A Slinger of Spells

Durin donned in the formidable black steel plate armor of the Flaming Fist, strode purposefully alongside Raye through the bustling streets of Baldur's Gate. His grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger, a silent reminder of his readiness for any potential threats that might arise. Raye, clad in a sleek black leather uniform, strummed his lute with a casual air, his melodies blending harmoniously with the city's vibrant ambiance.

As soldiers of the renowned mercenary company, Durin and Raye had taken up the mantle of maintaining order in the city. Although their motivations may have differed, driven by the compensation they received, their disciplined strides and alert gazes conveyed a commanding presence. The streets thrived with the constant flow of people, from merchants conducting business to townsfolk going about their daily lives, creating a symphony of activity that served as both a backdrop and a potential source of unrest.

Durin's watchful eyes scanned the surroundings, attuned to the faintest signs of trouble or discord. Amidst the cacophony, he spotted a group of rowdy individuals near a tavern, their boisterous behavior threatening to disrupt the peace. He exchanged a nod with Raye, their unspoken understanding fueling their approach.

With authoritative strides, Durin and Raye advanced toward the unruly group, their armor gleaming under the sunlight. Raye's commanding voice pierced through the commotion, demanding attention and respect. The rowdy individuals turned to face the Flaming Fist soldiers, their initial defiance tempered by the recognition of the company's insignia adorning Durin and Raye's armor.

Durin stepped forward, his presence exuding an air of stern authority. He spoke firmly, reinforcing Raye's words. "This disturbance ends now. Cease your unruly behavior or face the consequences."

The rowdy individuals, momentarily caught off guard, hesitated in the face of the Flaming Fist's reputation. The weight of the company's name, known for swift and decisive action, hung heavily in the air. Realizing the futility of further resistance, they begrudgingly acquiesced, dispersing and retreating to their respective homes.

As the streets settled back into a semblance of order, Durin's watchful gaze scanned the surroundings once more, his vigilance unwavering. The presence of the Flaming Fist, embodied by Durin and Raye, instilled a sense of security among the citizens of Baldur's Gate. Merchants resumed their trade, townsfolk carried on with their daily routines, and adventurers moved about with renewed confidence.

Durin took pride in the role he played, ensuring a safe and thriving environment for law-abiding citizens to flourish. His commitment to his duty as a member of the Flaming Fist allowed the city to prosper, free from the specter of fear and uncertainty.

As they continued their patrol, Durin couldn't help but notice Raye's growing curiosity about his past. A faint smile tugged at Durin's lips as he glanced at his companion. "Durin, my friend, we've shared many adventures, yet I know so little about your history. Would you mind sharing a glimpse?" Raye's genuine interest was evident, and Durin felt a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze.

Durin's emotions stirred, memories both painful and private resurfacing in his mind. He weighed his response before speaking. "Raye, there are aspects of my past that I'd rather remain buried, where they can no longer haunt me." Durin's tone carried a mix of reluctance and resolve, a clear boundary he wished to maintain.

Raye's expression softened, his lute still slung over his back. He understood the weight of untold stories, the scars that lay beneath the surface. His hand reached out, offering support and understanding. "Durin, I appreciate your honesty. Just know that as your friend and comrade, I'm here to lend an ear whenever you feel ready to share. I'll be here to listen and support you."

Durin nodded appreciatively, his gratitude reflected in his gaze. The unspoken understanding between them deepened their bond, and they continued their patrol in comfortable silence. Their steps fell in perfect synchrony as they traversed the bustling streets of Baldur's Gate, their presence a testament to their shared purpose.

As they rounded a corner, chaos abruptly seized their attention. Two spellcasters engaged in a fierce battle, their magical energies colliding in a mesmerizing display. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, their curiosity piqued by the spectacle.

Durin and Raye exchanged a knowing glance, their instincts sharpened by their experiences in the Flaming Fist. Durin assumed a defensive stance, his grip tightening around the hilt of his greatsword. Raye stepped forward, his lute held with purpose, prepared to use his bardic magic to defuse the escalating situation.

