Awful sorry about the long delay, but y'know how things are. Job searching, impending return to (shudder) school, and this whole dream scene has been giving me grief. As always, thanks for reading, and I promise I'll bring the dwarves into it soon. (within five chapters).
-J. Idanian
The sellsword dreamt. He fought in the outskirts of Cormanthor, amid the bare branches and swirling snows of deep winter. He no longer quite knew who had attacked, but he knew that he and the rest of the Scardale Militia were in trouble. His sword arm trembled with the strain and, leaning against a tree, he struggled to hold onto conciousness. A dark form rose up before him, wielding a sword. He lunged forward, swinging wildly, only to have his weapon easily knocked back, his strength no longer sufficient to penetrate his foe's guard. His vision flickered.
"Time to die, Dalesman. Consider yourself lucky to be dispatched by an officer of Hillsfar." The man's sword struck, blurring towards him faster than he could mount a defense. Zak drew one of his bracer daggers and just barely managed to intercept the strike, parrying it above him so the point thunked into the tree. Cursing, the officer yanked the sword out, and prepared to try again. The half-elf fumbled about him for his recurved shortbow, and finding it laying beside him, nocked an arrow, and tried to draw the bow, but simply could not force enough effort into his battered frame. The Hillsfarian laughed at his prey's attempt to avoid death.
"Is that really your best? You can't even draw your own bow? You should thank me for this." He struck again, and Zak blocked with the bow, feeling the blade bite into the wood, ruining the expensive weapon, but it kept him alive, and he pushed off from the tree, snatching at the officer's light crossbow he wore, and ripping it free from the holster. Clicking it into readiness, he noticed a bolt already loaded, and saw the Hillsfarian's expression turn to fear. Crack! A soft thump sounded as the body hit the snows, the feathered bolt wavering from its chest. Thanking Tymora for his luck, the half-elf vowed never to be helpless again. Another form trudged up, and he tried to load the crossbow again, but it turned out to be Alyx, the grey-haired weapons instructor. He examined the scene and shook his head.
"Crimsonleaf, you're gods-cursed lucky, you know that. Haven't I always told you you're a terrible shot with that shortbow?" But the darkness closed in once more and the rest of Alyx's words faded away…
He awoke, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. Looking wildly about, he saw the wooden walls of the Flint and Tinder inn, in Memnon. Dropping back to the cot, he muttered a terrible curse against all who would oppose him, swiping a hand across his forehead. With a sigh of resignation, he got up, for the one of the gifts…or perhaps one of the curses from his elven heritage was that he only needed to sleep four hours a day, and consequently, spent much of the night drinking in an attempt to extend the time. Reaching around for his sword, he encountered only splintery floorboards where his weapon should be, and his rage passed beyond description. The list of suspects whirled through his head, and it was short. Devlar was the only one who could have succeeded in the theft, of that he was certain, but the rogue would never do such a thing unless he, and by extent, Arakanzar, stood to profit, which left only Tyra. He kicked at Jemic's cot beside him, and the ranger stirred, muttering,
"Just five more minutes, Zak, it can't be dawn yet." The sellsword's quiet reply carried a great deal of force.
"My sword has been stolen. Get up and get ready. I'll check the north and south gates, you get the east gate." Jemic started, sitting up and trying to straighten her sleep-tousled hair a little. Leaping into action, he dressed swiftly, thanking the gods that he wore chainmail and not heavy armor, which took much less time to don. He drew his spare weapon from his bag of holding, a leaf-bladed longsword with an intricately carved handle, and strode away into the night, leaving his erstwhile companion, hurrying to catch up. Zak had first met her in Neverwinter, and she had stayed with him since, for what reason, he had no clue. Yet there was something that defied sending her away, and if he had to listen to a lecture on his pride and temper now and then, he would bear it out.
In the streets of Memnon, Tyra walked, the stolen blade heavy on her back, and Devlar's false words of gratitude echoing in her ears. The thief had admitted to tracking her as she followed Zak, and, not surprisingly, he had anticipated her desire to have the weapon for herself. Surprising was the fact that he had managed to pull it off, despite the fact that Zak was, as he had demonstrated over the course of their journey through the desert, an extremely light sleeper. She planned to leave immediately, before Zak awoke, and travel east, making for the Vilhon reach, from where it would be a simple matter to hire passage back to Zhent-controlled lands. As she contemplated what she would tell her superiors, she heard a heavy tread behind her, and turned about, readying her mightiest magic. A black-armored man stood before her, his gaze imposing and his speech aristocratic.
"My lady, my name is Armand Lennox. I seek a wizard who I know to be in this city. His name is Arakanzar Z'tran. You have perhaps heard of him?" Tyra smirked, showing teeth. While she held the half-drow no real ill will, neither did she think it worth it to hide him from anyone.
