-made point." he replied, standing up. "I have grossly overlooked my manners. I have not yet decided to become involved in the local events just yet, you see. People tend to ask - sometimes on the order of begging, and a very few on the order of demanding - my aid whenever they receive my name. But as you have so correctly corrected me, I have been rude. I am Elminster of Shadowdale." He bowed to each in turn as he said his name.
Imoen and Lysara let out simultaneous choking sounds, and the book that Imoen had been thumbing through tumbled out of her hands. Elminster, far quicker than any man his apparent age - or for that matter, a fraction of his actual age - had a right to be, grabbed it right out of the air and deftly wrapped it in a cloth before placing it directly into her bag.
"And," the old man continued, "I know you, Lysara Vantress and Imoen Catari. Gorion was very descriptive of Lysara in his letters, and frequently mentioned your inseparable closeness. It was most unwise of him, as I often told him. There's no telling how trustworthy couriers are. But, that is how fathers are after all, especially fathers who have such great pride in their daughter… and her choice of friends. In any event, if Gorion had finally decided to heed my advice then you - I note that he is not with you, and offer my condolences - are headed for the Friendly Arm Inn.
"Khalid and Jaheria are indeed there, though they have pressing business to the south and they will most likely not tarry there indefinitely. What you lack are their descriptions. Jaheria is a half-elven woman with strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes. She's a druid, and rather hard to miss. She's approximately half a head taller than you, and has a wit that can slice steel, usually wearing leathers or plain, frill-less clothes, wooden weapons only. Her husband Khalid is a full sun elf, about a head taller than her and never seen by anyone without his helmet and armor."
With that, he rocked on his feet, just once, seeming no longer frail at all, but full of pep and vigor. "Well, I must away. It was a pleasure to finally meet the two of you in person, and I am again most sorry for your loss." he said, dropping into a low bow. He drew some strange device that Lysara didn't recognize, but rather resembled some sort of locket out of one of his pockets. He opened it, and just looked at it for a moment before he smiled and waved, putting it away. "I'm afraid I am overdue for another appointment. But do not despair; I believe it quite likely that we will meet again."
With that, he turned around, and mimed turning a knob. Then, taking a step forward, he simply disappeared as if he'd stepped through a door. Neither of them had recovered sufficiently to speak before he was gone, and after he'd left they just sat there gaping at each other, completely dumbstruck.
"E-E-E-Elminster?" Imoen finally asked.
"Sounded like it..." Lysara affirmed. "Who would be crazy enough to impersonate him, if it's even possible?"
"Elminster says I have talent… and gave me a book of magic," Imoen mused rubbing the book's spine with her finger as it stuck out of her open bag. She was thoughtful, almost to the point of distraction as they stood up and moved on.
They were more cautious than before as they crossed the road heading north, and bearing east enough to be sure they would re-encounter the path. Elminster's warning of bandits choking the roads made them step lightly. They moved as quickly as they could, which was considerably faster than they had been, but still, they were a long way from their destination. They set down for the night a little after sunset, once again in sight of the north bound road, but far enough away that they would have warning if someone was approaching.
"So what happened with those goons?" Lysara asked when they were cloistered in their fireless camp. At least it was high summer, and as such it wasn't cold, and they were sheltered from the wind.
Snickering, Imoen stopped gazing longingly at the cloth-wrapped tome that she had thusfar refused to let out of her sight. She'd always been barred from magical training in Candlekeep on the general principle that she was likely to polymorph someone or something as a matter of a practical joke. Her exact reply to that reason was, "Thanks for the idea."
"After about an hour and a half of trying to find the spot were I'd 'found the elf' they decided I was actually looking for a nice private spot where I could practice my female-ness on them," she told in her most mischievous, conspiratorial tone. "The one that was pawing at me will be singing with a higher voice for a while, that's for sure. The two women in the group were still trying to knock some respect for us into the rest when I slipped off."
"One of these days you're going to run across some guy who won't take no for an answer," Lysara cautioned. Of the pair she'd always been the more serious… when she wasn't in trouble right alongside her.
Imoen just shrugged noncommittally, for once not looking the slightest bit mischievous. She even seemed… embarrassed, if it was possible to embarrass Imoen. She'd never seen Imoen embarrassed.
Lysara studied her friend for a moment. "You've already found that man, haven't you?" she asked quietly.
Imoen never blushed, either, but that's exactly what she did just then, avoiding Lysara's eyes. It was a discovery on her part. She thought she knew everything about Imoen. Certainly she'd never hidden anything from her. In her normal state of mind, Lysara would have felt a little hurt that Imoen hadn't shared news of such a monumental event in her life.
