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[cmorgan]

It started as a simple idea - blow off some steam in a PbP with some friends. Candlekeep Company began with the premise that Sarevok won the opening cutscene in Baldurs Gate, his ambush succeeding. Similar to the Turtledove Alternate History books, the idea was to play the series forward with logical consequences - and a more in-depth look at the world surrounding the players. No Bhaalspawn this time around, just a large group af well equipped seasoned professionals attempting to save the world.
Unfortunately, real life and modding takes its toll, and CC is no more. So this fanfic is a retelling and extension of these ideas, with guest authors and joint posts brought in with the original author's blessings. The point of view may switch, and this may tell itself as more of a series of short stories chained together, but it should be an interesting ride. Unnattributed sections are usually built from DM posts and backstory.
Author/contributors to the PbP series threads used: Sir Kalthorine, Tempest, Celestine, Berelinde, K'aeloree, Bluenose, Kellen, Ilmatar, and cmorgan

Prologue

- * -

The bodies were new, and undisturbed. The blood trails spiraled outwards in neatly defined curves, weaving an intricate pattern of gore across the glade, pausing only for an occasional powdery rock in the charred crater. Even the carrion creatures avoided the circle as if it had been cursed. The scouting party stood motionless, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

"What in Mystra's name could do that..." Olealis retched once, but forced herself to follow her training, settling back into watchful silence as she called her hunting dog back to her heels. Hull nodded at her control, and spat once on the ground before replying. "Aye. Both of them dead, and from the looks of it not by bandits. Bandits don't usually play games with their victim's entrails. Or play at vivisection." His hands nervously tossed the charred remains of Gorion's staff from hand to hand, each slap more painful than the next. "At least they gave them Torm's Own Shield of a fight. This place smells of eldritch fire and unatural death. And Gorion was not as defenseless as he appeared. We had best report immediately, and not remain here as a target. If they could do that, then we would be crushed as easily as flies."

Turning abruptly, he stalked past the remains, eyes searching, seeking. As he passed Olealis, he clapped her on the shoulder; "Scout north and east, no more than two or three yards into the brush. I want you in sight, and that dog of yours, too." He paused, eyes burning past hers, looking more inwards than out. "Do not worry. We will have our revenge. I know some people. If the Librarians cuddle back into their books an avoid this, I can call in some favors and stir them up a little. You say nothing to anyone, do you understand? This is the kind of happening that leads to many deaths. I will report it, and you will try to forget. I do not want you involved, daughter."

- * -

The sharp *rap* of the gavel snapped through the buzz and whisper of discussion from the council chamber, its echos slowly muting as the corridors of books and parchament soak up the sound like water on desert sand.

"I believe the Harpers have the floor". Terminsel gestured to the druid and her companion standing at the edge of the mahogany table, and the thirty assembled there turn and craned their heads to see. "Go ahead, Jaheira."

"Librarians, Guild Representatives, Waterdeep and Baldur's Gate Ambassadors, and Temple Representatives." Jaheira's voice is rough, brisk, and flat.
"I care not for your blather. Nature is not in balance, and she will not wait. The Harpers will act. If you join us, we will succede. If you do not, then we will die trying to rebalance the world alone. It is as simple as that."

"My d-d-dear, I t-think you sp-peak harshly..." The tall elf standing by her side placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, but Jaheira brushed it away with a scowl.

"No, Khalid, they talk and talk but do not act. Gorion is murdered, and his young charge. Imoen has vanished, and we did not even suspect that she might have the taint. We here in this room know what stakes we play for, and these fools do nothing but talk..."

"You know we have no time left. We cannot form committees. The Lord of Murder is gathering his forces. We must form a company and train them, send them to uncover these plots, and support them with what hirelings and henchmen are necessary. We must work quickly, for we all have our own forces to gather, if they should fail. Yet you persist in discussion and prattle..."

"Enough." the sharp syllable sliced through Jaheira's talk as cleanly a knife across her throat. The ornate clothing of the Thieve's Guild representative contrasts oddly with the feral gaze he sends the Harper's way. "We have heard. We do not think there are enough experienced adventurers to meet our needs. There is not a balanced Company to hire, nor one to form. Are we to gamble our fortunes on such long odds? This is not one of my wheels or dice games, Harper. I cannot shift this in favor of the house. "

"And what of the costs?" The Merchant's Guild Representative spit across his glass, his jowls shaking in anger. "We lose more every day, and you would have us strip our caravans and supply a Company? We cannot remain in business under these conditions."

