Scourge of the Sword Coast

by Anja Kidd

Aphra and Imoen of Candlekeep embark from their childhood home, barely children themselves, into a life of bloody misadventure and time-bending lunacy. This story is cross-posted on AO3 and WP.

2. Ch 1: Lies

Much danke schön unto Trisa_Slyne for being a wonderful editor.

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"Lies are just creative truths."

—Black Mage, 8-Bit Theater, Episode 1018

APHRA

Far through the heart of shadowy Cloakwood, Aphra ran all the way into the dawn. She loomed forward over the cliff where the rocky crags on the edge of Faerûn jutted up out of the ocean and pierced through the cresting waves to scratch the pink sky. Carefully scrabbling away from the cliff's edge and sudden call of the abyss as she watched the sheer drop down, Aphra clutched a sturdy oak trunk at the edge of the forest for security. As the salted wind from the Sea of Fallen Stars caressed her face, she allowed herself a moment to gain her bearings while she tried to piece together what had happened. The last thing she clearly recalled was staring up at the stars past the deciduous branches of the trees and talking to her father, when he'd gotten mad at her for asking questions—

It all came back like a bad dream as she passed by details in her mind, which were inexplicably out of order. How she had gotten to the cliff and why she had run wasn't clear, but she recalled the pleasantly average morning at Candlekeep ruined when she had to kill those men in the barracks and storehouse. She definitely remembered 'Shank' and saying goodbye to Imoen. She remembered Winthrop, passing her a pack over his counter. She remembered Gorion telling her that the stars would always inform her of her location, and that she had a family that was looking for her, hunting her. She gazed up but found little purchase in the rosy dawn. Though some distant pinpricks from the Sphere were visible to her eyes by daylight, most were invisible until nightfall. It looked like early morning. How long had she run for? Where had the time gone? Cursing loudly at her predicament, she did her best to trace her path back through the woods and breathe through her panic.

The trees were alive with song and she could hear nothing but squirrels and birds for leagues. Skittering feet, buzzing insects, and twisting worms and hoof beats. Dew dripping off of leaves, dampening the wet loam, waves that lapped and crashed against the crags, sending eddies swirling between the cutting stone teeth at the bottom of the cliff. Even when she closed her eyes to try and extend her senses as her tutors had taught her, there was nothing civilized in any of the noises that she heard. No footsteps, no fires crackling, no distant laughter . . . Only the sounds of the forest, peaceful in another circumstance but panic-inducing in this one. She vaguely recalled running over massive root systems and helping the old man clamber through the woods, and pictured a series of standing stones in the dark - and rocks like steppingstones, covered in moss arranged in spirals on the ground. Figuring that to be as good a location as any to keep in mind, she leapt into the nearest tree and clambered swiftly to the top to get her bearings.

From the swaying treetop, she was bizarrely unable to spot a single recognizable landmark. Aphra squinted and peered all around looking for the familiar, tall spires of Candlekeep, but saw nothing but orange, red, yellow and green treetops for as far as she could see. "Where in the bloody Hells did I run to now?" To her back was the cliff's edge, and everywhere else was a vast and colorful forest with arrays of tall and precipitous treetops of autumnal reds and golds and still-green and ponderous oaks. It was beautiful, serene, and utterly unrecognizable.

She clung to the trunk of her chosen oak and took several deep breaths until the panic settled in her gut and no longer overwhelmed her. She counted the things that had gone in her favor to decide where to go and what to do - she still had her pack, which had food, waterskins, and a bedroll along with rope, pegs, a tarp, and a small mallet. She still had a quarterstaff for hitting things if anything tried attacking her, Hull's sword she'd 'borrowed' when he'd asked her to fetch it in case anything too gnarly got in close, and could throw most rocks with decent accuracy. Her skin was still as hard as scale armor, her body still immune to most hardship. She was clearly faster than she thought she was, given how far away she'd managed to run from . . .

Then, the memories came back to her in a flood of images divided by the blind panic of a spell of primal fear. She recalled a man in a horned helmet with shoulder spikes on his armor, and then Gorion casting the spell at her - but the why escaped her and she didn't like the feeling that it gave her to dwell on the why too much. Surely, the old man would find her if something went wrong.

"Still have food and water, and lucky I probably didn't run halfway across the damn world," she grumbled to the tree as she settled into some branches and swung her pack around. She swayed her feet for balance as she perused the pack; buried somewhere inside were blank journals and a decent map she'd purchased from Winthrop. She flattened it against the tree bark and asserted that she couldn't have gotten too far because fear spells wear off after a few hours (she remembered at least that from Gorion's fruitless tutoring sessions). Most likely she was in Cloakwood given how close the cliff had been, and the lack of any mountains in her sight meant she could not be south where the Cloud Peaks dwelt. She knew it was simply a matter of keeping a distant eye on the coastline for direction and keeping track of the sun's position until she found a recognizable landmark. The theory of her goal was sound.

"Can I do this?" She asked herself and the tree as she stuffed the map back inside. "Yes, I think I can," she decided and leapt back up to her tree's top, patting the branch comfortingly.

Aphra continued climbing along the tops to keep an eye out for landmarks and jumping here and there when she saw a sturdy enough one to avoid leaving tracks on the ground. She certainly didn't want that horned-helmeted man tracking her, or Gorion's spell would have been for naught. She picked a general direction more out of instinct than logic, since as long as she could still find the Sword Coast she was certain she'd be able to find her way back to Candlekeep. It was more complicated than simply walking along the ground, but it had the added benefit of keeping her mind focused on her task instead of wandering through her murky memories of the night before.

After what felt like hours of tree-climbing and staring out at the coast and tree line to try and find some variation in terrain, somewhere to the south and east she saw a series of smaller clearings of trees. She landed back to the earth with a painless thump, although the trees around her did sway every so lightly in objection to the disruption. She braced herself against the nearest, strongest oak and patted it reassuringly, before kicking off from it with one leg and hitting the fastest speed she could manage while still being able to maneuver through the forest's obstacles.

The further south she got, the more the sounds of the forest fled around her until she could hear nothing nearby but for the rustling of leaves and her own footsteps. A low dread began to well in her stomach that felt achingly familiar for reasons she didn't quite understand. She leapt once more and clambered into the treetops and found the standing stones of her memory, and traced back in an hour what had taken her several to zig-zag through in her flight.

Here, the forest was silent. Only the wind howled between the rocks in a lonely sort of whistle - stones that stood deliberately several hands apart and centered around a runic spiral of unknown origin, comprised of individual colored rocks lovingly and deliberately placed. It seemed like the sort of locale you might see a druid or some sort of arcane ritual from an older people - but her eyes were not upon the stones.

It took her embarrassingly several minutes to mentally reconcile the incontrovertible fact that her foster father was dead. There was a body clumped face-down amongst the stones and trees, looking pale and still and disturbingly familiar in its clothing choices. It smelled like her father and a mixture of rot and spell components. There was something else that was charged, the scent of magic burning through the air above him.

Yet, dying just didn't seem like something Gorion would ever do. Aphra certainly knew what death was and had accidentally caused it twice in her life so far, not counting the cow. She'd observed the life cycles of plants, of insects, of all manner of animals and of all the people of Candlekeep as they went about their routines. She'd been too scared to keep an insect she'd captured, for fear of hurting it, after the cow. It horrified and confused her because it simply didn't add up logically - why would something that lived, breathed, talked, and ate just a few moments ago up and stop working? Where did the energy go? No book held the answer. 'It is, and was, always this way' is what the monks told her, to her complete frustration. It didn't make any sense, and religions all said something different. Death was sometimes a god, or a doorway, or some final trial for mortality to overcome before consciousness could shuffle off into the afterlife. The physicality of it had been explored by scholars who had recorded its myriad processes. Death itself could even be reversed by the combination of clerical competency and divine whimsy. Entropy and rotting made a certain scientific sense; death itself - the concept - did not, to Aphra.

She had read that during the Cataclysm, when the gods walked as mortals some of them had died. Some gods no longer answered prayers at all, when their worship entirely ceased, as if they had gone to sleep - or died. If even gods could succumb to it, did that make death the most powerful thing - being - in the universe?

Gorion had given her the best answers, even if she felt like they weren't the whole truth. He always told her that impermanence was the fault of life - the greatest flaw that made it worth living. Though there were some that died that returned, others that did not. Some people didn't wish to wake up from the sleep of death. Others would, if prompted with the right incentive - the right spark of divine life-power. Divine power she lacked and knew had to be administered swiftly within a few hours of the instant of death. Gorion had been laying there for hours.

"It doesn't make any sense," she told her father's body. "Why did you send me away? Why would you—why would you let yourself die? You're not supposed to die! I could've protected you, you old twat!" It didn't make any sense at all, and the reality of it was too much for the eighteen-year-old girl to handle. She pounded her fists into the ground around her and screamed loud enough to scare the birds off for several miles - and maybe the bears as well. At the end of her scream, she cried the rest of it out - all the anger, sorrow, and confusion boiled out and over the surface. She clutched her father's robe for comfort, not minding the light smell of rot as the sun rose even as it served to remind her of how well and truly fucked the entire situation really was.

The solar disk was high over the tree-line by the time Aphra felt calm again. She was certain she'd never feel right again, but at least she wasn't paralyzed by tears. She'd lain in the grass and cried herself out for a time, but after it left her system, she felt restless simply lying there next to a corpse that wasn't really her father anyway.

Intent on bringing him back to Candlekeep, Aphra started to pick up Gorion's body but she dropped him right back to the ground in surprise as a shocking form at the edge of the clearing, near to where the horned enemy had appeared last night, popped into sight.

