21 Kythorn
The pickpocketing adventure would explain the following complicated chase scene about the bandit camp.
"Thieves! None cross Greywolf and live!"
Magical blade. Shearing an inch above our heads while we dived either side of a barrel. My somersault brought me to familiar, solid boots; we ducked behind Teven the bandit captain for a shield.
"Stand down, cap'n! Gonna show these brats what happens to thieves in Calimshan." It doesn't actually happen to thieves in Calimshan; the idea that they cut off people's hands is an archaic penalty long obsolete. I ducked again out of the lethal path of Greywolf's sword.
Teven passed a hand to his forehead. I guess there was a long trail of debris and ripped tents between here and the originating step of the pursuit. "Let me get it straight for my later amusement. You're complaining about being stolen from in a bandit camp, Mister Greywolf?"
"My emeralds! 'Twas them two sluts all right. Now lemme at their blood."
"Well, I guess I may as well watch the show 'till it's done," Teven said—and stepped, to our doom, aside.
"Yer not—going to help us?"
"Well, gee, Lu, you're complaining about being attacked in a bandit camp." Ah. Yes. We kept running.
Split and cloak! Imoen's hands said. Good idea—a barrel of old stew; I grasped a handful from it and flung it at Greywolf. He managed an inarticulate yell, but must have seen Imoen flicking her magic cloak. He went for her; she ran, and her cloak caught on a spar of wood. It came free from her shoulders at the last instant before Greywolf's sword would have hit her. He trampled it further into the mud.
"Can't—" A few pink sparks flashed in Imoen's hands; that second of delay gave Greywolf a chance to catch up. "Balls! Skie, it's not working!"
Nowhere to run for help—past tents, past bandits laughing at us. I tripped into a table and fell on some glass, a smell like rotting eggs sprouting around us. Edwin and various spell components: red robes waved angrily.
"Uh, Eddie?" Imoen said. "Ed! Really really great wizard! Y'know, I am so sorry about all those small lizards and spiders that mysteriously keep finding themselves in your bedroll. Can't imagine why it happens. So, little help here with the bandit with a big sword?"
"Wretched—meddling—children—my experiments—"
"!" We ducked behind him as Greywolf hurtled up. He kicked Edwin's overturned table, letting it hit us; Edwin scattered.
"Insults—chimps—dare they—"
Edwin's tent was behind us. One of Greywolf's mad swings mysteriously ripped through both it, spilling the spare red robes from his pack. I felt guilty about reading his journal.
"Insolent—monkey-brained—whelps—flaming death (flaming death, I say)—(I will show them all how it is done!)—"
Imoen and I tried to fight, avoidance for the most part; suddenly, Greywolf stopped. Edwin smirked.
"And this, children, is a display of true magical talent. The spell to ensnare another, to bind their will to none other than mine: the charm that your foolish cloak attempted to duplicate. (Surely such a magical item should have been entrusted into my safekeeping. Ah, well.) Do feel free to applaud." He paused dramatically; he walked steadily toward the lightly-swaying fighter.
"Y' did need to cast it twice, I heard you," Imoen muttered sotto voce.
"Now, now...what's this simian's name again, simian?" Imoen told him. "Ah, Greywolf. Mr Greywolf. I am your friend, am I not?"
Greywolf's eyes rolled in his head; he drooled slightly as he spoke. "None cross Greywolf and live. But you are my friend, you are. My true friend."
Edwin rubbed his hands together. "And you want to put down your magic sword, don't you, Greywolf?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And you want to stop attacking me...and those children, I suppose. The pink one and the weepy other one."
"Yes...They stole my emeralds," Greywolf said. I was shocked to see a tear run down his cheek. "They stole my emeralds I was going to sell. Oubleck was cheating me. I wanted to sell them."
"Yes, yes (I do not care about the simian's petty acquaintanceships). Very well, they did not steal them," Edwin said.
"They did not steal them?"
"Yes, that's right, serf. In fact, you gave your emeralds to the other girl. You gave them to her because for some inexplicable reason you find her attractive—because your second most recent carnal partner was obviously a gangrenous gibberling great-grandmother." Edwin smirked.
"Yes...gave me the Calimshan itch, it did..." Greywolf scratched; Edwin shuddered.
"(I did not want to think about anything of that sort.) You freely gave them to this girl and you will remember doing that."
"I will remember doing that."
"There will be no need to pursue or annoy her, me, or the pink one. (Me and my possessions, in particular. Very especially me.)" Edwin pointed to himself emphatically.
"Yes, friend..." Greywolf repeated, nodding.
"After all, she returned your generous gift with munificent erotic attractions (not in the least comparative to Thayvian concubines, but I imagine you will never meet a Thayvian concubine nor would a concubine ever regard you at even the level of the very lowest scrapings of slime from a weak apprentice's discarded experiments)."
I did not. "Edwin!"
Greywolf was drooling. "Yeah...she was a fun lay...flexible...worth paying the emeralds..."
"And that is all, my friend. Good day before the spell runs out. Worry not, lackeys. You can demonstrate your abject gratitude to me later." Edwin snapped his fingers; elaborately smoothed down his wizard's robes.
"Thanks a lot," I said stiffly.
The next principal recollection from Imoen and I would be a burning pain in our foreheads. Shar-Teel, lifting us both by the collar and slamming our heads together, our legs dangling at least a foot above the ground; worse behind her, the Tenhammer, and even Viconia, cloaked as always in the sun.
"This is the—"
"Ow!"
"Kind of stupidity—"
"No!"
"I expect from—"
"Please!"
"Males, but you—"
"Aaah!"
"In the Underdark, s'lat'halin, insubordinate young baut'waelen would be beaten with tentacle rods for three days, lashed to posts in the atrium of their Academy," Viconia commented, sidling next to Shar-Teel. A series of flashing stars danced before our eyes.
"We've found ourselves volunteers to feed the gnolls. Or to be food for the gnolls!" Tenhammer yelled.
Cleaned up the camp. Fed the gnolls. Found out exactly what carrion they eat, the degree to which they prefer it uncooked, the enormous iron cauldrons to drag around and clean, and how to dodge. Back hurts.
"Y'know, kiddo, you've really got to stop coming up with all these buffleheaded pickpocketing ideas and getting us into trouble. Specifically, armpit-deep-in-gnoll-food trouble."
"Whatever you say, Imoen."
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s'lat'halin - fighter