"Indeed I have, milord. I haven't the faintest idea where he lodges here, but I'm sure you can find him. Try any of the out-of-the-way inns, I'm sure he hasn't had time to obtain permanent quarters." Armand smiled slightly.
"And you're quite sure that you don't know where he is? If you seek to protect him, let me assure you I can make it worth your while." Tyra laughed quietly, a mischievous glint in her eye.
"If I knew where he was, believe you me, I'd be more than happy to take your coin and give you a guided tour. Sadly, I don't. However, you might start with the inn that's furthest away from the Flint and Tinder. An acquaintance of mine is has rooms there, and Arakanzar would probably seek to stay well away from him." The big man bowed formally, and snapped his fingers at someone behind her. Tyra whirled about to see the hulking figure of Dram step forward out of the shadows and take up his place at Armand's side. Despite herself, she was a little rattled by the sudden entrance of the orc, having expected any hirelings the man had to be a little more noticeable. Without a word, the two of them strode off into the gloom. She moved off in a different direction, seeking the gate east, and freedom from Memnon, and Zak Crimsonleaf.
Jemic sped swiftly through the nearly empty streets, making next to no noise. The only thing to mark her passage was the slight whistling of the air about her. Fully awake from a solid sleep, and thinking somewhat the less of Zak for it, despite how much he valued his weapon, she headed for the east gate at her best clip, her saber loose in it's scabbard and her small repetoire of spells at her fingertips. The ranger's breathing came deep and easily, with no sign of exertion. As she approached the gate, she noticed a sword-carrying figure come into view in front of her, and began slowing down, eventually coming to a walking pace only a few feet behind the suspect.
"Beg your pardon, miss," Jemic inquired blandly. The woman glanced over her shoulder and asked, "What is it?" in a tired drawl.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about a stolen sword?" the ranger needled her, fully aware that the blade the other was carrying was indeed Echoing Courage, but wanted to give her the opportunity to confess voluntarily.
"So Crimsonleaf's already up and about, is he?" Tyra sneered. "I'd thought he'd come himself and not send hirelings along to do his work for him. Tell me, would you like an arm or a leg to be torn off?" She raised the dire mace menacingly. Jemic's hand flew to her saber hilt, and the slim, curved blade fairly leaped from the sheath, dancing about in a defensive pattern.
"I've no quarrel with you, miss, and I'm no hireling. I just help him out sometimes. I'll warn you against fighting, I've seen Zak track a man a hundred miles to assuage his pride. Just give me the sword, and we can part company. I'll tell him I found no trace of you."
"Still your meddling tongue. If you retain any shred of wisdom, you'll leave before I lose my patience." Tyra warned, readying a spell. Jemic raised her off hand and intoned a rapid-fire sequence of words, and without warning, vines sprouted from the ground to wrap about the defiant cleric, immobilizing her. Jemic leaped forward, prepared to dodge a desperate swing of the dire mace, but instead ran head-on into the attack of a shimmering red-black duplicate of Tyra's weapon that seemed to weigh nothing at all. Tyra herself stood just behind the duplicate, using her own to attack the vines and beat a way out of the little entangling patch Jemic had made. The ranger fell back before the attacks of the spiritual weapon, having no opponent to hit behind it.
Getting clear of the vines, Tyra considered dismissing her summoned proxy, but decided it was more amusing to watch Jemic being chased around the street by a floating weapon. Unfortunately, it faded out soon after she escaped, and, one hand on her holy symbol of Cyric, the cleric called for the strength to crush her enemies. The dark god answered, and a barely discernible red nimbus enveloped her. Striding forward, handling her weighty dire mace lightly as though it weighed nothing, she fell upon the distraught ranger and quickly forced her back, for Jemic's saber was much too light a weapon to stay her wrath. Realizing she was outmatched, Zak's would-be assistant opted to retreat.
Whispering the words of another spell, and snaring a pinch of dirt from the cobbles beneath her during a particularly low evasion, she turned and ran, moving at a great clip, one that Tyra, even wearing lighter than mormal armor for a cleric, could not match. Breathing hard, the priestess leaned on her weapon and spat after her escaping foe.
"Fine! Go back and whine to your master like the dog you are! See if I care." She turned around, and, cursing her foul luck, headed for the east gate at a goodly pace, wishing nothing more than to be free and clear of all sellswords.
At Zhentil Keep, Derrick Syeham watched the outcome of the fight in a scrying bowl and chuckled aloud.
"I always knew you were a survivor, Ty. But for all of us, there comes a time…" He leaned back and savored his plans. He would of course, inform his masters that she lived, as he had been ordered to find out. But if he had his way, she'd not be living much longer.