"Imoen," Aphra breathed and ran to her sister, who met her halfway in a warm embrace that Aphra collapsed through halfway. Imoen looked travel-ready in leathers and a weather-beaten brown cloak, but the sight of her filled Aphra with grief. She felt her knees giving out in response to an overwhelming sense of sorrow when she realized they might never again have lessons with Gorion and pointed her tears into her sister's cloak.

"Hey, hey, shush," Imoen whispered platitudes into Aphra's ear while she fought her own urge to cry, and erratically hitched back sobs.

It felt like several lifetimes before Aphra was able to stop crying again, though the sun had not moved much farther along in the sky. Eventually the feeling of Imoen's fingers stroking gently through her hair soothed her to the point of rationalization. "This isn't a dream," the gray-eyed girl realized aloud as she rested her head comfortably in Imoen's lap. Her eyes were fixed out away from her sister, toward the too-still, too-cold form of her long-dead father.

"Nope," the girl summarized bleakly, continuing her finger-combing.

"He was so powerful," Aphra defended, for reasons she didn't entirely understand. "Why would—how could he not have survived?" Her head turned up and her eyes looked into her sister's searchingly. "We can get him to a temple! If they can't raise him, they might at least be able to talk to him!" She realized and started pulling at the body by its robes. It followed her hands up effortlessly as she lifted, only for Imoen's hands to reach up and stop her.

"No, Aph," her sister said, simply. "Look at me. No. You know that won't work and it'll only hurt to try. That works on the recently dead, and I don't think we have the money to turn him into a lich. Plus he'd hate that. Being undead isn't what he'd want."

She looked down. The form was cold, had been so for hours, and resurrection - or communication with the dead - at a temple only worked when one had enough money, if the corpse was decently intact and recently deceased, and only if the person was willing. The longer someone was dead, the harder it was for a priest to contact them, and the more expensive it got. There was no way for her to pay to ask Gorion or resurrect him, and no way to cope. It hurt to admit that her sister was right, so instead of admitting as much, Aphra started to cry again.

Imoen held no answers but her presence alone was enough. She sniffled back her own tears and brushed a short lock of peony-colored hair behind her own ear that fell forward as their teary gazes met. "Well, there'd have to be something more powerful than him around," she reasoned. "Maybe we could figure it out, see if they left a trail, or clues. I don't think militia will know what to do and everyone knows the Flaming Fist in the Gate are underfunded idiots."

"But who would want Gorion dead?" Aphra wondered and sat up to draw her knees to her chest. "And who could be strong enough to beat him?"

Imoen's posture lapsed into a comfortable sprawl as she thought about this. "Well, he's old!" She reasoned. "Hells, you probably could've if you took him by surprise. You're pretty strong - maybe it was someone like you."

Aphra's blood ran cold. "Gorion said he had something to tell me about my real family. Something he'd never told me. And that they were coming for me. And then he . . . He made me run away." It was his wish that she flee, but that did not remove the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed her. "It was a big horned armored fellow with a really shiny sword the size of my arm," she informed Imoen confidently. "I'd know his voice if I heard it anywhere. Father knew him, called him . . . Something. Ugh! I can't remember!" Her hands flew up to grip at her hair in frustration. "Why is my head all jumbled now!"

"Weird that he made you run," Imoen noted with a sniffle that betrayed her true emotion. "For someone so smart, that was pretty dumb of him." She had composed herself well, but both felt as though they were going to burst into tears again at any moment. The pink-haired girl wiped at her nose in frustration on her sleeve.

"The horned man was after me," Aphra recalled distantly, wringing her dark hair in her hands in thought. "Told father to 'hand over your ward,'" she imitated in a deep voice. "I . . . I wish I'd acted faster. I could've hit him fast, and hard, and taken him!"

"Of course you could've," Imoen supported automatically, "and you will when we find this armored fellow with the horns and I'll shoot him full of arrows too, to be sure."

"So we're agreed then?" Aphra's eyes locked onto Imoen's. Her sister nodded fiercely and stood up, extended her hand down to Aphra. Together, they went through Gorion's robes and looked for clues, and found nothing. Imoen had on her a scrap of letter signed 'K' she'd found from Gorion's desk that prompted her pursuit of the old man, believing he was up to something strange. There were tracks that they spotted that led to nowhere of several large, possibly armored feet. When Imoen suggested Aphra sniff the ground where the tracks disappeared, she at first assumed Imoen had lost her mind before she recalled that Imoen's nose wasn't sensitive enough to pick up on trace scents, whereas Aphra had been able to determine whether or not a dog had peed on a tree recently (though she wasn't so skilled that she could say which dog it had been). She detected a faint trace scent of charcoal in the dirt where the tracks ended that her sister reasoned must have belonged to a mage, meaning they had all made a quick getaway.

In short, there was no trace of the killer. Just a dead Gorion with a few spell components, his walking stick, and the letter Imoen had found. Aphra picked up his walking stick and read through the letter.

G,

Ferrous rot, we'll need a larger sample. Could be wrong, best see if J & K have turned up anything. Better buckle down for the winter. I hear there's a cold front coming in from the north. I worry about your withered knees crossing the Gate. We've received no word of the package. LIT?

K

Puzzling over its meaning, she was startled from her thoughts by Imoen's sharp scream. Aphra ran over to her sister in a blink only to realize that she was in no real danger at all. Startlingly, they had come face to face with the statue of an ogre. She let the world fall back into place from where, in her perspective, everything had slowed, and gave Imoen a rueful look.

"What! I thought it was a monster!" Imoen defended. "Why is there a bleeding statue here anyway?"

Aphra examined the statue for a moment and realized she did remember it, except last night it had been alive. Feeling helplessly lost for the second time in her life, Aphra looked over the note one last time and realized that she had truly not been having some horrible dream. She'd not stayed long enough to see Gorion fight for his life as he'd sent her fleeing with a heart-gripping spell of hopeless fear, and there his body lay. Even his powerful magic could not stop the onslaught. It was his wish that she flee, but that did not remove the feeling of helplessness that now overwhelmed her. 'Hand over your ward,' the armored fiend had said. He was after her, and her alone. Candlekeep was near, but in her heart Aphra knew that she and Imoen would find no quarter there. The readers pay for their serenity with rather draconian entry rules, and without Gorion's influence their doors would remain closed. The monks had never wanted her brand of trouble, and she had no desire to paint a target on her precious home.

Suddenly infuriated, she let her fist fly through the once-ogre. Part of its arm and shoulder crumbled and fell to pieces around her fingers. "It's no use," she grumbled. "This letter is nothing, and all I have are vague directions to an inn I've never been to, and I can't help feeling like I'm missing something really important!" She roared.

Imoen chimed in, "You are - A FATHER!" And then guffawed at her own terrible joke and choked on the subsequent guffaw with a frowning smile. "Oh no, now I've gone and made myself sad."

Aphra's steely eyes watered for a moment before she burst into tired, awful laughter that couldn't be suppressed. It poured out of her like a cascade compared to her tears of rain droplets and washed away the grief in its wake with something more sublime. After several moments of bittersweet laughter, the two girls calmed down. They wiped at their eyes, and Aphra clasped onto Imoen's hand for comfort as they both sat on the ground with aching stomachs from much needed laughter, experiencing a moment of profound union.

"That was a good one," Aphra commented blithely. "Probably the best one ever."

"Yeah," Imoen mused. "Only once in a life opportunity, that." The pink haired teen cleared her throat and straightened her hair with her free hand. "Well, what's this inn then, you said?"

"Friendly Barn's to the north," Aphra reported. "Old man said he had two friends there he wanted me to meet, named Janice and, uh, Karl, I think."

Imoen's lips twisted into a grin. "Sister, your disease is showing."

Aphra's eyes narrowed. A narrowly selective memory syndrome, Gorion had called it once; useful when it was about things that only Aphra thought were interesting, which was a pinhole in a blindfold compared to the world around her. She knew there were over five hundred documented butterflies and even more moths of varying species along the Sword Coast region, but both she and her sister knew that her memory was selective. "Well, I forgot in all the running last night, but I'm sure it's something," Aphra concluded dismissively.

Imoen's eyes wandered back to the still and cold form of their father, and her expression fell. "We should build a cairn, to keep the animals away from his body. Right?" She seemed unsure of her own idea, and it suddenly hit Aphra that this was the first time in the entirety of their lives that they'd been together outside of Candlekeep's safe and sturdy walls.

"We can do that," Aphra agreed, since it indeed felt like the least they could do and seemed obvious, in hindsight.

As she approached Gorion's body once more, absently stepping around ogre dust, she knelt down near his pale and bloodless form to regard his wizened features contemplatively. "What do you think this place is?" She asked it, less out of the expectation of an answer and more out of a strange sense of comfort. "Illefarn, probably. Lots of those around here. You were always mad about things like this. I bet you knew what it was. I think there are definitely worse places to be than here, forever. Nice air, nice grass, nice stones. We'll let you rest here, and then I'll live as I can, as you said. I promise." She trailed off, no longer finding comfort in her rambling to a corpse.

For a moment she closed her eyes, listening to the wind whisper through Cloakwood and caress the stones. Time and the air had carved them into smooth surfaces that changed the sound of the breeze. It rippled through the clearing like a discordant dirge, mournful and lovely all at once. "Definitely worse places to be forever," she admitted, taking in the sun overhead as she felt its light replenish her.