Terminsel turns and his wry voice forms a dry chuckle; "Malborn, if Bhaal awakens there will be no trade. Save perhaps your soul for a few moments of bliss before eternal torture. The God of Murder by his very nature is bad for business."

"We have younger members to send along, and we will gladly do so." Gond's representative stands, speaking for the Temples of Baldur's Gate. " Lathander, Helm, Gond, Waukeen - we will help. But we have no one powerful to spare, lest the evil ones take advantage of our flocks." His eyes rest on the Stormmistress of Talos across the table from him.

"The do-gooders and sit-on-the-fencers will not build their strength alone." Talos' representative stands quickly, her face mirroring the storm clouds of her god, her eyes attempting to destroy the Gondian with sheer hatred; "Talos, Mask, even the filthy Crimson Tower will not wish to share power with the Broken God. But we will not be fooled by stinking weaklings attempting to gain the upper hand. Our most powerful stay where we can protect our flocks from the perversion and obscenity of your existence, filth!"

Terminsel buries his head in his hands for a moment, sighing. For the third time tonight, things again have spiraled out of hand. He gestures and mutters for a second, and the room falls completely silent, though the gathered representatives continue to gesture and threaten, bluster and argue, until one by one they realize the magical silence has effectively stopped their communication. Slowly, they sit down, one by one, until the chamber is motionless. Terminsel waves his hand, dispelling his handiwork, and picks up the gavel again.

"My lady Jaheira, will you give me the floor? Perhaps I can help." The clear soprano voice of a trained bard pauses his gavel.

Jaheira sighs, but stops her angry retort before it leaves her mouth, and looks to Terminsel. "Yes, I yield. Again."

"The Chair recognises Sheri Avignon, Ambassador of Waterdeep." Terminsel gestures to the young bardess, standing now on the far end of the table, her hair gleaming coppery in the flickering lanternlight.

"My lords and ladies, Jaheira makes good sense. I was sent to evaluate the danger to Waterdeep posed by the Bhaalspawn here, but my mission is over before it has begun. Instead, I find that the troubles are far worse than anticipated, and that the hope for our salvation hidden here by the Librarians lies slain on the Trade Way."

"We have assembled here representatives of the most powerful forces found in Northwest Faerun. I may be young and inexperienced, but even I can see that this requires that we all work together to save our various factions."

"Coin is of no object. The Masked Lords of Waterdeep have communicated with me, and authorized this." With a quick twist of her slim wrist, the Bardess tosses a small jewel onto the center of the table. The emerald clatters there skittering along, and when it comes to rest a bright light glows from it. In the air, a picture forms, a picture of chests and carts laden with jewels and gold - a literal Dragon's hoard. "The expeditions to the Spine of the World have destroyed the Black Dragon Raurrtha. His hoard is our pledge."

She looks around the table. "We do not seek to cause war by interfering in the business of Candlekeep and Baldurs Gate. We understand that no one else can match our coin. But Waterdeep has only armies, navies, and coin to give to the cause. Baldur's Gate has Guilds and Temples with advisors and hirelings to assist an Adventuring Company, and prepare them. The various Guilds have information, powerful contacts, and a network of spies and communication to provide. The Harpers have their own sources, their own information, and they do not seek temporal power. But they do not have the forces to be able to handle this. And frankly, every one of us around this table trusts none of the others - our independence from eachother's influence is our common denominator."

She pauses and looks directly at the Head Librarian, huddled in his seat and in the folds of his robes.
"You, my dear scholar, have the three things most needed and most desired by everyone here. You have knowledge, and the ability to supply it. You have independence of name and will, garnered for hundreds of years, so that no one can see you using this band to overthrow us all. And you have a third thing."

"You have been wronged. One of your own scholars has been destroyed, and his work destroyed as well. The Walls of Candlekeep are meant to protect knowledge from storms both temporal and spiritual. But your walls have been breached by spies and agents, your work mocked, your neutrality torn from you, your very existence put to question."

