A Humble Request
Gerrick Greystone walks alone through the encampment of The Gauntlet of Torm on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. The moon is full, and turns the camp into a blue tinted haven. Colors return to normal when he passes the occasional fire, and at those moments the men huddled around the fire always take notice of him. There is a smile, or nod. Some bow in respect, and the occasional warrior shouts the dwarf’s name and slams his fist to his heart. One paladin draws his sword and kneels reverently before Gerrick, his sword point planted into the ground. In all cases, Gerrick returns a silent head bow.
When he reaches the command tent, the two men guarding it don’t even move to stop him, but rather pull the tent flap open for him. Gerrick enters, to find the tent bright and warm from the numerous lit braziers within the tent. Nulara Silverstorm stands with her back to the dwarf in deep conversation with two other commanders, men Gerrick recognizes as Krohl, and Raylkor. When she notes that the men’s attention has shifted from her to the entrance, Nulara turns and faces Gerrick.
“Gerrick,” she says, her face breaking into a wide smile, “You should have told me you were coming. I would have had a feast prepared. Krohl, go and fetch food and drink from the quartermaster, quickly!” Krohl moves to leave, but Gerrick puts his hand up and the paladin stops in his tracks.
“Please,” the dwarf says, “I’m stuffed as it is, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” The truth was that Gerrick’s stomach was still somewhat unsettled after enduring the ministrations of Bartholomew’s ritual to remove the disease that plagued the dwarf since the sewers.
“My time is ever yours, noble Gerrick.” Nulara says, “Besides, we were discussing that wretch you pulled from the sewers. Raylkor and Krohl will lead most of the companies from the Gauntlet back to Elturgard, along with our new prisoner, Georgen Homfray.” The dwarf paladin’s eyes take in the tall form of Raylkor, remembering how the paladin punched the nobleman, costing Homfray a few teeth. The man looks haunted, he thinks to himself, not like Krohl at all. The rumor was that the paladin led the refugee militia, and put himself and his men at great risk to keep them safe. The fresh angry scar that runs the length of Raylkor’s cheek and continues down his neck is an ugly reminder, no doubt, of the men he lost that day. Gerrick almost pities Lord Homfray at that moment. Raylkor will make his journey a living hell.
“Most of the Gauntlet,” Gerrick says casually, “but not all of the army?”
“No.” Nulara says, “There is still work to be done here.”
“But you have Homfray,” the dwarf continues, “What more is there to do?”
“I’m no fool.” Nulara says, her face stern, “Homfray could not have acted alone when he spied on my nation, nor when he escaped from the Duke’s dungeons. The Twilight Brotherhood is corrupt; perhaps even members of the other merchant guilds were involved as well. The money smiths here hold too much power, and the Duke cannot keep them in line.”
“Still,” Gerrick says cautiously, “Georgen Homfray is the grand prize, is he not? You can return a hero on that achievement alone, nevermind the role your force played in freeing the city.”
“I’m not interested in heroics. I’m interested in justice.”
“You have brought justice and righteousness to the very streets of this city. Let Homfray face the interrogations of your inquisitionists. He will confess names to you in no time, and the Duke will arrest those men on your request.” Gerrick argues diplomatically. The diva’s eyes narrow as she regards the dwarf suspiciously.
“Why is it so important that we leave?” Nulara asks quietly. Gerrick smiles at her.
“I gave my word that I would try to convince you that the sons and daughters of Elturgard belong in Elturgard, under the bright sun of Torm’s eye.” The dwarf paladin replies, “The person I promised is not someone you or I would owe any loyalty too under normal circumstances, but when I think about it now, I realize that they are correct. You need to take your army home now.
“Baldur’s Gate needs to rebuild. It has many months, maybe years, ahead where it needs to work together to bring itself back to the glory it once held. It can’t do that with the merchant caste looking over its shoulders, worrying that they will be dragged off based on a rival’s accusations whispered into the ears of an Elturgard paladin.
“And an idle army is a terrible thing to control. Wouldn’t you rather leave while your men are remembered as the heroes of the city?”
Nulara stands silently regarding the dwarf, until finally her serious expression breaks, and she chuckles, shaking her head. The two men with her exchange a look of confusion, unused to seeing their commander laugh.