Aphra began to gather as many rocks as possible into a pile from the ground - though she had left the large standing stones, she picked up the rocks that lay in spiral formation beneath their feet extending from each toward the center and placed Gorion at the heart of it instead. "Well don't just stand there," she chided Imoen who was soon into the endeavor doubled over and heaving for breath. "Father won't entomb himself."

It took about an hour or two with both of them. Aphra ended up doing most of the heavy lifting while Imoen mostly directed her on where to put them. When she was finished, she simply glared at her sister, exasperated by Imoen's bossiness. "Go and find some flowers," she instructed and marched off to do the same and try and find something that would nice up the grave at least a little bit.

A ways away, far from where the combat and scorched earth had marked Gorion's death at the hands of the horned man, were a pile of daisies. Once more, Aphra's eyes began to tear up. She was used to it by that point and simply let it happen, and gathered as many of them as she could in her hands and arms, with what other little flowers were nearby. Largely weeds, but a snapdragon or five mixed with daisies and daffodils made a nicely sized bouquet in her hands. Still teary-eyed but satisfied, she returned back to the makeshift cairn.

No words were said after. When they were through, the cairn was covered in flowers and looked . . . "Well, it's still morbid," Imoen assessed with a watery smile, "but at least it's pretty."

Aphra put her hand on Imoen's shoulder. "Let's get out of here and go somewhere - anywhere in the world," she offered. Anywhere had to be better than her foster father's grave, and there had been times when she and Imoen were still children that they'd dreamed of going off on adventures together. Aphra knew that whomever killed Gorion was still out there, likely hunting for her, but she also figured that the best way to hide was to travel and remain a moving target.

Imoen pulled away with a confused frown. "We should . . . Probably tell his friends what happened," she reminded Aphra.

"Where were they when he died?" Aphra scoffed immediately. Upon considering Imoen's pleading stare, she softened. "Though someone ought to tell them, and it should be us," she conceded.

"Maybe they can help us find his killer," Imoen suggested, attempting to improve Aphra's mood.

"Maybe." Aphra had her doubts, and for good reason. None of Gorion's friends had ever been mentioned to her by name until last night, and she could scarcely recall those names as it was. Of all of his friends, only Uncle Khelben had ever visited, and Elminster one time two years ago in a visit that she'd much rather forget.

Moments later, Aphra would remember the moment she thought of Elminster and suspect that her life might be a farce. She and Imoen left Gorion's grave after a teary goodbye and headed back toward the road, keeping a wary eye out for any predators that might be lurking. Imoen seemed to believe that everything between bandits and yetis was going to jump out and eat them at any moment, but who should happen upon them traveling in the opposite direction but Elminster himself?

Aphra knew him at a glance, eying the big red pointed hat, but said nothing of it; if Imoen remembered him at all she said nothing either. He was unmistakable in that hat and those bright red with gold trimmed robes, looking more like a Thayvian than he had a right to, and who exactly he was trying to fool was beyond her.

"Ho there, travelers!" Called out the strange old man. His eyes smiled before his lips did and sent the myriad wrinkles on his face turning. "Spare a moment for a weary old man?" He requested in his booming voice as they approached.

Aphra was half-tempted to ignore him. She did not, but was not pleased to see him, for he seemed not to recognize her. Two years was longer by her reckoning than this, but she doubted his sincerity very much. "You may have a moment," she generously offered with narrowed eyes and crossed her arms, "but just the one, as it's all I have to spare."

"Don't be rude," Imoen chided beside her. Aphra stared at her sister in disbelief - did she not recognize the old fool? Had some illusion been cast over her eyes? "We have at least three moments. Where're you from, old timer?"

"I hail most recently from Baldur's Gate," the old man reported. He stroked at his long beard, which made Aphra shudder. "And from whence do you two hail?"

Aphra had enough of the charade. "Who are you to question us?" She demanded. "You're an old man wandering the woods pestering young women minding their own business on the roads. I've had a bad enough day, and I don't need to hear the politics of meddling, smarmy old wizards!"

"Aphra!" Imoen scolded. "Normally I'm the rude one! You're really treading on my whole, you know. Thing."

"Where are your priorities?" Aphra asked.

Elminster hummed to himself. "Thou hath answered my question, in a perplexing way," he then said, still stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Thou art prepared, then, to face the struggles of your road. I bid thee good day, and good luck." And with that, he departed directly into a dimension door that coalesced out of the Weave in the air, and popped out of existence with a blue shimmer as soon as he stepped through.

The two girls stared at the space where Elminster had once stood with very different emotions. "'Thou art prepared!' Fah! Who talks like that anymore? He didn't recognize me at all," Aphra realized.

"Aphra!" Imoen gushed. "D'y'know who that was?"

"Elminster!" She snapped, "obviously."

"Yes, Elminster you—don't sound very excited about that," Imoen just then realized. "Oh. Are you upset because he didn't recognize you? Aphra, he's hundreds of years old, you can hardly expect him to remember every face."

Aphra grumbled. "No! He didn't recognize you either, and he was just in Candlekeep a few years ago, and while he was there he hit on me! He didn't even ask me for my name. He mistook me for a serving wench at Winthrop's. He's nothing more than a creepy old man with the power of several gods in his head, wandering the wilderness, butting into people's businesses whenever he so pleases. Some friend of Gorion he is, didn't even recognize us or talk to us by name - feels so sorry he does, for the old man's death that he didn't even inquire after him! While he was doing what, exactly? What, what was he doing?! While Gorion was fighting for his life, where was the mighty Elminster?" Her tone raised nearly to a screech as she directed her words more to the air than to her sister, who had taken a step back to process the explosion of emotion coming from Aphra. "I was wandering Cloakwood for hours and only now do we run into him, and he drops cryptic nonsense? Either he doesn't have half the power he pretends to have or he does and couldn't be arsed to help. I'm not sure which implication is worse," she concluded bitterly.

Imoen took a deep breath and let out a low whistle on the exhale. "Er. That's a lot to unpack. He hit on you?"

Aphra grumbled, "I was maybe fifteen. I looked a bit older, I suppose, but really no excuse."

"Ew," Imoen assessed accurately. "He is a creepy old man . . . I'm sorry Aph, I didn't know. I would've shot his arse full of arrows if I did!"

Aphra rolled her eyes at her sister's offer. "It's not as if it was traumatizing, don't treat me like that. I don't care about it. He's just a gross, meddling pervert who happens to also be a terrible friend."

Changing the subject, Imoen decided to focus on their future plans and put the encounter behind them. "Well, Gorion did say to meet those other friends of his at the F—"

"The Friendsly Armor can hang itself! Fuck it! Fuck all of them, fuck all of his so-called friends! Especially whoever 'K' is who wrote that note, but knowing our luck, it's probably Uncle Khelben!" Aphra roared.

Imoen snorted. "You don't know that, just because it's signed K doesn't—"

Aphra guffawed in disbelief. "Oh, it absolutely is the Blackstaff. I know his handwriting, Imoen. I've read enough of his letters!"

"Pffft— circumstantial! There are lots of K's in the world! And look how it starts - 'ferrous rot' - what does that even mean? And have you ever heard Uncle Khelben talk like that? This has to be some kind of coded message!" Imoen pulled out the letter from her pocket and waved it in the air for emphasis.

Aphra snatched the letter and pointed at the words in question. "Ferrous refers to iron, and iron doesn't rot, it rusts! It's nonsense."

"Well, maybe it was a code for something or someone specific," Imoen reasoned. "We should take it to his friends and see what they think of it."

"It's a code for nonsense! It doesn't matter," Aphra insisted spitefully, "I hate them and I'm going to find the man who killed Gorion and kill him myself." With that, she started marching in the opposite direction down the road from where they'd been initially heading.

Imoen caught up quickly and stuffed the letter back into her pocket. "But think about it, Aphra," she continued in a reasonable tone. "Who would want him dead?"

"I don't want to talk about this right now Imoen," she growled out.

Imoen scoffed; she knew her sister too well. "No, of course you don't - you want to punch things and go and sulk, but I need to talk about it. If you want to find the man who did this, then we need to find out why he was doing it. What do you remember about what happened?"

Aphra stopped in her marching down the mossy road and sighed. "It wasn't about Gorion," she revealed. "He was only after me. He said, 'hand over your ward.' He was huge, clad in this strange armor and his helmet had these twisting horns . . . And looking out of it were his eyes, glowing like yellow orbs that stared right through me as though my body were made of glass." She remembered the man's eyes quite vividly. She had felt fear before the spell had hit her, in a way she had never felt before. Something about him, or the sword he held - glowing silver under the moonlight, shimmering somehow - was terrifying.

Imoen hummed thoughtfully and imitated Elminster, stroking an imaginary beard, which made Aphra laugh. "Interesting. Hast thou any other recollections? Any names?"

Aphra shook her head, and once she stopped laughing felt a well of tears start to overflow and spill from her eyes once more. "I'm sorry," she apologized and choked back a sob. Imoen patted her on the back empathetically. "It's all scattered and I'm not sure why. I know there must be lots of somethings I'm forgetting but it's like it's on the tip of my tongue. Maybe I'll remember later? I remember that before, while we were still walking through the woods, the old man said that my 'family' was looking for me. My birth family, he implied. Fat lot of good the implication does me now when he couldn't be arsed to tell me about them - or even so much as warn me that I even had more family. Sorry, I know you probably don't need my negativity right now." She wiped angrily at the tears from her eyes and did her best to stifle them.

Imoen didn't seem to know quite what to say. Eventually she managed to get out as she wrapped one of her arms around Aphra, "I just . . . I love you Aphra, I do. And we'll figure this out. I just don't want to cry about it. I want to do something. And figuring this out will help our situation the best. I think we should go to Beregost."