With a voice infused with authority and a soothing melody, Raye called out, "Cease this conflict!" The battling spellcasters faltered, momentarily captivated by Raye's commanding presence.

Drawing his greatsword, Durin's tone carried determination. "The city cannot withstand the collateral damage caused by your battle. Lower your hands and surrender!"

Taking in the scene, Durin and Raye observed the distinct auras surrounding the spellcasters. A young Half-Elf, possessing an air of mystery and confidence, commanded attention amidst the swirling energies. His ethereal presence, complemented by a flowing dark cloak and elegant black attire, hinted at a hidden depth. Piercing grey eyes surveyed the surroundings, revealing a mix of curiosity and determination.

Facing him stood an old Human Wizard, his blue and grey robes billowing with each movement. A pointy hat crowned his head, and a long grey beard framed his wise and weathered face. The lines etched on his features bore witness to a life devoted to study and practice. His calm resolve shone through his eyes, a testament to his experience.

Durin and Raye approached the spellcasters cautiously, their role as guardians of the city guiding their actions. Durin's grip on his greatsword tightened, while Raye subtly adjusted his lute on his back, poised to employ his bardic talents.

"Good people, we implore you to end this battle," Raye declared, projecting authority and reason. "The streets of Baldur's Gate should not bear witness to such destructive displays of power."

The young Half-Elf regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and caution, his piercing grey eyes gleaming with intensity. "Your words hold merit. However, this conflict cannot be resolved solely through the good intentions of hired guards."

The old wizard interjected, his voice tinged with frustration. "This man is a vile criminal who has stolen a valuable artifact from the vault of Blackstaff Academy."

"In truth, I still have unfinished business with this old man," the Half-Elf added, his voice brimming with determination.

Durin carefully assessed the situation, weighing the potential risks and consequences. A steely resolve settled within him as he exchanged a determined glance with Raye.

Durin's mischievous grin spread across his face. "Failure to comply will only lead to one outcome: a fight," he declared, his voice laced with confidence.

Raye chuckled lightly, stepping forward. "But our duty is to prevent such fights."

A single word escaped the Half-Elf's lips, and in an instant, a black leather book materialized in his left hand, adorned with a red six-fingered hand on the cover. The old wizard responded with waving arms and ancient incantations, causing the air to thicken with arcane pressure. A crackling beam of lightning surged forth from the wizard's hands, aimed directly at the Half-Elf.

"Lightning Bolt!" the old man roared, and a brilliant blue flash illuminated the scene as the lightning struck the Half-Elf with a resounding thunderclap.

Reacting swiftly, Durin lunged forward, swinging his greatsword horizontally at the wizard. Yet, the old man was prepared. A protective barrier emanated from behind him, deflecting Durin's strike with a dull blue glow. The formidable defense repelled the full force of the warrior's blow, halting the greatsword's momentum.

Durin regained his footing, his eyes locked with the old wizard's. Admiration flickered in the warrior's gaze, acknowledging the skill and power of his opponent. Undeterred by the deflection, Durin adjusted his stance, preparing himself for the next exchange.

Meanwhile, the Half-Elf, though struck by the thunderous impact of the lightning bolt, maintained his composure. His determination blazed in his grey eyes as his cloak sizzled and sparked. With swift precision, he opened the black leather book in his left hand, flipping through its pages purposefully.

Aware of the need for a strategic adjustment, the old wizard shifted his gaze between Durin and the Half-Elf. His gestures grew more intricate, and his incantations resonated with ancient power. The crackling anticipation in the air intensified as he readied himself to unleash another spell.

Sensing the escalating tension, Raye, attuned to the battle's ebb and flow, took a step forward, his lute held firmly in his hands. His fingers danced across the strings, conjuring a melodic harmony that intertwined with the charged atmosphere. The soothing notes seemed to temper the chaos, providing a momentary respite amidst the impending clash.

Durin's muscles tightened, his grip on the greatsword unyielding. Locking eyes with the old wizard, a silent understanding passed between them. The outcome of this fierce encounter hinged on the next exchange. With hearts pounding and unwavering resolve, Durin, Raye, and the Half-Elf steeled themselves for the crucial moments that awaited them in the streets of Baldur's Gate.

