"What are the odds he's more useful than the last bloke?" mused Malark, eyeing off a raving man in green robes just along the path ahead of them. Imoen just rolled her eyes.
After burying Gorion, the pair had strolled back toward the path and ran into a travelling merchant named Kolssed. After a brief conversation, all they were able to get out of him was that travelling with like minded individuals was easier than constant group conflict, that the Friendly Arm was to the north, and the other pair of people travelling didn't look like a good sort. This, naturally, was of no value to people who understood that birds of a feather flock together, the location of the Friendly Arm Inn, and only devoutly worshipped the untrusting religion of cynicism.
So, despite the caution, Malark had made the decision to approach them, on the off chance they might be capable of more than mere pleasantries.
"Bit odd to see a pair as young as you on your own in the wilderness. He's got somethin' to say to ye," grumbled the halfling, as he gestured toward the green-robed man who was constantly muttering to himself.
If nothing else, at least this should make for a funny story over a beer. A sly grin popped into the corner of Malark's mouth as he approached the presumed madman.
"What fools have we here, travelling these roads alone?" raved the man in green. "Mayhaps you could use some help in the form of a simple healing potion?"
"I don't like this, Malark," Imoen whispered. "Something screams that they're up to something. I don't trust his eyes."
"I mean, I'll take the potion - no strings attached?" Malark enquired.
"Only the strings of your conscience," ranted the man, throwing him a potion of healing. It was, in fact, an actual potion of healing that did everything one would expect in a proper, store purchased healing potion. This was rather surprising to Malark, but he decided to let the robed man finish his ramblings, waving his hands to move him along. "You see, there's some horrible rumours about terrible goings on in the mine in Nashkel and we're just torn up about it, aren't we Monty?"
'Monty' just sighed in some combination of disappointment and unbridled fury.
"See how upset it's got him?" continued the man in the robes. "Now, to find out who's causing all of this, we're going to investigate, and given that fancy suit of armour and your companion's bow, I'm sure you two would be of great help to us. How does that sound?"
"Would you like total honesty?" Malark inquired, which was met by a nod from the robed man. "It sounds absolutely horrendous." Both the man and the halfling stood agape. Malark continued. "I'm going in the complete opposite direction because I'm a massive coward and hiding out as a low-key poet in Baldur's Gate sounds like a much better idea than taking on whatever can cripple an entire town's economy. Thanks for the potion, but there is no way I'm even considering that."
They walked off swiftly, leaving the robed man ranting and raving and the halfling cursing at him to "shut up or I'll stab you so many times you'll be nothing but stabs." Or at least that's the best of what the two kids from Candlekeep heard.
"You doing okay, Malark?" Imoen asked.
Malark nodded. "I'm fine, Imoen. What's bugging you?"
"It's just… you're normally more… what's that word?" Imoen stopped to think for a second. "Insulting. That's the one."
"Just a lot on my mind right now, Imoen. Don't quite have the creative power to access my usual wit."
"Yeah, well, we'll get him back you know? I'm here with you to the very end and I'm going to make sure that he-"
"Imoen." Malark cut her off firmly. "Revenge is the furthest thing from my mind right now. What's happened is tragic, but I plan on just running from this one. I'm a poet, for the love of Sune. You're a quick-handed kid, but you're not a hardened sneak like 'Monty'. We're outmatched. None of us are particularly good in a fight - we grew up with books in our hands, not swords. I'm smart, you actually went to lessons. We can't win this fight with the two of us, and I'm not one for being killed. Sounds painful."
"We can get friends, then. Some actual warriors have to like us, right? What about this Khalid and Jaheira?"
"They can get us to the city and then we leave it. Honestly, even staying in Baldur's Gate sounds like a bad idea, and the only reason I'm doing that is because it'll be easier to get from there to Neverwinter or Waterdeep or even Athkatla. I'm sad and I'm angry, but right now, that won't keep me alive. My smarts will, and unfortunately, I'll need a little luck."