Imoen must have caught the sudden shift in mood because she looked back to Lysara, seeming very uncomfortable. "I didn't exactly…" she started wringing her hands together. Wringing! It was a telltale sign that she was nervous. "Look, Lys, you know I love you to pieces but… okay… okay… One evening, I'd gotten… well, it was about four years ago… I kinda lifted a bottle of booze - not even sure what kind - from Winthy. You were still stuck up in classes and I was done with chores and lessons. I was bored, y'know? There was a passing merchant guard found me all drunk and… well, I didn't say no, at least, I don't think I did. It's all kinda hazy. But… I didn't even enjoy it, Lys."
She hung her head at the last, looking so un-Imoen-like that Lysara almost didn't recognize her. Lysara slipped over next to her friend and wrapped her good arm around her. "It's okay. Some day you'll meet someone. We both will," she said, trying to be comforting.
"You… don't understand. Can… can we please just drop it? Please?" Imoen asked, looking sullen and slightly disappointed. Delicately pushing away from her, the human girl wrapped herself up in her cloak and lay down, deliberately not facing Lysara. "I'm just tired, is all. Let's just get some sleep."
Lysara wasn't that tired just yet. So she just sat there, watching her friend and listening to the forest. She could have sworn that Imoen was crying softly to herself. Had it really been that bad? Lysara wondered. Would it be so bad for Lysara when she finally found a man to share her bed with? Anything that could reduce Imoen to tears had to be absolutely horrid. Or was there something that Lysara was missing?
She was weary, but she didn't sleep that night. Long after Imoen's breathing had gone deeper and evened out, Lysara was awake, feeling stronger than she had in a while, and staring up at the stars through the boughs of the trees. A mild itching began directly on her wound that required a conscious effort to not scratch, and she had to stop herself twice when she caught herself at it. Off in the distance, a wolf howled at the moon. And then another. A pack was hunting somewhere off to the east. Crickets and owls, and a hundred other sounds that could only be heard in the deep of night far from a city sounded closer. But she didn't feel the same urge, the same joy that had crept over her the previous day. In fact, she was a little puzzled why she wasn't crying herself to sleep. Thoughts of Gorion kept intruding on plans that were half-forming in her mind, scattering them to dust on the wind. What was wrong with her? Since she left that clearing, except when Imoen had dragged out a laugh, or what that song had produced, she'd felt… numb.
It was while she was contemplating that quiet emptiness she felt within her, that dawn came. The itch that had bothered her all night had turned into a warm core that went clean through her shoulder, following the path that the bolt had taken through. She looked to the rising sun, visible through the trees on the far side of the road, but found none of the usual wonderment that had always come to her before. She said her prayer to her god, Lathander, mechanically, and went to rouse Imoen.
"Uhn…" the girl protested as her shoulder was shaken softly. "Five more minutes, pa…" Imoen thought it was her father Winthrop raising her for chores, and tried to roll over, but her weight settled on a rock or a protruding root or something, because she yelped and came awake almost instantly.
"Wha… what time is it?" Imoen asked thickly through a yawn.
"Just past dawn," Lysara told her flatly, her voice dull even to her own ears. "We should get moving."
Still bleary-eyed, Imoen eyed Lysara almost warily. "Hey, look… Are you alright? You seem-"
"I'm fine, thanks," Lysara interrupted. "We've a lot of ground to cover today, and we're not getting any closer just sitting here."
"What about food?" Imoen protested. "You've got to keep your strength up."
"We'll find food on the way; or, Lathander willing, we'll find a nice patch of edible berries. The dawn is here, and the Morninglord will provide. Come on, let's move."
Biting her lip, Imoen got up out of her makeshift bed. How was it that neither of them had had the sense to bring a bedroll, or Gorion, for that matter, who had claimed to have been a traveler in his youth? Muttering to herself, Lysara started hobbling towards the road.
"Hey!" Imoen hissed, trying not to shout as she caught her friend's arm. Lysara felt bile rising at the sensation; Imoen had grabbed the wrong arm. Withdrawing her hand, Imoen looked mortified. "Sorry! Look, take it-"
"We can't take it easy, Imoen," Lysara said, leaning on a tree and opening her blouse to show her shoulder to Imoen, peeling back the bandage. "We don't – or at least I don't - have the time. Khalid and Jaheria won't be at the inn for much longer and I won't survive for much longer. My shoulder is burning, Imoen. And it's red. This… this wound is infected. We've got to find help…"
"By the gods…" Imoen gasped. "Okay. Okay, I see your point. Let's move."