Aphra was startled. "That's a change."

"It's the closest town to here, just south. The inn Gorion told you about is north, but Beregost is a little closer to us. I think. I'm not sure, but we can just follow the signs and stay close to the road in the woods to avoid any bandits and such."

Aphra perked up at the idea of having something to punch. "Bandits?"

Imoen nodded emphatically. "Oh, I've heard all the stories. They've been robbing caravans for weeks! Sister Sapientia's been having me write her letters for her since she got the shakes to this Dawn Priest named Blaise at the temple in Beregost. She actually gave me a letter to give him, that's why I was allowed to leave!" She started rummaging through her pack, looking for letters. "Oh, and one from Camryn to his, er, but that's, er, never you mind that."

Aphra smirked. "You little sneak."

Imoen protested this. "I'm an honest sneak! I come by it honestly! It's a real letter, might be a little squished but I'm sure it's still legible . . . See here, it says 'Dawn Priest Blaise.' She even paid me to do it, a little."

The raven-haired girl laughed. "Your first honest paycheck. Proud of you, Imoen."

Imoen stuck out her tongue and pushed back her brown hood to get her pink hair out of her face.. "Pfft. Like you've ever worked. Anyway, since you don't want to go to the Inn yet, Beregost is as good as any place to figure out what we should do next right?"

The girl considered this carefully and nodded. "Alright. Beregost it is."

The first entities Aphra and Imoen ran into while embarking on their grand adventure were gibberlings. They are not the sort of creatures one would include in the final rendition once the tale was told; they were squabbling, malnourished, and desperate goblinoids of blue skin with sharp teeth and claws. Aphra almost didn't notice them on the side of the highway as they walked until Imoen cried out, and an arrow went soaring from a nearby bush toward Aphra's head. The girl responded the same way a statue would - by holding still and letting the arrow crack against her skin and fall to the ground harmlessly.

"What was that?" Aphra wondered, turning to her sister, who was pointing toward the bush. Almost absently, Aphra turned to look where Imoen pointed at a small group of five gibberlings that faintly resembled the ones she'd read of in a book so long ago. "Oh. Sod off!" She shouted toward them.

There was a chattering as Imoen took the opportunity to hide behind her sister's back and nock an arrow in the shortbow that had been slung over her shoulder. The gibberlings' collective response was another arrow aimed toward Aphra's head that the girl turned slightly and dodged.

"I warned you," Aphra promised, and pulled out the sword she'd stolen from the lazy Watcher Hull on her way out of Candlekeep. Aphra charged toward the gibberlings' location and Imoen let her arrow soar over her sister's head, and swiftly nocked another one.

It was a disappointing first battle, overall. Half of the gibberlings ran while three fell within seconds of each other. "They must've been starving," Aphra reasoned as she cleaned purple blood off of Hull's blade with a torn piece of cloth from her pack. She looked down at the broken little bodies, feeling sad but less empathy for them than she had the assassins she'd slain.

"We should tell people you killed fifty of 'em," Imoen suggested, "and start getting a reputation. Maybe people will pay us to get more! I've heard of a lot of these things haunt the Coast Way. They say bandits are driving them out of their territories, so they're hitting caravans on the roads harder than usual."

"Than usual? They usually attack travelers?" Aphra was disturbed. "Why? They must know better. This is clearly desperation."

"So I've heard," Imoen shrugged. "I don't remember ever being on a trip with Winthrop where we got attacked though. I think it's the bandits."

"You think we'll see bandits?"

"Probably, if we stick to the road." Imoen was confident.

Aphra recalled her father's warning about Imoen - that the girl was fragile, more breakable. That it wasn't safe for Imoen outside of Candlekeep. She gave her sister a thoughtful assessment. Imoen had gotten one gibberling easily with just a bow while Aphra had swiftly dispatched the others. Still, the thought of facing an organized force of bandits of that size filled Aphra with trepidation. She was certain she could survive such a battle, but Imoen . . ."Stick to the bow, you're much better than I with it," Aphra instructed. "And we'll stay off the roads 'til we get to Beregost. I don't want to cause a fuss with any bandits. The less waves we make, the better."

They had wandered south away from the cobbled path of the Coast Way, quietly making their way through the thickets and Aphra would occasionally cut aside or lift Imoen over. The trees had thickened together in deciduous clusters before giving way to a wider clearing of mossy roots. Aphra felt the gentle tug of a spider's silken skein against her hair as they walked through a web, and felt a moment later like it was a cosmic warning - she then heard the telling sound of a bow creaking as someone's arms bent it back to loose a shaft and stopped in her tracks immediately.

She pushed her sister down toward the ground and ducked herself, remembering her father's words about survival - about not letting others see her strength - and felt a surge of adrenaline as an arrow was loosed by her head and swayed her hair with the breeze as it lodged against a root formation near her head. She had used her utmost speed, and noticed it passing much slower than it really was, making it not too difficult for her to dodge. It was well-aimed and would have hit her eye. Instead, it merely took a few strands of her hair with it.

"Halt right there!" A distinctly feminine, humanoid voice cried out through the woods.

While part of Aphra was relieved to finally hear the voice of another person and not the squealing of more gibberlings, she still remembered Imoen's warning about bandits. She exchanged a wary look through the curtain of her hair with her sister as they squatted on the ground, caught in the midst of what was surely an ambush.

"We've definitely halted!" Imoen cried out when her sister said nothing. In truth, Aphra wasn't sure what to do - she could tip her hand, but if the enemy was heavily armed such as the one Gorion faced, she might bite off more than she could chew and result in getting into even more trouble. Without knowing the numbers and what they were facing, she didn't know how to fight them, and didn't want to risk Imoen. For the second time in under a day, Aphra felt afraid, though this time at least it wasn't the fault of a spell.

There was a scuffle around them as twigs bent and broke beneath the weight of soft-padded feet. Three bowmen in leathers stepped into sight behind trees, and the same voice cried out, "Don't you move! Drop your weapons, and your coin purses! In that order!"

Imoen and Aphra exchanged another look. "Er, we don't have coin purses!" Imoen called out. "But you can have my bow!" She dropped it, just as Aphra unbelted Hull's sword and slowly stood to make a point of dropping it to the ground in plain view. She took off her backpack and placed it next to the sword, and stepped in front of Imoen who had done the same thing. She wondered how fast it would be to kill them all before they could get to Imoen, and thought they might be formidable - but they weren't her. They weren't made of the same things she was. She was stronger, and much, much faster.

"Back away, slowly!" The voice called out, and as they did, one of the bowmen dropped his arrow and rushed forward to grab their supplies. Aphra winced, wondering if she was ever going to get any of those things back. She bit her tongue, hearing Gorion's warning ring throughout her head. "Turn around and run back the way you came!" The woman behind the trees commanding the bandits commanded. "Go on! Or you'll be shot full of arrows and left for the wolves!"

Aphra looked to Imoen who had a fierce glare as she stared at the bowman rifling through her pack, looking at Gorion's note in confusion. "Aphra," she said with a note of warning. "I think we should listen."

Something inside of Aphra snapped - a long thread of patience that the last twenty-four hours had been wearing at, like a knife to a mooring line. When it broke, Aphra knew exactly in that instant what she was going to do.

"Fuck listening," she muttered and pushed Imoen down to the ground. The girl landed on her butt with a surprised 'eep' and Aphra let herself cut loose for but a moment. She caught the bowman bandit still rifling through their clothes by surprise, coming up behind him with such speed and nary a sound that he found himself quickly at her mercy at the edge of Hull's blade, grabbed from the ground in her haste.

"Drop the pack," she suggested, and he did so.

The battle broke loose from there like a cracked dam. Aphra didn't realize, until hindsight hit her after, that she had never been in a real battle. Sure, she'd sparred with Jocelin plenty of times, but the first time she ever killed someone, it had been in the priest's quarters the day previous when a man named Shank had tried to commit his namesake against her, and instead broke his dagger on her breastbone. He'd been so surprised that he hadn't even had time to react to Aphra swinging a chair at him and breaking his neck. Not hours later, another thug named Carbos had attempted something similar while she was merely minding her own business doing chores. She hadn't waited for him to attack her - the moment he'd threatened her life and mentioned her name without her telling him, her training sword had swung at him and ended his life too. It had been too easy - far too easy, they were so breakable - that's all she could remember of it, that taking life had been far too easy to do. One moment they were alive, and the next they were not.

The bandit she held by sword-point suddenly went stiff as two arrows thudded into his chest from the trees. Aphra paid careful attention to where they'd come from, and dropped her human shield just as she heard the bows being drawn again. "Imoen, run!" She shouted, using her body as a distraction and running for the nearest bandit she saw, nocking another arrow behind a tree.

The first one was also too easy. It didn't seem like a fair fight. The second one put up more of a struggle, and the third was nearly smart enough to aim an arrow at Imoen, but not before her sister could get her bow back from where she'd dropped it and fired a shot that landed in the third bandit's leg, making him easy prey for Aphra's cleaving sword.

The fourth one, the commander, took her completely by surprise with an incredible battle-cry, and Aphra staggered somewhat as a powerful blow across her back sent her forward, almost knocking the wind out of her. She whipped around to face her attacker and felt a coldness on her back as her shirt tore free, ripped by the bandit commander's greatsword nonetheless leaving her back unmarred.

The woman was armored to the teeth in mail and advanced with a two-handed blade, her face twisting into a desperate snarl. Aphra dodged the first hit that her opponent telegraphed, and immediately recalled her lessons on footwork - always be aware of the feet. It came back to her all in a rush, the dance of battle, as the lead bandit advanced on her. She met the next overhand blow from the woman with her sword and deflected it, deciding to back up rather than engage on the offensive and simply waited for the right opportunity, content to play defensive.