“Gerrick Greystone,” Nulara finally says, “armed with nothing but humble words, he manages to displace an entire army of Elturgard’s finest. You are correct, friend. It is time for us to go home.”
Gerrick smiles to himself. He shakes hands and exchanges well wishes with the three paladins before turning to leave. At the tent flap he pauses and reaches into his pack.
“Also,” the dwarf says, as he pulls a gold plated and valved glaur horn from his pack, “You can bring this back as well.” Gerrick holds it out to Nulara, whose stunned face seems frozen in time. Krohl falls to his knees immediately, his sword held before him in salute to the dwarf. Raylkor shakes his head slowly, disbelief plain on his face.
“Do you know what that is?” Nulara finally says, her voice no more than a whisper.
“It’s a fancy horn,” Gerrick says, his eyes mischievous, “though I hear Torm himself may have once used it. And it makes a roar that no trumpet can match.”
“You… you sounded it yourself?” the deva says as she steps forward gingerly, her eyes locked on the horn.
“No, of course not,” Gerrick answers as he hands Nulara the horn, which she gingerly takes in both hands, “I’m not worthy of such a fine instrument.” The dwarf takes the opportunity to leave while the three paladins stare in reverently at the artifact.
“He… he has to know how sacred this is to us…” Raylkor says finally finding his voice.
“He knows.” Nulara Silverstorm says finally, he voice hoarse as tears stream from her eyes.
The Slayer
The Elfsong Tavern, normally drowned in the sounds of revelry and celebration stands completely quiet, with only the eerie song of the returned phantom singing faintly filling the void. At the center of the common room, a barmaid stands, her cheeks flushed with excitement, as the hearth crackles softly behind her. The packed tavern has cleared a space around her, and all eyes watch as she suddenly hurls two wooden ale tankards high into the air.
There is a collective intake of breath from the mute crowd a heartbeat before two arrows streak out, striking each cup and pinning them to the wooden support beams via their handles, a full ten feet apart. The crowd roars its approval, and Asturean, his greatbow in hand, steps down from his table and lands deftly in his chair, the crowd surging around him once more as the room explodes into a cacophony of celebration again. Many observers throw coins on the table as the agreed wagers are paid out in full.
“Like I said,” The elf says with confidence, “that’s how I took down Homfray when he attempted to escape. One in each leg.”
“Go on,” begs a face in the crowd, “Tell us the rest.”
“What about the dragon?!?” demands another. Asturean chuckles, his eyes gleaming.
“Ah yes,” the elf says, the crowd leaning in to his every word, “the black dragon was terrifying indeed, but even it fled before me… I mean ‘us’. When it turned to bellow its fury at my companions, that’s when I planted two arrows into its gullet.”
“Wait, I heard the shadar-kai monk killed the dragon in the Wide.” interrupts one of the audience members. Asturean just waves his words away.
“No, not that dragon,” he says with his characteristic smirk, “and that dragon was dead already, right? I killed the one in league Homfray. The flesh and blood one. The real one.”
“Two down the throat of a roaring dragon?” one of the bar patrons says incredulously.
“He wasn’t roaring after that.” Asturean says definitively.
“That’s an impossible shot!” Exclaims another skeptically.
“Oh?” The elf retorts, his eyes dancing with delight as he jumps to the tabletop again, “You want to wager on that?”
The crowd erupts into excited shouting and begins chanting “Dragonsbane!” as one, just as Asturean notches two more arrows to his greatbow.
Black Cloaks and Sharp Daggers
The two shadowy figures move silently into the darkened alley. With the opening of the ports, and the return of much needed supplies via merchant ships, Baldur’s Gate seems determined to celebrate the entire night. But deep inside the darkened narrow streets, these two move noiselessly. At the end of the alley, they stop confused.
“Is this the right place?” the first asks in hushed tones.
“Yes,” the second man replies nervously, “this is where he said to meet them.”
“And yet, you cannot see them.” A new voice says behind them. The two men turn quickly, each pulling a knife from beneath there cloaks, but Omarlyn Khan, the source of the voice, is much quicker than them. The first man is swept to the ground with a deft kick and the second finds himself spun around with a dagger at his throat, his own knife clutched firmly behind his back by his agile captor. He feels the unnaturally cold edge of the blade on the skin of neck, and ceases to struggle.