"If you do not act now and form this company, training them for the great fight to begin, than in two years' time the Waterdhavian Army will be throwing their lives away assaulting these very walls. The Mercenaries and Guilds of Baldur's Gate will be struggling in these corridors, their blood soaking your precious books and reddening your already bleaching bones. And Candlekeep..."

"Candlekeep..."

"Candlekeep will become another Ulcastle. A glorious remnant of a time before the Lord of Murder's offspring ruled all Faerun. A whispered tale by the few remaining Bards, who talk of a time when reading existed, and when information traveled freely. A time when equals could co-exist, not locked under the domination of Evil and Tryrrany."

"We live and die with Candlekeep, Librarian. We all do. If you form the company, and we all pledge to support it, then perhaps we shall all be able to resume our infighting and squabbles in a decade or so. But if we wish that freedom, we must work together; for without the growth of a new and independent Company, we all surely will fall. What say you, Scholar? Is the scholarly pen mightier than Bhaal's swordlike talons?"

The aged Librarian sits with eyes downcast, his gnarled hands gripping his quill and one hand resting on the Prophecies of Alaoundo. In the silence, he slowly raises his head, his eyes searching out the young Bardess. With firm but steady strokes of his quill, the Librarian ends a chapter in Candlekeeps' history, and unlocks the door to a new future for all Faerun.

- * -

Nerai bursts into the inn, scattering plates like leaves in the wind. Dashing past Winthrop, he begins to hurriedly snatch his clothing, a short sword, his blanket...

"What in the Nine Hells are you doing, boy?" Winthrop speaks around the corner of his tankard, for once siting instead of standing behind the bar.

Nerai turns quickly, tears running freely down his face.
"Imoen is gone. I should go search for her. I can wield a sword, and my magic studies are moving along well enough. I can help find her."

Winthrop's hand slaps the table, and his growl fills the room.
"Shut your mouth, boy. You talk of finding Imoen, but she is not lost. She has been taken. And by a force that smashed Gorion like a hen's egg. You cannot even beat me at simple games, and certainly not at swordplay, old and out of practice though I am."

"I may have adventured in my youth, and you have the spirit. Perhaps even the skill some day. But this is not the tales of old, Nerai. No young lad barely out of apprenticeship should be heading out to tackle a force that can bring down an archmage. To even dream such a thing is feeding yourself to your enemy, and denying reality. How many adventurers never come back, boy? Men and women with years of experience, powerful artifacts, and the love of the gods?"

"Leave this to the professionals. And clean the larder again. You and I, we will be most useful doing what we do best. Cooking, cleaning, and making sure the ones doing the fighting get back out there and track down Imoen and bring her back to us."

- * -

"Do you think they will succeed?" Olealis watched the messengers ride quickly through the gate, mud splattering as the light rain seeped into each of the onlookers.

Hull studied the horizon, his voice pitched low and soft. "If it were not for you, daughter, I would not care. All I would have is revenge for a good man and the boy he was trying to protect, and how they got that revenge would be up to them. I might even ride with them and die knowing I had backed a good friend. But from what I hear whispered between the bookshelves, the world does not realize that unless they succeed, we are all dead or enslaved. So for your sake...


I hope so."

[cmorgan]

Chapter 1 - Gathering

Cloakwood

The crossbow bolt thudding into the wet wood beside his head was the last straw. Iain's cheerful twang belied his anxiousness, but the underlying quaver told of either nervous energy or fear. Unfortunately, he really could not tell which it was at the moment. But it was time to take these few attackers a little more seriously, instead of waiting for help to arrive.

"Scuddy, for the love of the gods, are we just going to sit here?"

The rumbling from the ancient dwarf stuffed farther behind him into the space underneath the wagon sounded suspiciously like snoring. Given that the dwarf was older than several generations of Iain's family and seemed to live on hardtack and alcohol, that was not particularly suprising. Heaving a deep sigh, the ranger slammed his fist on the broken axle and grimaced in exasperation as the iron band holding the axle partially crumbled under his fist. Crumbling iron was as wrong as it gets. For years, calling something Nashkell Iron was a high compliment, considering the dwarven smiths often refused shipments of anything else, preferring to wait to engrave their mithral edges on only the finest. These days, calling something "Nashkell iron" had replaced snide comments on wooden trade bars, dwarven generosity, shares in Calimshan trade routes across the trackless wastes, and other scams on the unwary purse.