The bandit commander cried, pulling back for a heavy overhand strike that resulted in a feint, designed to catch Aphra off-guard as she dodged to the left, but Aphra was faster than her swing and came in at the side with a quick, unblockable blow aimed right at the woman's arm-pit. Aphra's blade sank in with a grunt, piercing the bandit leader's heart. The woman's eyes widened and dilated when she fell, unbelieving of her very own heart's blood spooling out of her, and Aphra could not help but watch. Something felt different now - or Aphra simply felt colder. Either way, death was not such a stranger.

"That was bracing!" Imoen called out from the clearing. Aphra glanced back at her sister, who was taking the time to sort through her gear that the bowman had rifled through. She donned her pack with a grunt and reached down for Aphra's only to strain and leave it where it lay. "What in in the Nine Hells did you pack in that thing?!" Imoen demanded.

Aphra cleaned off the blood from her blade with the strip of cloth ripped from her own shirt she had kept at her belt after the gibberling fight, and placed the sword at her side again. "Some books," she shrugged.

"Half the library, you've got in here!" Imoen decried as she started to open the pack and peruse it. "Aph, do you really need this many?"

Aphra shrugged. "I suppose not. I could always sell some of them if we need to . . . They are fairly rare."

"Did you steal these from the library?" Imoen seemed more impressed than outraged.

"No," Aphra defended, and Imoen seemed disappointed. "I did take them from Gorion though," she admitted.

"Aphra!" Imoen's tone was pleased. "We'll make a criminal out of you yet," she vowed.

Aphra's eyes rolled. "Most are just journals, though, and a good portion blank. I thought I could spend some time drawing, but haven't felt the urge." It was hard to imagine spending time doing anything leisurely and enjoyable, now that her father was dead and her 'real' family wanted to kill her, and she kept having to kill things in order to survive or protect others.

"Oh . . . Do you suppose I could have one?" Imoen asked carefully. "Er, to keep track of things!"

"Take the topmost one. And you do not need to ask - what is mine is yours," Aphra simply affirmed.

"Well, what's mine is definitely not yours, because you don't fit into my clothes," Imoen retorted, but nonetheless pulled a blank brown journal out of the top of Aphra's pack and stuffed it into a book-bag she kept around her as a satchel. As an afterthought, she picked up the note from Gorion and stuffed it in right with the journal. "But we definitely need to get you a new shirt."

Aphra glanced down at her near-topless state, and then at the bandit leader at her feet who was cooling in a steadily growing pool of blood. For whatever reason, the sight no longer bothered her. She had cried after the first two people. Her life had been fairly leisurely up until this point and she had no desire to change that. She thought it was odd that seeing dead bodies no longer fazed her - or Imoen - at all. "She's about my size," Aphra mused aloud, and began to strip the body with Imoen's help. The shirt and tunic on the woman was salvageable, if bloodstained. She'd only ever seen her own blood once, when she'd found an adamantine blade in her father's study and it had managed to cut her finger along its edge. It had been fascinating, feeling pain for the first time. Before that point in time, she'd not met a substance capable of penetrating her skin enough to harm her - most blades scratched or even broke when they were turned upon her. She was not as invulnerable as she had thought she was, and felt in awe of this fact.

"You sure you don't want her armor?" Imoen asked, eying the scales.

Aphra stared down at the piece. It would not deflect adamantine, so it didn't seem useful to her. "It'll hinder me more than it'll help, but I'll wear it if it makes you feel better," she stated.

Imoen stared at her sister in trepidation before nodding. "It'll seem more normal, anyway," she justified, and started undoing the clasps on the scale mail with deft fingers.

Having only ever tried to put on armor once before, it felt unnatural as it was mounted across her skin. She tried not to think of the pale dead woman it had belonged to, but then realized that the bandit probably just stole it from someone she had killed and felt a little better about it. "There, looks good," Imoen announced as the last clasp was fitted and tugged into place.

"It feels . . . Uncomfortable," Aphra assessed as she tried to move around through a few moves. She whined, "I could get used to it. I guess."

"Hey, you're not invincible," Imoen reasoned. "You think maybe some of that leather armor could fit me?" She glanced around at the three bowmen, before wrinkling her nose. "Erm, maybe not. They are rather large."

"Some pieces of it we could sell, maybe," Aphra said dubiously. "Better if we find an armorer in Beregost."

"Ooh! There' s good one there, I've heard of him," Imoen chittered and perked up. "Taerom, I think is his name! They call him the 'Thunderhammer.' With a name like that, he's got to be good, right?"

Aphra's eyebrows went up. "Thunderhammer? Is he a dwarf? He must be, with such a dramatic name."

Imoen dismissed, "Whatever. Let's at least check them for jewels and valuables - finders-keepers, and maybe we can find something to trade with that smith fella for some nice leather for me!"

There wasn't much of value that the bandits kept, by Aphra's reckoning. Imoen was excited to count the gold and Aphra found a strangely shaped brooch that she took a liking to, with some interwoven green ivy leaves. She kept it in her pocket, not wanting Imoen to pawn her only keepsake of her first successful bandit-fight.

Aphra had begun to track the sun's setting with Gorion's walking stick and would stick it in the ground ever so often to determine the hours as they passed by. By her estimation, roughly seven of them had passed and the sun had begun to set by the time they reached the temple of Lathander in Beregost. They were hungry and in Imoen's case quite exhausted by the time they reached the temple's steps, though in Aphra's instance she seemed to have tapped into a bottomless well of energy ever since the previous night. Thoughts of Gorion's death and images of his body continually surfaced in her mind no matter how she tried to bury them or distract herself from them, and she was afraid to go to sleep for fear they'd haunt her all night. Her dreams had always been . . . Strange.

The temple was built from east-to-west, to get a prime view of both the setting and rising sun that dawned and rested over the sun-shaped marble crests mounted over the temple's doors. A small red-headed woman in a crimson veil introduced herself as Rashel when she greeted them, and directed the girls indoors to speak with the high priest if they wanted to trade or receive services. Neither of them were injured, but Aphra supposed they cut miserable figures in her blood-stained stolen armor and Imoen's grass-stained leathers.

Imoen laid it on thick with the drama when they talked to the high priest inside the temple - she had hammered it into Aphra's skull before they arrived that they were just two poor lost girls with a dead father, forced into a life of adventure. No mention of horned men, or secret notes. The last thing they wanted was to get the wrong sort of attention, on this they both had agreed.

Kelddath Ormlyr, the High Priest of the Morning in the temple of Lathander, was sympathetic toward their sob story. He stood in a glowing circle, one of eight illuminated in a circular pattern around the central statue of Lathander that stood as tall as the temple's great dome. He was a plain man who radiated a calm sense of power that reminded Aphra faintly and bittersweetly of Gorion. He took pity of them and offered his temple services to heal their wounds free of charge, though neither of them were injured beyond a few blisters on Imoen's feet. Imoen badgered the priest for a while regarding news in the region, but without the mention of a great hulking horned figure in any of the priest's stories, Aphra tuned it all out. She listened to the song of the sirines in the temple instead, and felt momentarily hypnotized by it. They, or rather Imoen, bartered for a few supplies they had taken off the bandits on the road without telling him where they'd come from in exchange for some potions, and then the sisters proceeded to the secondary building of the temple complex in search of dawn priest Blaise so that Imoen might deliver her letter.

Aphra tuned out a great deal of the interaction, up until the point where Imoen seemed flustered and didn't know how to respond to Blaise attempting to thrust a book into her reluctant hands. Blaise was a tall man with white hair, though he was not quite yet to the point of being called 'elderly', and was apparently one of Sister Sapientia's peers from the temple of Oghma in Candlekeep. "What's this now?" Aphra demanded, looking down at the illustrated tome in the dawn priest's hands.

"He wants us to take this tome back to Candlekeep with us," Imoen struggled to explain. "I just don't know how we're going to get back in. We'd need a book of immense value for Ulraunt to ever consider letting you back in, and that's only if we're lucky!"

"Ulraunt hates me," Aphra recalled, and looked to the dawn priest. "Surely you can find other couriers."

"None that I could trust with such a task, who would surely deliver it to the good sister," the dawn priest answered. Blaise smiled humbly. "I am sure you will find a way back."

Imoen frowned, but nonetheless took the strange manual from Blaise's hands and tucked it into her book bag at her side. "Well, failing that we'll get it in the hands of someone who can, and pass it along. I'll do my best to see it done."

He clasped her hands gratefully, much to Imoen's embarrassment. Aphra smiled. "Thank you, Imoen," said Blaise. "I can trust no other."

"Your second paying job!" Aphra cajoled as they turned away from the priest to go back outside. "I'm so proud of you, Im."

"Oh, shut it! He's not paying me anything."

"Imoen! I'm shocked!" Aphra gasped.

"Don't be spreading it around! I've got a reputation to maintain!"

Though it was nearing evening, there was still enough daylight for them to do some searching around town, so Imoen led them into Beregost in search of work. What exactly that work would entail Aphra left up to Imoen, as she was largely disinterested in anything that didn't direct her point-blank to the horned helmet man. She drifted listlessly after her sister, her thoughts morbid and her mood maudlin, as they entered the sparkling and lively town.