“Wait,” says the first man who lies in a heap on the cobblestones, “don’t kill him, we’re not here to quarrel!”
“Oh?” Omarlyn says coolly, “then why set two crossbowmen above, then?”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well if they aren’t with you, then you won’t mind when my comrade kills them.” Omarlyn states with a vicious smile, “Morpheus, you can kill them both.” he shouts.
“No!” the second man says, his voice full of fear, “They’re with us!”
Omarlyn smirks, twists the dagger from his captive’s hand, and then kicks the man into a heap next to the first man. A dark cloud of shadow explodes behind Khan as Morpheus appears suddenly. The shadar-kai steps to the two men cowering on the street and drops two broken crossbows at their feet.
“Take these.” The monk says, “The next time you set such a poor ambush, I will kill your crossbowmen out of principle, instead of knocking the fools unconscious.”
“Why try and kill us?” Omarlyn says, glaring at the two men, “And where is Arthem?”
“Arthem sent us,” says the larger of the two men, “Please, don’t kill us. We were worried, is all. We heard horrible tales of the shade, and we thought you might try and kill us.” The man looks to the shadows, his eyes filled with terror, “he’s… he’s not here is he?”
“Legion,” Morpheus spits the word, “is not with us.”
“What does Arthem want?” Omarlyn says, as he puts his dagger away and gestures for the two men to get up. They brush themselves off as they rise.
“Message from Keene,” the large man says, “She’s heard that the Elturgard paladins will be scouring the city, looking for anyone who aided Homfray. Keene says that’s not what was agreed.”
Morpheus just stares the two men down for the span of a dozen heartbeats.
“Does she think we command them?’ the monk says sternly.
“Well…” the man says slowly, “those were her words… not… mine.”
“Tell Keene that we’ve done what we can,” Omarlyn, “and she shouldn’t worry about the paladins, unless of course she helped Homfray.” The thief raises an eyebrow at that thought but the two men shake their heads in denial.
“Leave us.” Morpheus orders the men, “and the next time you try and kill us, it will be only your finger that makes it back to Keene. ”
“The rest,” Omarlyn Khan finishes, “no one will find.”
Where Shadows Meet
The site of the camp where Jaeron and his Quick Blade mercenary group settled is abandoned, and the refugees camped down the hill have long since looted the tents and gear the company left behind. The broken stone tower remains overlooking the bay of Baldur’s Gate, and standing at the cliff side, Legion stares out at the moonlit waters.
There are several merchant ships at anchor now, and the sounds of the docks can be heard even at this great distance. The shade looks down to the palm of his hand where a bright blue flower rests. The flower is called The Azureheart by locals here, but the shade knows it by a dozen different names he’s heard it named in his lifetime.
The snap of a branch behind him alerts Legion to a new arrival. He does not turn around, but rather continues to stare out over the city.
“You’re late.” The shade says.
“My apologies,” a voice behind him says, “but I had to make sure I was not followed.”
For several minutes there is nothing said between the two, and the stranger finally speaks again, when he realizes the shade will not.
“I have information,” the voice says, hesitantly. Legion still does not turn, or even acknowledge the statement.
“Sardis is not in Baldur’s Gate.” The stranger says, “He left shortly after the triggering of the event in Bloomridge. There are different rumors as to where he was headed, but none of them very good leads.”
“I’m not interested in rumors,” Legion says harshly, “and your information is stale. I already knew he was gone. We had an arrangement, you and I, and if you can’t keep up your end of the bargain…” The shade says nothing, but let’s the threat hang in the air. Legion turns slowly to face the voice behind him. The shade looks the stranger up and down with his cold eyes.
“I suppose I shouldn’t blame you,” Legion says, “I would imagine a drow would have a hard time getting any information in Baldur’s Gate.”
“The city is more accepting than you think,” the drow replies, “and I can fetch a wealth of information in the Underdark.” Legion‘s brows rise in interest.
“So is that where Sardis went then?” The shade asks quietly, “To the Underdark?”