A short time of walking northward later, they heard the clatter of hooves coming up the road to the south. Lysara hadn't realized they'd made it to the edge of the road. The sound was some distance away, and unhurried, but both turned to look. What they saw was a rickety cart drawn by a shaggy mare. The cart was truly an unstable, old, beat up sham driven by a dwarf, accompanied by a man. As they caught sight of them, the dwarf leaned over to whisper something to the man, who glanced at them and nodded absentmindedly. Without waiting to talk to Lysara about it, Imoen stepped out into the cart's path.
"Good morning, ladies," the dwarf hailed them, reining the mare in. His voice sounded oddly smooth, unusual for one of the stout folk. The few Lysara had met had all had deeper, gravelly voices. And he was slightly too short for the average dwarf, not that Lysara had much to compare him to, with dwarves so rarely having visited Candlekeep. He had a mane of wild-looking black curls that went in so many different directions that it was hard to pin a length to it. But on closer inspection, he wasn't stocky enough to be a dwarf. He was just a heavily bearded Halfling. He wore simple leathers, in black, and had a bandolier stuffed with knives. "What brings you out to these parts a'foot?"
"I'd guess that they're in some sort of trouble," the human said in a stuttering voice that changed pitch with every second syllable. He had a wild, nervous look about him that made the halfling look positively civilized; the look in his eyes and constant twitching labeled him a madman. "Isn't that right, little women?"
"Road's a dangerous place for one woman travelling alone. Two might be safer in number, but you're still likely to be targeted by bandits, rogues, and near-do-wells," the short one put in before they could reply. "Excuse my friend here. Xzar took a blow to the head not a fortnight past… he still ain't quite right. Oh, and I'm Montaron."
"He's the sleaziest looking male I've ever seen," Imoen muttered low enough that Lysara could barely hear her. "And the other one is pure madness." "Might you be headed to the Friendly Arm Inn?" Imoen asked, raising her voice to the halfling. "We just barely escaped from a party of brigands that accosted us west of the crossroads. I… don't want to think about what they wanted with us. My friend was hurt, and I think her wound's infected."
"You sure this is a good idea?" Lysara asked, realizing that she was sweating cold sweat despite the morning heat. She didn't really see another choice, other than a painful trip to the grave, but she didn't like the looks of these two.
"Aye we're headed that way," Montaron replied. "My friend and I are… looking into some matters in this part of the sword coast. Our employers are rather put-off by the iron crisis 'round these parts, and all them non-union bandits are putting some serious kinks into some very powerful people's plans. We're heading up to the Arm to see what we can turn up there. My guess is you could use a ride at least that far?"
"I don't trust them Imoen," Lysara whispered cautiously. Something on one or both of their faces must have betrayed their thoughts. Or maybe the madman had sharper ears than he looked. "But-"
"Don't trust us?" Xzar yelled indignantly. "You hear that, Monty? The little strumpets think we're no good! Of all the… Let's just leave them here, Monty. No good comes from dealing with women. The little whores are never anything but trouble." The man lunged, trying to grab the reins out of the halfling's hands. Clearly the short one saw it coming, as he easily maneuvered them out of reach.
"Ease off, Xzar," Montaron said, planting a fist in the taller man's ribs. Oddly, Xzar just blinked and settled back down, seeming to have already forgotten his own outburst. "Now, lassies," the Halfling continued, returning his attention – most of it anyway – to Lysara and Imoen, "I can see as how you're cautious, and rightly so. I swear on me own mum that I'll let no harm come to you betwixt here and the Arms."
Lysara glanced at Imoen, who simply shrugged, leaving the decision to her. "How far is the inn?" she asked cautiously.
The short one looked up at the sky before answering. "Should be there by sunset riding, even if we just walk the horse. 'Course going a'foot in your state you'll be there sometime day after tomorrow, if ye make it that long."
Glancing at Imoen again, Lysara moved towards the cart. "Thank you. We will be happy to accept your offer."
But as she moved to climb into the seat, Xzar was set off again. "No, no, no!" the madman cried, pointing at the dusty cloth-covered bed of the cart. "No women in the front seat!"
Seriously debating with herself the wisdom of accepting help from these two, Lysara set her pack in the bed, and, forcing down a new wave of nausea, allowed Imoen to help her into the cart, where she laid herself down gratefully atop something hard.
"I'm fine," Lysara mouthed at Imoen in response to the other woman's worried look, not actually voicing a sound. Imoen poked her gently in the left shoulder, which caused a wave of nausea and fire to go off.
"No you're not," she replied quietly. "But you will be. Mask help me, you will be."
They both pretended to be watching the scenery flowing by them, but Lysara, at least, never took her attention fully away from the pair. Clearly, they were both much more dangerous than they pretended to be, but she couldn't make up her mind which of them was the worse of the pair.