Aphra had spent her entire life in the confines of Candlekeep, and was immediately overwhelmed by the bustle of the small community. Imoen gave her a smirk as she led her wide-eyed sister in past towering gables and rows of houses upon houses; it was nearly too much for a girl who had been raised in a small circular fortress by a team of scholars and watchers. The rows seemed endless; the smells of the people and the market were over-powering; she could hear across the town people hawking their wares, shouting at each other, engaged in casual gossip, animals braying, hoofs clattering on cobblestone . . .

"I went through Beregost a few times with Winthrop's caravan," Imoen revealed, seeming proud of this. "Now I'm no expert, but I'm a far sight better than having no guide at all. Can't imagine the look on your face when you see Baldur's Gate for the first time."

Aphra stared at Imoen miserably. The thought of impossibly more buildings filled with more people in such a small area filled her with trepidation. "And old Firebead lives here?" She marveled. "Why?"

"That's right! We should visit him if we get the chance! Anyway, it's where all the important stuff happens!" Imoen inexplicably proclaimed. "Candlekeep is where everything stays the same, always. If Gorion weren't so protective of you, the culture shock wouldn't be so bad, but here we are."

"There's so many people," Aphra bit out in disgust. "They smell awful! How are there so many people in one place?"

Imoen snickered. "Yeah, you're going to hate Baldur's Gate. You're too anti-social, Aph."

"I'm not anti-social. I just . . ." Aphra struggled for an explanation. "I just don't like people very much. I'm not like you."

"Well, why don't you just stand behind me and glower at anyone who makes any sudden movements, aye? That way I can do all the talking," Imoen offered.

Aphra nodded in grim determination. "I can do that." Imoen had always been the talkative one, after all.

Aphra's grim aura did not last long into their Imoen-led adventure into Beregost, as the first thing that happened upon entering the town was the head-first collision into Aphra's bosom of a random girl, who apologized in the same breath as she asked for help. Aphra didn't even really have time to register her words before absorbing the fact that this person was also in possession of pink hair much like Imoen's, and rather uncommonly pretty, before a group of angry Thayvians was suddenly shouting about something at her.

"Hang on, hang on," Aphra called out angrily as she stood up and pushed the pink-haired girl off of her, while grabbing her arm to simultaneously pull the girl up off her rear end and push her behind Aphra. She then faced the Thayvians, identified immediately by the bald, tattooed head and crimson robes of a red wizard in their ranks, and addressed him only since she knew by reputation he had to be the one in charge. "What's all this about? I just got here literally a second ago," she said. "How can you already be mad at me?"

"I will warn you once," the red wizard bit out tersely in thick, accented Common. "Stay away from that girl and you will not be harmed. Give her to me and you will be justly rewarded."

"Slavers are unpleasant even on good days, as is the reputation of the Red Wizards here," Aphra clarified for him, since he seemed to think he was entitled to some respect from her. "So you'll forgive me if I don't exactly trust you."

"You doubt my sincerity?" He seemed baffled by this concept. "This woman is a criminal!"

"Because I ran away from you? Because you tried to imprison me so you could - so you could study me?" the girl, whose hair was more of a peach sunrise color than the bright vermilion hue of Imoen's upon closer examination, shouted. And without intending to she had gotten much closer to Aphra, stepping around her to face down her would-be captor. She came up to Aphra's nose in height and was shaking in her now-muddied boots slightly despite her seeming confidence, or perhaps this was her rage simmering beneath the surface. Her eyes were a deep and angry blue and were positively glowering.

Aphra barely caught a whiff of the girl's hair - there was floral oil in it - before she was suddenly teleported to the other side of the red wizard, right behind his ranks, following one of the sunrise-haired girl's arcane gestures. There was a ripple of magic all around them that soundlessly had transported her and Imoen to the other sides of the ranks of the red wizard - who had two guards at his side in leather armor with scimitars.

They drew their weapons first. Aphra used this to justify to herself why she ran the red wizard through with her sword immediately, even if he had not personally done anything threatening yet. She did not give him the opportunity to, and tore a hole in his abdomen through his unguarded back, and ripped it out again to quickly behead him.

Death was terribly easy. Imoen's repeated arrows shot at the guard who drew his sword at Aphra first, and tried to attack her. One hit him in the shoulder first, then the leg, then the throat as Imoen got closer and her aim improved. Aphra was about to slay the other, when the peach-haired girl in her muddled linen twisted her fingers and channeled a jolt of energy that . . . Made the man fall over into a sleeping heap. "There!" she cried out. "Hah! It worked that time. I mean, uh, I totally planned on that happening," she assured herself and everyone around her.

Aphra cut the man's throat that had fallen into the sleeping spell and then looked at the other dead men that she and Imoen had just killed, and then shared a long look with her sister that she had trouble interpreting. Had they become inured to this already? Was it normal? Imoen spoke first, always bouncing back the fastest despite Aphra being faster than her, "I'd like very much to know who we just murdered in the streets and also why."

"Seconded," Aphra agreed, looking to the mage-girl.

She brushed some of her peach-hued hair behind her ears, revealing a half-elven point. "I'm Neera, and I owe you a lot for that. That was Ekandor, he and his goons had been chasing me for months. MONTHS," she emphasized, "so you can imagine my relief right now! Although, they'll just send more like him. They always do."

Aphra was concerned. "Why do they want you?"

"I'm a wild mage," Neera admitted freely, "but don't let that deter you! I'm more powerful than other mages. Just, sometimes chaotically unpredictable. We're lucky that dweomer didn't turn us into chickens that time. Although that only happened once, so I don't think it's going to happen again."

"You think?" Aphra was amused against her better judgment; she wanted to be upset or even outraged at the thought of being a chicken for life, but couldn't imagine being angry with Neera.

"Actually, a spell like that might be useful in a pinch," Imoen reasoned, coming to her fellow pink-haired woman's defense. "You know, if you're caught rifling through some noblewoman's valuables and she's knocking on the door and what's less imposing or thiefy than a chicken?"

"Right? She gets it," Neera said with a nod.

"I say we keep her," Imoen added with a grin.

"Really?" Neera seemed blown away by this. "You want me to come with you? I mean, are you sure?"

"Don't second guess yourself," Imoen assured her. "I'm Imoen by the way. That's Aphra."

Aphra wiped her sword clean. The streets around them - which had not previously been occupied - were still eerily quiet, as if everyone were hiding in their houses or had abandoned the street. "Welcome along, Neera. Do you have supplies for the wilderness? We might have to do a bit of trekking."

"Nope!" Neera declared happily. "But I have some gems," she added enthusiastically, "and some scrolls, in my pack over here." She dove behind a nearby bench, where she had stashed a leather satchel before the fight had broken out. "We can probably sell this and get stuff like that, yeah?" She offered, clutching her bag tightly.

"Only if you let me help you negotiate," Imoen said as she slung her bow over her shoulder. "Winthrop said I'm quite the haggler!"

"Who's Winthrop?" Neera asked.

As Imoen rattled off a generalized explanation of their expedition, including the dead father but leaving out the horned-armored-man, Aphra looted the bodies of the red wizard and his fallen goons. There was not much of value on their persons save perhaps some gold that she gave immediately to Imoen for safekeeping, and their clothes which she did not bother with. Neera eyed their fallen bodies with a simmering hint of the rage she'd been brimming with earlier, and for good measure kicked Ekandor's corpse repeatedly in the shins when they were ready to move on.

"Where'd all the people go?" Aphra wondered as they marched onward, following Imoen who was cheerfully giving them directions as Neera and Aphra wandered behind her.

"Probably in hiding because they didn't want to help me when I asked them, the jerks!" Neera shot out. "I went door-to-door asking for help and no one! Not one! I'm being chased by red wizards from Thay who want to capture and experiment on me to figure out my wild surges and who happens to help me? A random stranger I literally ran into. No offense," she added, eying Aphra askance as she blushed rather adorably. "I'm very glad you helped me."

"No offense taken," Aphra smiled somewhat bitterly, because she was not sure what else she was supposed to do. She hadn't expected to be in such a situation and had no choice in the matter, the fight being forced. Imoen seemed happy enough to have the young sorceress tag along, and though Aphra was nervous about magic, it was better to have a mage on your side than fighting against you - especially an unpredictable one like Neera. Aphra watched as Neera tucked a lock of her pink hair behind her ear and turn her bright blue eyes up to the sky, smiling. The half-elf was wearing a mud-stained set of tunic and trousers and simple traveling boots - she looked like she had indeed been on the run, and carried little with her. Aphra didn't want to think of what might have happened to Neera if she hadn't been there, at just the right moment in time.

They found their way to the smithy first - or rather Imoen and Neera did and Aphra trailed somewhat blindly after them, still overwhelmed by the sights and smells of the town. Aphra was indeed very surprised to discover that the famous Thunderhammer of Beregost was not, in fact, a dwarf at all but a rather average looking human man of her height. Taerom Fuirum seemed to take some pity on the girls when Imoen delivered her usual sob story, and in exchange for what few supplies they'd taken from the bandits and what little gold they had, they received better fitting leather armor for her and a quiver full of nice and sharp arrows that Imoen was well-pleased by. Neera parted with a few gemstones from her bag, a lynx's eye and sunstone, and they received the gear and a bit of gold in recompense. Imoen left the shop with a pep in her step while Aphra nearly had to be dragged out, so nostalgic she was for the smithy back in Candlekeep. Aphra almost wanted to beg Taerom to take her on as his apprentice.

"Now, the first thing we ought to be doing is looking for work," Imoen said to her once they were out of the shop. "Are you listening, Aphra?"

"I'm listening. I can hear everything in this bleeding town, it feels like," she groaned, and clapped her hands over her ears. "Does it ever quiet down?"

"It is rather noisy," Neera commented sympathetically. Her nose wrinkled up in distaste. "And smelly. But that's cities for you!"