“Perhaps,” the drow answers, “but you need to give me time. Trust me, I’m excellent at gathering information, I will get you what I promised.”
“Do not fail me.” Legion says darkly as he turns back to the harbor. Behind him, he hears the drow slip silently away. The shade stares at the bay for a long time, before he crushes the flower in his hand and throws it angrily to the ground.
What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor?
The dockside taverns in Baldur’s Gate are overflowing with sailors and citizens alike, each toasting each other and singing celebrations over gallons of ale and cheap spirits. Inside the “Spitting Mermaid” first mate Revik and his half-elf boatswain, Gorem of the Aquablade, squeeze their way to the bar between two locals who raise their glasses at the two men and take a long pull from tankards.
“Well met,” nods Revik to the strangers.
“Aye,” says the blonde mad to the right, as the bartender fills his tankard and drops two fresh ales in front of the newcomers before disappearing down the bar. The place is packed tight, and the men are forced to shout to hear each other.
“Morris, there and meself, we saw action in the liberation.” The dark haired man on their left tells them, gesturing to the blond. The dark haired man rolls up his sleeve to show nasty burn scars to the two sailors.
“Name’s Treffer,” dark hair says, “and I got worse burns on me back too. Burning pitch.” Treffer smiles broadly at Revik and Gorem. “I was there when we breeched the wall into the Duke’s palace. We got routed by a large Zhent force.” He drinks deeply of his ale and stares hard at the bar.
“Thought we was goners, the whole lot of us. But then Hart Stonefield and the one they called Legion showed up. Damn, but the shade killed them Zhents by the wagonload. Never seen anything so glorious and horrifying in all my life.”
“You should have seen the skeleton dragon in the Wide!” Morris exclaims, “I ain’t gonna lie, I pissed myself when I heard that nightmare screech. I was hurling rocks at fleeing Zhentarim soldiers from a roof top when I saw it land. Damn me. But them five stood their ground. Even saw the shadar-kai punch clean through the thing’s chest.”
“Which five are you referring to?” asks Revik.
“Gerrick Greystone, Morpheus, Asturean, Omarlyn, and the cleric, what’s his name again?” Treffer answers.
“Bartholomew Rhum.” Finishes Morris for him. Gorem looks shocked and shakes his head.
“Did you say Bartholomew Rhum?” the half-elf asks confused.
“Yeah.” Treffer says, “He helped heal the wounded after the dust settled. That’s why I’m still alive. He worked magic on me burns. That man’s a true hero as far as I am concerned. To Rhum!” Treffer raises his ale, and Morris echoes his gesture. Both men drink a good half of the ale before slamming the cups back to the bartop.
“And curse Amn and all its underhanded mischief.” Morris states, “the bastards locked out any help from sea the whole time. As far as I’m concerned, the Duke ought’a declare war!”
Revik looks uncomfortable at that moment, and sips slowly at his ale.
“Aye,” seconds Treffer, “I say we slit the throat of every Amn dog that lands in port from here on in…” Gorem forces a smile and then finishes his ale quickly, before grabbing his first mate’s arm and turning to leave the bar.
“Thanks for the chat, lads!” the half-elf says in friendly tones. “Sir,” he whispers into Revik’s ear, “I think it’s best you stay aboard the ship tonight while we’re in port, seeing as how your from Athkatla.”
“I think I agree,” Revik says, as they make their way to the door. “Tell me, this Rhum fellow, you know of him don’t you?”
“Yes,” Gorem says, “He’s from Skaug, the same as me. I’ve heard his name spoken up and down the Sword Coast for the last year or so. ”
“His name rings a bell,” Revik says as he reaches the door, “Ah yes, he and his companions stopped an evil plot by the Aboleth Sovereignty in Amn. Must be good to see a local boy rise to the ranks of respectable heroes.”
“Truth be told,” Gorem says with a smile, as they step into the night air, “it makes me proud”. The half-elf stumbles suddenly over the prone form of a snoring sailor lying in a puddle of filth in the street.
“Idiot.” Gorem shouts at the unconscious man, “You give respectable seamen a bad name”. He kicks the drunkard roughly before moving off with his first mate, completely unaware that the man he just struck is none other than Batholomew Rhum.