What's the Half-Elf's next move? Durin thought as his gaze flickered between the spellcasters.

Durin observed as the Half-Elf clutched his book tightly in his left hand, swiftly appearing beside the Wizard in a blur of motion. Misty Step, Durin recognized the teleportation spell. Before the old wizard could react, the Half-Elf's right hand crackled with a foreboding purple aura, charged with necrotic energy. Acting with precision, he grasped the old wizard's right elbow, channeling the necrotic power into his arm.

A piercing howl of pain escaped the lips of the old wizard as he recoiled, his arm separating at the elbow. Decay spread rapidly from the point of contact, crawling up his bicep in a grotesque display. Staggering, the once-formidable wizard clutched his deteriorating arm in agonizing torment.

Durin's eyes widened in astonishment, realizing the Half-Elf's swift and devastating maneuver. The warrior now understood that this enigmatic Half-Elf possessed powers far more formidable than he had initially assumed. The battle's balance had shifted dramatically, leaving the old wizard's future uncertain.

Seizing the opportunity presented by the weakened state of the old wizard, Raye, his bardic talents honed by experience, stepped forward with his lute at the ready. He began weaving a melodic harmony, the enchanting sound resonating through the air. Radiant music notes fluttered onto the wizard's withered arm, initiating a healing process.

With the old wizard momentarily distracted, Durin seized the advantage and pressed forward. He advanced toward the Half-Elf, swinging his greatsword horizontally. Wide-eyed, the Half-Elf swiftly ducked beneath the swing, then popped up as he jumped away from Durin, evading the warrior's attack.

This kid is good. He perfectly evaded my attack and he's never taken his eyes off of Raye.

The air filled with the clamor of shouts and the clinking of metal as reinforcements from the Flaming Fist arrived on the scene. Durin, Raye, and the fallen old wizard found themselves quickly encircled by the soldiers, who took up defensive positions with weapons at the ready. The arrival of their comrades instilled a renewed sense of order and authority in the tumultuous streets of Baldur's Gate.

Durin noticed the Half-Elf's grin widening, his gaze shifting towards him as the number of Flaming Fist soldiers grew. The Half-Elf's expression exuded confidence and mystery as he spoke, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "It appears that my time here is coming to an end, at least for now. However, rest assured, my task remains unfinished and available for completion."

As the Half-Elf waved his right hand, intricate symbols materialized in the air around him, forming a captivating display. The symbols twirled and intertwined, creating a formation reminiscent of a portal.

Without hesitation, the Half-Elf leaped into the portal-like formation, and in an instant, the symbols converged and sealed shut behind him, accompanied by a burst of light. The soldiers of the Flaming Fist exchanged bewildered glances, their attention now focused on the unconscious wizard sprawled on the ground.

Raye's urgent voice cut through the air, brimming with determination. "That was a Dimension Door spell. The Half-Elf hasn't traveled far. We must find him before he can cause further trouble."

Durin's features hardened with resolve as he took charge of the situation. He commanded the soldiers surrounding him, "Spread out and search the surrounding area."

The soldiers of the Flaming Fist swiftly dispersed, moving in different directions, their footsteps echoing through the streets as they diligently scoured the area for any sign of the elusive Half-Elf.


After hours of searching for the Half-Elf, the trail went cold, and the duo returned to the Flaming Fist's main outpost.

The bustling corridors of the Flaming Fist's command post echoed with purposeful steps as Durin and Raye made their way through. Each stride spoke of their dedication and unwavering commitment to their duties. As they approached the central chamber, the hum of voices and the clatter of armor grew louder, indicating the presence of officers and soldiers engaged in various activities.

Inside the chamber, their eyes fell upon Captain Grothak, a towering figure with a stern countenance. His broad shoulders commanded respect, and his piercing gaze surveyed the room, taking in the reports and ongoing operations. Durin and Raye exchanged a brief nod, fully aware of the weight of responsibility resting upon their shoulders as they approached the Half-Orc Captain.