Imoen smiled, in spite of herself. "I think Tymora might be on your side, Malark."
"After the day we've had?"
"There's an actual diamond in this tree."
Malark walked over, and after taking a single look, announced. "You have got to be shitting me."
They travelled eastward as the morning sun began to sit high on the horizon. Aside from a lone gibberling, which Imoen took care of with a single arrow, the walk was rather soothing. Maybe this adventuring thing isn't too dangerous, and maybe I can take it a little easier. Keeping the fear out of his eyes, for Imoen's sake, was his only priority. He could recall many of the memories of the ten years he had known her, and he knew that she took things harder than he did. To him, she was as good as a little sister, and the only remaining half of his family. He knew he could keep the walls of his sanity together on logic alone, and that would be enough for him. It was okay to cry for other people, but never himself. With that in mind, he continued on the sparsely forested path till his gloomy monologue was interrupted by an actual voice.
"Ho there, wanderer. Stay thy course and take a moment to indulge an old man. It's been nigh unto a tenday since I've seen a soul walking this road, and I've been without decent conversation since. Travelling nowadays appears to be the domain of either the desperate or the deranged. If thou wouldst pardon my intrusion, may I inquire which pertains to thee?"
Imoen burst into an excited tangent and attempted to see how many pronouns required to start with "th". Despite her mangling of the common tongue, the old man revealed to know of her, then directed his questioning more firmly at Malark.
"If you wanted deranged, we sent it to Nashkel without our accompaniment. Alternately, you could also go around to random strangers and ask 'Pardon me, but are you of sound mind? Perhaps unlike the last five who said no, you won't attempted to disembowel me, but clobber me over the head with a hammer instead!' Then look in a mirror, and you'll have found someone deranged."
"Gods, thou art just like Gorion described thee," mumbled the old man.
"You even talk to yourself just like that fellow in green," Malark noted.
"Be nice, Malark!" Imoen
"What do you want from me, woman? First you complain about me not giving people shit, now you're complaining about it. It's not like I can only insult the people you don't like! It's a constant state of snide remarks or nothing, and it's entirely dependent on… oh look he's leaving."
Imoen shook her head.
The next hour or so was marked with a couple of minor developments; a magic ring was found in a rock which was put to one side until they knew what it did, a ranger got mad at Imoen for having Imoen volume, and the party was attacked by a wolf. So when them wandering a little off the path lead them to what they found, a little bit of panicking was in order.
"Is that what I think it is?" Imoen was too frightened to whisper properly.
Malark just nodded.
"It's seen us and it's about to try and kill us, isn't it?"
Malark continued to nod.
"OH GODS WHAT DO WE DO?" Imoen screamed in panic.
"Relax, Imoen, I have a plan. Just shoot at it -"
"ME SMASH YOUR FACE! ME SMASH YOUR FACE TO GOO!"
"And I'll do what bards do best." Malark, with a wild grin on his face ran headlong at the ogre.
Singing.
Oh don't you know this battle's already won
I've got this monster deep under my thumb
A merry old jaunt is always all sorts of fun
Because stupid ogres are big, slow, and dumb
Sang Malark, as he skipped around in a circle in front of the Ogre. Completely enraged, it bellow and chased after him. Malark, having the edge of a cooler head, managed to avoid the ogre for long enough that Imoen's string of arrows was enough to bring it to the ground. Imoen shook her head in disbelief.
"I can't believe that actually worked!" She cheered, as soon as Malark began to collect belts off the ogre. "Are you hanging onto those?"
"Mmm, these are magic, and until I can work out what they do, we'd lose money on selling them. I mean, I could pay to get them identified, but I'm sure I'll work it out if I study them long enough."
"Maaayybe you should have gone to class, Malark."
"Well, 'maaayybe' we'd have died to an ogre because whichever floozy I was chasing didn't ask me for a second verse when I hadn't written one and had to get very good at making them up on the spot."
"Weren't they normally just about how impotent their bodyguards were?"
Malark flashed a grin. "Where do you think I learned to run away from?"