"Around night it might quiet down, but then people will be hitting up the inns and taverns," Imoen said. Aphra groaned again. "Don't be a bufflehead. We'll be fine, you just let me do all the talking."

Aphra rolled her eyes. "Fine. What gold do we have left?"

"Er, not at a lot," Imoen said sheepishly. "Or . . . Any, really? This is why I said we need to find work. Surely they're a public board in town, or people who require aid in exchange for a few coins. There's always work to be done in a town!"

Imoen led them toward the market where the center of the hustle and bustle seemed to be, and once more Aphra felt overwhelmed. Imoen pointed out landmarks to them, but Aphra paid them no mind - indeed, Aphra paid nothing any mind until she stumbled backward into a bard.

Aphra managed to catch herself from completely flattening the man, but he was still knocked onto his back. She had no idea he was a bard until he opened his mouth. "Oh! Ah, greetings, fair maidens!" He greeted with a wide smile, and Aphra knew immediately he was of the bardic persuasion. He took Aphra's offered hand and stood back up, brushing the dirt and dust off of his gray-brown trousers and leathers. "Might you, uh, be adventurers?" He queried, staring openly at Aphra's stained armor and sword that she hadn't yet had the chance to fully clean of bandit and wizard blood.

Aphra snorted. "Yes, yes we are," Imoen cut in. "Terribly sorry about bumping into you and all that. Why do you ask? Wait, who are you?"

"Do you just have a habit of running into, or getting run into by people?" Neera wondered, aiming this at Aphra. Aphra glared at her half-heartedly.

The bard blinked. He was baby-faced, brown-eyed, and handsome in the kind of way that almost made it unfair. Aphra immediately did not trust him - it reminded her of Watcher Jocelin, another pretty man with entirely too much going for him. "I am Garrick, bard, entertainer, and actor! And who might you be?"

"I'm Imoen, that's Aphra who ran into you," Imoen indicated. "And this is Neera," she introduced to the girl who was partially hiding behind Aphra.

"Hello!" Neera greeted enthusiastically with a wave, despite not moving.

"Pleasure to meet you three," Garrick said with a broad smile that turned Imoen into a pile of bubbly goo and made Aphra doubly suspicious. "I am seeking adventurers for a job. Might you be in need of employment?"

Aphra and Imoen stared at each other for a beat. Neera shifted restlessly. "Yes, yes we are," Imoen answered cautiously. "What are you offering?"

"Three hundred gold for the protection of my mistress, Silke, from some thugs," he explained cheerily. "I can take you to her if you're interested, and she can tell you more."

They stared at each other again, before Imoen offered her hand for Garrick to shake. He took it eagerly. "You have yourself an arrangement. Take us to this Silke!" Imoen commanded, not-so-commandingly.

"Wow, we really found work that fast, huh?" Neera was impressed.

"Never doubt my system!" Imoen declared. "Works every time."

"Your system of letting me literally wander into people?" Aphra criticized. Imoen shushed her.

Garrick led them to the eaves of the Red Sheaf Inn, where a woman waited for them outside and lit up at the sight of Garrick. Silke, as it turned out, was an actress whose propensity for drama outweighed her actual body. She was a small woman dressed in gray silks, whom immediately rubbed Aphra the wrong way just from the tone of her voice and apparent flare for drama. "Hail to you, adventurers," she greeted slyly, "I am Silke Rosena, thespian extraordinaire!"

"We're Imoen, Aphra, and Neera, and we heard you might have a job for us," Imoen greeted right back. Aphra folded her arms and grunted, per Imoen's instructions. Neera shifted restlessly and started going through her bag, muttering to herself.

"Indeed," Silke said, "I offer you three hundred gold in exchange for your services in defending me from a group of ruffians." She said this in a tone that suggested she would definitely prefer no questions be asked.

So of course, Imoen asked, "Who are they? Why are they coming to rough you up?"

"They are thugs hired by Feldpost," Silke reported in a clipped tone. "And—oh look! Here they are now!"

Conveniently, a group of three men in rather average looking leather armor and hoods appeared around the corner and swaggered up to Silke. Their hands didn't stray toward their weapons, although they were nonetheless armed as any sensible person should be in this crazy world. "Silke," one of them greeted casually, one in a red tunic and hood, "here we have the potion for—"

"After them! Before they can attack!" Silke cried.

Imoen drew her short-bow and Garrick his sword, but Aphra made no move and gave her sister a look that silenced any objections Imoen might have. Neera just kept looking through her bag, only looking up once toward Aphra as if to reassure herself that the young woman was still there, and kept at her mission. "And just who are you idiots?" Aphra demanded to know.

"W-we're just here to deliver the potion," the first 'thug' in red addressed. "Silke? What's going on?"

"They mean to rob me!" Silke cried as Aphra detected a scent around her that she had only ever previously smelled around Ulraunt. The man who hated her the most out of anyone in Candlekeep was also the one who feared her the most. Once she had learned that, it changed her feelings toward Ulraunt forever.

"No one's robbing anyone," Aphra declared, and in one fluid motion decked the actress right in the face with a closed, mailed fist. Silke fell to the ground in a heap and cried out, bleeding from the nose.

"Hah!" Neera started laughing immediately, pointing. The others were too shocked to react.

"Lathander's bosom!" swore the thug in red. The other two looked between each other with harried expressions. "Did she hire you to—"

"Kill you? Yes," Aphra answered. "Or rather she was to hire us as 'defense' against you."

"How dare you strike me!" Silke mumbled out from behind her broken nose, holding it in place. "I'll have you arrest—"

Aphra punched her in the face again, and she went down, this time unconscious. "What were you delivering?" Imoen wondered, shouldering her bow. Garrick put away his weapon, seeming surprised by the turn of events but not at all perturbed by the sight of his 'mistress' on the ground in a bleeding heap. He didn't even attempt to help her or stop Aphra, and simply watched the encounter unfold with wide eyes. Neera's laughter eventually died down, but her amusement was apparent in her gleeful expression.

"Just this potion, in exchange for some gems," the 'thug' revealed. "Er, here, you take it," he offered it to Imoen, who pocketed the potion gladly.

"Feel free to search her for those gems, I'm sure you'll find something of value," Aphra offered generously.

They did indeed find a shiny tiger's eye and a jet on Silke's unconscious body, and took them with nary a word about the incident further. The 'thugs' from Feldpost thanked them profusely for defusing the ugly situation that would have erupted into something nasty, and left the four of them standing around Silke's unconscious body wondering what to do.

"She's got a nice wand on her, I think I'll take that," Imoen said suddenly and pilfered the item from Silke's pockets.

"And her staff looks nice too," Neera commented, picking it up where it had fallen to the ground. Silke hadn't had time to use it, as it had fallen from her hands with Aphra's initial blow. It was about Neera's height, and wrapped in silvery metal at the ends for better impacting strikes. She tested its weight on the ground, leaning on it, and then drew back for a few practice strikes in the road. "Oh yeah, this is the stuff," she grinned, tucking the staff in close to her side. "What good's a mage without a staff, am I right or am I right?"

"Poor mistress Silke!" Garrick cried, a little dramatically. "Ah well, I suppose that's what happens when you're evil," he abruptly summarized with a shrug.

A black eyebrow crawled up Aphra's forehead. "What makes you think she's evil?" she wondered, confused.

"Well, she tried to trick us into killing those innocent men, after all," he said, blinking.

Aphra stared down at the actress form on the ground, and picked her up with little effort, tossing her over one shoulder in a gentle carry. "If that's your standard of evil, that says a lot about you, Garrick. Let's drop her off at the temple," she suggested.

"But not before we rob her of any valuables she might have," Imoen threw in. "Let me check her pockets again - ah, there's the gold she was going to pay us! Hurrah! Now we can sleep in an Inn instead of on the road for the night. Things are looking up for us, Aph! We're rapidly moving up in the world!" Imoen and Neera both cheered at this.

Garrick followed them all the way to the temple but seemed disinterested in looking after his supposed mistress. When they dropped off Silke to Kelddath and explained what had happened, the priest shooed the three of them away and they left the building to mill about outside with little direction.

"I don't suppose you're in need of a bard?" Garrick asked them.

Aphra, Imoen, and Neera all exchanged glances, and then Imoen cleared her throat and motioned Aphra forward. "Garrick, go stand over there, my sister, friend and I need to have a private discussion," Imoen instructed. Garrick dutifully turned away and went to go lean on one of the pillars outside the temple and whistled a catchy tune to himself.

"No one in the history of ever has actually had need of a bard," was the first thing Aphra said, disdainfully.

"I think if we give him a crossbow, he might be of use. Or we could use him as gibberling bait," Neera offered cheekily.

Aphra considered this. "Alright, I guess he can come along."

"Right! Plus he's cute," Imoen said. She broke away from the huddle and called the bard over. "Garrick! We've decided that there may be a use for you after all in our, er, little adventuring party!"

"Wonderful!" Garrick declared. "Where to next?"

"To the smithy, to get you better armor, and maybe a crossbow," Imoen instructed. "And maybe a few other supplies before heading out. I'm thinking we're going to look into this iron crisis that's going on."

"Iron crisis?" Aphra repeated, dubiously.

"Weren't you paying attention when I was talking to the Dawn Priests? The iron coming out of the mines lately is unfairly brittle," Imoen reported, looking a little disappointed in the lack of Aphra's attention.

Aphra stared down at her sword, stolen from Watcher Hull, and tested its edge with her finger. Dull against her skin, but still sharp enough to penetrate others. It didn't seem to be dulling or in danger of breaking, at least yet. Hull was lazy and hated his job, but he did take care of his weapon. "Well, what are we going to do about it?" She asked Imoen.