"Captain Grothak," Durin saluted, his voice steady and confident. "We have returned from our patrol and have pertinent information to report regarding the skirmish that occurred earlier today."

Captain Grothak turned his attention to them, his keen eyes assessing the two soldiers before him. He nodded, acknowledging their presence. "At ease, soldiers. Proceed with your report."

Raye stepped forward, cradling his lute in his hands, no longer strapped to his back. "Captain, we responded to a disturbance in the streets of Baldur's Gate. Two spellcasters were engaged in combat, a Half-Elf and an elderly wizard. We intervened to restore order and prevent harm to the citizens."

Durin took over, his voice resonating with authority. "During the confrontation, the Half-Elf displayed teleportation abilities, utilizing Misty Step to evade immediate capture. He then proceeded to incapacitate the old wizard with a necrotic spell before escaping through a Dimension Door."

"I believe the necrotic spell to have been Inflict Wounds," Raye added, offering his insight.

Captain Grothak listened attentively, his expression a mixture of interest and concern. "I see. It seems we have encountered a skilled and elusive adversary. We will need to remain vigilant."

Durin and Raye exchanged a glance, understanding the significance of their encounter. They had faced formidable opponents in the past, but there was something about this Half-Elf that stirred a sense of both curiosity and unease within them.

The Half-Orc captain's gaze shifted towards a nearby desk where a stack of coin pouches lay. He reached for them and handed one to each soldier. "For your service today, and to cover the expenses of your duties, here is your week's pay."

Durin and Raye accepted the coin pouches with gratitude, their fingers closing around the weight of the gold within. It was a modest reward for their unwavering dedication, yet it served as a reminder of the value placed upon their role as defenders of the realm.

"Thank you, Captain," Durin expressed his sincere gratitude. "I believe my time in Baldur's Gate is coming to an end."

Captain Grothak raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed upon Durin. "Is that so, soldier? You have been a valuable member of the Flaming Fist. What prompts this decision?"

Durin tightened his grip on the coin pouch, his voice steady. "As I mentioned when we first met, I don't find solace in the hustle and bustle of city life. While I may not hold wealth in high regard, I need it to survive. I bear no ill will towards Baldur's Gate, nor do I hold loyalty to it."

Captain Grothak studied Durin's determined expression, sensing the depth of his conviction. Leaning back in his chair, a thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Durin, I understand your perspective. Not everyone is meant for the clamor of a city. Some souls are drawn to a different path, seeking solace in the quiet solitude of the wilderness or the thrill of uncharted territories."

Durin nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Indeed, Captain. I feel the pull of the wild, the need to breathe in the untamed air and explore the untouched corners of the realm. I wish to test my skills and face challenges that go beyond the confines of city walls."

The Half-Orc captain leaned forward, his voice low and steady. "Durin, I respect your decision. The Flaming Fist values diversity and recognizes that different paths lead to different destinies. Although it saddens me to see you go, I understand that your heart lies elsewhere."

Raye chimed in, his voice filled with understanding. "Captain, Durin and I have discussed this at length. We believe that our combined skills and experiences can be better utilized in the vast wilderness, where both dangers and opportunities abound. We aim to make a name for ourselves beyond the city gates."

Durin raised an eyebrow at Raye's statement. "We have discussed no such thing. Perhaps you should consider staying here?"

Raye laughed and shook his head. "No way."

Captain Grothak's stern expression softened into a faint smile. "Very well, Durin and Raye. You have served the Flaming Fist with honor and dedication during your time here. I appreciate your honesty and wish you success in your future endeavors. Take your week's pay as a token of gratitude for your service."

Durin and Raye exchanged appreciative nods, their eyes reflecting a mixture of anticipation and bittersweet farewell. They bid their farewell to Captain Grothak and departed from the command post, their minds already brimming with plans for the journey that lay ahead.

But first, a night of deep rest was in order.

As the sun cast an orange glow over the streets of Baldur's Gate, signaling the approach of evening, Raye and Durin retraced their steps towards the Flaming Fist barracks. Their strides carried the weight of weariness, yet their determination remained unwavering—a testament to the events of the day and the significance of their decision to embark on a new path.

The barracks stood tall and imposing, its walls reverberating with the sounds of soldiers' voices and the clinking of armor. Inside, the air bore the scent of sweat, leather, and the palpable anticipation of battles yet to be fought.

Raye and Durin navigated the familiar halls, their footfalls softened by the worn stone floors. They exchanged nods and greetings with their fellow soldiers, acknowledging the camaraderie forged through shared experiences. The barracks had become a home away from home, a sanctuary where bonds of brotherhood were formed.

Finally, they arrived at their assigned quarters—a modest room furnished with two narrow beds and sparse belongings. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows upon the worn wooden surfaces. Durin leaned his greatsword against the wall, its presence a constant reminder of the warrior he had become.

Raye gently placed his lute on a nearby table, the instrument that had accompanied them through countless tales and melodies, providing solace and joy even amid chaos.

With a shared understanding, Raye and Durin prepared themselves for rest. They shed their armor and donned comfortable nightclothes, finding solace in the familiar routine. Durin's plate armor stood as a silent guardian in the corner, symbolizing the strength he possessed. Raye's lute served as a reminder of the melodies that would accompany them on their journey.

Climbing into their respective beds, they allowed weariness to wash over them, embracing the soothing embrace of sleep. As their eyes closed and their breathing steadied, they clung to the dreams of what lay beyond, eager to embrace the challenges and rewards that awaited them on the road ahead.


Durin found himself transported back to the memories of his childhood, but these were not the typical memories one might expect. Instead of warmth and safety, his childhood was marked by hardship and uncertainty. In his dream, he stood on the outskirts of a bustling camp, surrounded by a ragtag group of soldiers and outlaws.

As the dream unfolded, Durin witnessed snippets of his upbringing. He saw himself as a young boy, swinging a wooden sword with determination and practicing drills under the watchful eye of hardened men. Each swing of the sword and every clash of metal resonated with his determination to become a formidable warrior.

In the dream, Durin could feel the weight of his greatsword in his hands, the cool touch of the hilt, and the familiar grip that he had come to know so well. Sweat dripped from his brow as he tirelessly sparred with fellow trainees, honing his strength and stamina. The harsh commands of his mentors echoed in his ears, driving him to push himself harder, to prove his worth and resilience.

"You know what happens to bad dogs?"

Through the dream, Durin relived countless battles and skirmishes. He fought alongside his comrades, their unity born out of necessity, survival, and a shared desire for something greater. The clashes of swords, the shouts of triumph and pain, and the smell of blood and sweat lingered in the air, creating an immersive and vivid experience.

In the dream, Durin felt the strain on his body, the burn in his muscles as he swung his greatsword with unwavering determination. Every swing carried the weight of his past, the legacy of the soldiers and outlaws who had shaped him into the warrior he had become. The dream served as a testament to his resilience, his unwavering commitment to his craft, and his unyielding spirit.

As Durin's dream continued, a figure emerged from the shadows of his memories. It was Chyswyk, his former commander, a tall and imposing man whose presence commanded respect and fear. Chyswyk's piercing gaze bore into Durin's soul, a reflection of the harsh and demanding nature of their relationship.

In the dream, Chyswyk stood before Durin, his voice resonating with authority as he delivered strict instructions on combat techniques and strategies. His words were laced with a mix of discipline and brutality, shaping Durin's understanding of warfare and the path of a mercenary. Chyswyk's teachings were unforgiving, pushing Durin to the brink of his physical and mental limits.

Durin vividly recalled the countless training sessions where Chyswyk's blows landed, testing his resilience and grit. The dream echoed with the sound of each strike, accompanied by Chyswyk's gruff voice barking commands. Durin's body bore the scars and bruises of their training sessions, evidence of the intense physical challenges he endured.

"You know what happens to bad dogs?"