"Investigate! Until we find something more interesting to do, like a dungeon to explore, at least," Imoen said. "But first, I think we should go to the smithy, and then find an Inn."

"I vote yes on the Inn," Neera chimed in, leaning on her new silvery staff. "I've been on the run for months, and my feet could use the rest."

Aphra stood guard solemnly outside Thunderhammer's smithy while Imoen and Garrick suited up and upgraded their weapons. Taerom had been happy enough about Aphra's enthusiasm at first, until she started getting in the way and he demanded she leave. Smithies naturally excited her, but now she was grumpy. Neera stared at some wildflowers intently while Aphra sulked outside and occasionally admired Neera, but only when she was certain that the half-elf wouldn't notice. Aphra wasn't entirely sure what the source of her interest in the half-elven girl was, only that it was unexpected and that she didn't know what to do about it. She didn't have to dwell on it long, as soon Garrick walked out with a fresh set of leathers and a crossbow slung across his back with a full quiver of bolts, while Imoen had a few new pieces added to her armor and a new bow slung over her shoulder that looked tougher than her last one, with a fresh quiver of arrows.

They decided to return to the Red Sheaf Inn, reputedly the cheapest one in town, to rent a room for a night. The instant they walked into the dingy Inn, however, a dwarf in full armor drew an axe at the sight of the foursome and put himself right in the inner doorway to prevent them from accessing the Inn. "What's your fucking problem?" Aphra demanded to know.

"You're about ta be," the dwarf said. "Name's Karlat, not that it matters," he greeted, "since you're about ta be dead!"

"Wait, why are you—" Imoen started, drawing her bow in surprise, but she wasn't fast enough. Karlat charged her.

Aphra intercepted. With a swift and effortless heave, she grabbed the dwarf by the arm and used his own momentum to swing him around and toss him through the wall of the Inn where he tumbled outside, surprised. Karlat picked himself up from his predicament and shook himself, staring at the four of them, startled. A crossbow bolt immediately went through his neck in his surprise, and he clutched at it as it started to bleed profusely. Aphra took the opportunity of Karlat's distraction to run him through with Hull's sword, and he was dead before he realized it.

The Inn was suddenly silent as everyone paused in their drinking and merry-making to stare at the sudden scene. The Innkeeper, from behind the inner bar, rushed forward, dropping the towel he held in his hand to take in the sight with wide eyes. "What—you made a hole in my wall!" He raged, standing inside the hole.

"He tried to kill me!" Aphra defended angrily from outside the hole.

"If there's to be a fight in my Inn, you take it outside!" The Innkeeper declared.

"We are outside!" Aphra pointed out, stamping her foot and gesturing to the slowly cooling dwarf. Imoen had already begun to ransack the corpse, and was finding a few bits of coin and a strange paper that she was busily reading. Neera was looking over her shoulder with interest, leaning on her new staff while Garrick thumbed his crossbow idly. Technically, he was the only one still inside.

"I'm going to have to charge you for this," said the Innkeeper, glaring at the young woman.

Frustrated and feeling helpless because she couldn't just punch her way through this problem without being charged for more damages she couldn't afford, Aphra began to cry out of anger. It was a reaction that she personally hated, but was helpless to stop - sometimes when she was so frustrated or angry, she cried rather than raged.

Thankfully, the sight of a young bloodstained woman in absolute tears seemed to cool the Innkeeper's temper quite a bit, and he started to back away, looking flustered.

Garrick stepped in at that moment, and turned on the charm. "Now see here my good man," he began, "this young woman has just suffered the death of her entire family, and was forced into a life of adventure in order to make ends meet!" He lied effortlessly. Aphra sniffled and suddenly understood the appeal of having a bard around. "She can hardly help that one of your patrons took issue with her appearance and saw fit to attack her at first sight. She can barely afford to—"

"Ah Hells," the Innkeeper interrupted, looking exasperated. "I don't need this! Just—just get out of here! All of you!"

Garrick redirected Aphra gently by the arm outside near the dwarf's body, where Imoen was still reading the paper she'd pilfered off of Karlat's corpse. He offered Aphra a hand-kerchief that she accepted gratefully as she blew her nose.

"You're going to regret following us," Aphra informed him. "We're trouble magnets."

"So are the best adventurers," Garrick deflected. "Worry not, my lady! I'll protect you."

That had her laughing, which finally put an end to the tears.

"Aphra, read this," Imoen instructed, handing her the paper. Both she and Neera had grim expressions upon their face after perusing it.

It took several re-reads for it to sink in for Aphra that her name was written on the paper, and to understand that it was an apparent bounty notice. "What—why would someone do this?" She blinked and handed the paper back to her sister.

"For the same reason someone would try to kill you," Imoen answered quickly as she dug out her journal from Aphra's pack and stuffed the notice inside it. "Clearly someone out and about wants you dead."

"What is it?" Garrick wondered.

Aphra considered how much to tell him, but considering he'd just helped kill a random angry dwarf for her and not even batted an eye, she relented. Perhaps he could be a good friend, if she gave him the opportunity. "It's a bounty notice for me, dead or alive, for a pittance of gold, really. I'm almost insulted," she added.

"I'm sure after this they'll up the price," Imoen said, trying to comfort her. "Let's not mention your name in public and try another Inn. This city has several. Garrick? Do you know of any better Inns nearby with less bounty hunters in them?" She looked to the bard.

Garrick perked up. "Of course! Follow me, compatriots!" He marched off, and they followed him, amused. Aphra tucked the hand-kerchief in her pack as they strolled up to a place called the Burning Wizard.

Immediately upon entry, a halfling that was roaming about attempted to pickpocket Neera. Aphra caught him in the act and instinctively kicked away from her forcefully, causing him to fly over a few tables and land behind the bar where he shattered several bottles of expensive alcohol. They all three winced simultaneously and were promptly kicked out of the Burning Wizard Inn by the absolutely indignant barkeep.

It followed then that the moment they tried to get into Feldpost's, a patron took issue with Aphra and her party's appearances and ostensible occupations as adventurers and tried to start a fight with her. It wasn't hard to evade his drunken blows but it was harder not to instinctively fight back. Instead, she redirected the momentum of one of his wild swings and and threw him into the bar - not quite breaking it, but definitely shattering some glass and making a dent. He didn't get back up though judging by his breathing didn't seem to be dead, but the bartender was still absolutely furious. "Out! OUT!" Was all he would say. Aphra sighed and escorted herself outside, followed by her sister and new friends. They were effectively lifetime-banned from three Inns in the span of a day.

"They say third time's the charm, but maybe we can skip this one since we didn't violently kill anyone this time," Neera offered cheerily in the silence that followed this event.

Imoen laughed, but it was somewhat strained sounding. They finally decided to head to a place called the Jovial Juggler. Upon their entry, they were greeted by fellow adventurers who kept their weapons sheathed with smiles; no one tried to rob or kill them, and they deemed this an excellent omen. Imoen paid for their room since she had ostensibly put herself in charge of finances - they decided to share a room that had four cots, with one cot filled with their packs. Neera had the least - merely a change of clothes and what was in her satchel. The four decided to venture out to purchase better camping gear tomorrow with the rest of Silke's money.

Imoen explained to their new friends the nuts and bolts of their history, mentioning their recently deceased father but leaving out his manner of death, discussing their current task to investigate the iron crisis but leaving out their mission to find (and kill) the horned man. It was a strange ending to a stranger day, but Aphra managed to get comfortable when she left her uncomfortable bunk and put her blanket and lumpy pillow on the hard floor. She had never really been able to sleep in bunks, preferring floors, and she drifted off into unconsciousness listening to stories Imoen was telling Garrick and Neera about life in Candlekeep amongst the monks, and all the pranks she had pulled over the years.

Aphra's last coherent thought, before wakening in a foreign cage surrounded by darkness so impenetrable that all one could hear was the distant rattle of chains and all one could smell was the scent of blood and rats, was that she hoped that Garrick didn't write any books about her awful adventure so far. They were hardly heroic, more haphazard and borderline dangerous, killing things left and right and stumbling toward profit.

Curiously, before awakening she had a dream. In it she stood on the banks of a river that ran sluggishly with blood, carrying bones and bits of flesh downstream. She remembered the river rising on the banks, the clatter of the bones, and a hissing, sibilant whisper telling her she was unworthy.

"Ah, I see the Child of Bhaal has awoken," drawled a man's voice laconically. Aphra had to squint in the sudden new darkness for her eyes to adjust. She felt weaker than she'd ever felt in her life, and realized she was on the floor of a cage two seconds too late. "It is time for more . . . Experiments," continued the man, in front of her on the other side of the cage. She was able to make no sense of her circumstance, nor piece anything together before he sent a shock of light that hit her square between the eyes, blinding her and sending her back into unconsciousness with a pained scream.

Once more, she saw the river of blood rushing past. The impossible tide of it rising, rising until it touched her feet. She could not move. It came up to her legs. Bones and reeking, leaking flesh swept past her. The sky burned, like it was falling or on fire, and the river kept rising until it reached her chin, and then engulfed her in a sea of red . . . and then all was black.

---

Not all BG characters have made the cut so if you don't see your very favorite I'm sorry. I tried to include as many as I feasibly could. I understand; I had to cut some of my favorites for time (Jan, Xan, Alora, Safana, Faldorn) and relegate them to more minor roles, but since there are plenty of stories out here on the interwebs I'm sure there is one out there that will satisfy your fan-favorite-fix.