In the dream, Durin fought against Chyswyk in relentless sparring matches. Each clash of their weapons reverberated through his being, and Durin found himself both resenting and admiring his former commander. Chyswyk's relentless pursuit of perfection pushed Durin to strive for excellence, even as his body ached and his spirit yearned for respite.

As Durin's dream delved deeper into his memories, the scenes became darker and more harrowing. The figure of Chyswyk transformed from a stern instructor into a relentless tormentor, instilling fear and anguish in Durin's heart.

In the dream, Durin found himself transported back to a time when he was just a young recruit under Chyswyk's command. The air was thick with tension as Chyswyk's imposing figure approached, his gaze filled with malice rather than mentorship.

The dream depicted the brutal reality of Durin's past, where Chyswyk's abuses extended far beyond the training grounds. Durin's body was marked by the scars of countless beatings, inflicted by Chyswyk's heavy hand. The dream echoed with the sounds of Durin's cries of pain and the cruel laughter that accompanied each blow.

And then his dream came upon the worst memory. The day that triggered the end. Chyswyk came into his tent drunk and belligerent. He had beaten Durin and smashed a liquor bottle on his head. Chyswyk screamed and berated Durin for earning more coin than he had on the last job they had taken.

Durin fought back against the closest thing to a father he had ever known. He swung his fists and kicked out in fear and anger until Chyswyk slammed a savage punch into his chin. Tears formed in his eyes as he slumped to the ground.

Chyswyk spoke, "You know what happens to bad dogs?"

Durin tried to escape from his fate. He tried to crawl away, but Chyswk stomped on his back and knocked the wind from him.

Chyswyk used a curved dagger to slice Durin's breeches before ripping them off with a powerful motion. Durin screamed and tried to crawl again, but he was not strong enough to defend himself.

Chyswyk spoke, "You know what happens to bad dogs?"

Durin sobbed and gasped for breath as he felt Chyswyk's weight fall onto him. With a groan of pleasure, Chyswyk forced himself inside of Durin as the boy cried and begged for him to stop.


As the first rays of sunlight painted the walls of the Flaming Fist barracks, Durin stirred from his sleep, gradually awakening to the sounds of fellow soldiers beginning their day. He stretched his well-trained muscles, feeling the remnants of the dream's emotional weight dissipate. Rising from his bed, he took a moment to steady himself, reaffirming his resolve to leave behind the painful memories of his past.

Across the room, Raye yawned and stretched, his fingers instinctively reaching for the lute that lay beside him. The instrument, always a faithful companion, had seen them through countless trials and moments of solace. With a gentle touch, Raye cradled the lute in his arms, a source of comfort that bridged the realms of dreams and reality.

Durin caught Raye's eye and offered a small nod of camaraderie. Together, they knew it was time to set their sights beyond Baldur's Gate, embrace the unknown, and seek new adventures on the open road. Durin quickly donned his armor, the familiar weight settling upon his shoulders as a reminder of his purpose and the path that lay ahead.

Raye, ever the troubadour, shed his nightclothes and donned his usual attire: a vibrant cloak adorned with intricate patterns, a testament to his artistic spirit. As he adjusted the garment, his eyes glinted with anticipation, his fingers already itching to pluck the strings of his lute and weave tales through melodies.

With their preparations complete, Durin and Raye gathered their belongings and stepped out of the barracks, bidding farewell to their fellow soldiers. The crisp morning air greeted them, carrying a sense of possibility and the promise of a new chapter in Durin's journey.

As they ventured into the bustling streets of Baldur's Gate, Durin and Raye shared a moment of silent understanding. Durin's hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, a constant reminder that threats lurked everywhere. Beside him, Raye's fingers danced over the strings of his lute, eliciting a melodic rhythm that harmonized with their footsteps. They were a pair forged in the fires of adversity, their bond unyielding and their spirits unquenchable.

With the sun rising in the sky and the road stretching endlessly before them, Durin and Raye embarked on their next adventure. The wind whispered promises of distant lands and untold tales, beckoning them forward. And as they journeyed onward, their footsteps melded into the symphony of the world, a harmonious melody woven by the meeting of steel and song.