"Scuddy, wake up. I told you we should have used the oldest parts in storage, but you must be as hard headed as you are hard of hearing. The whole blighted wagon is going to crush us if we do not do something soon. Wake up, you good for nothing rockeater..."

A flash of brown movement caught the corner of his eye, and with careful precision he fired another bolt, rolling on his back to work the winching mechanism to reload. The mud smelled of horsedung and garbage, but that was better than the road up ahead, which undoubtedly had added the odor of decomposing bodies and carrion offal. Vaguely, he wondered if the entire group had been caught in the crossfire, or just this section. The wolves on the Trade Way last night were remarkable enough, but understandable, as wild things forage far afield when times are lean. But the movements of humans really had not interested him for years. And now this particular band of humans had decided to practice their banditry on a small band of nondescript riders making their way from Candlekeep to Baldur's Gate. Iain smiled grimly as he lined up another shot. At least this particular bandit group was massively overmatched. When the outriders realized this battle was going on, the brigands were in for a very nasty surprise. There is nothing quite like watching a skilled warrior carve her way through four opponents at a time, except perhaps watching a sage who has studied magical tomes for forty years suddenly discover that his precious books were in danger. With any luck, the sage might even remember to tailor the fireblast to preserve the undercover nature of the expedition. The safest place to be, in either event, was as close to the books as possible. An ancient mage might accidentally blow the rock of the Trade Way a mile into the air, but those books would be as safe as a babe in its mother's arms.

The southern exposure was filled with crackling brush, signs that several bandits were rushing the wagon. Iain absentmindedly rooted through his worn leather beltpouch, fingers seeking a small piece of chokeweed, studying the terrain. His mind carefully going over the runes of power and reaching out to Nature and the Weave, he made his decision and concentrated on a small patch of undergrowth a few yards in from the edge of the treeline. A quick gesture, some focused thoughts, and the spell curled its way through the component and spread outwards towards its target. A minor spell, one of his last and weakest, but then again, he did not really have many to begin with. A ranger's job is more about communicating and observing, and Ian had never really liked the idea of the extra study involved in adding skills from other professions and callings. The most he dabbled in was combat training with the various forces which wandered though Cloakwood from time to time, more for a sense of conection to his brother than any real wish to fight. There certainly were rangers who studied all forms of combat and arcane knowledge, building into fearsome sages and warriors who could wield death with both hands simultaneously and dispense life-giving magic or spiritual energy. Iain had no quarrel with people who chose that route, but preferred to concentrate on the more important contributions to life, like finding the perfect blend of dried leaves for a really fine cup of tea, a week or so with the bears and their ways, or perhaps even a quiet mountaintop at midnight, looking up into the dark diamond speckled sky and pondering the interactions of Weave, Gods, and Nature. Or perhaps just getting drunk more often. That was nice too.

The two arrows and single bolt striking the wood above his head refocussed Iain's thoughts. Shifting forward carefully, he viewed the results of his spell, noting happily that five or six figures were fighting the entwining vines that held them in place, hacking desperately. A good outcome. No one hurt, no one able to attack, and unless they had scouted very carefully, no one coming in from that direction any time soon even if the spell expired early. Even untrained villagers understood the terror of entanglement; unable to defend yourself when your opponent turned into a giant spider and sucked your life out slowly, or send fire racing through the area to burn you alive, or spread cluds of noxious fumes to poison you to a horrible gasping death. A little applied observation on human nature had taught Iain that it took training and sharpening for warriors to be able to avoid the terror of suffocation and horrible death to charge forward to fight, through a corridor proven to be targeted by entrapment magic. No one wanted to die that slowly and miserably. Better to be crisped quickly or peirced than to die in small stages. That meant only a few opponents for several minutes. And judging by the grouping of those missiles, extremely poor marksmen at that.

Iain edged behind the precariously leaning wheel in search of the remaining opponents, and found a perfect shot. These bandits were better armed and armored than just desperate villagers had any right to be, but luckily they had no real discipline or combat training. The attacker raised his head seeking a target, just far enough to expose his forehead, only to stare in surprise as a bolt buried through his left eye. The shock and protest registered momentarily on the bandit's face made Iain grimace, as he would have preferred to let the man at least be revivifiable, unlikely though it might be. Nature is a harsh mistress, and unforgiving, but the ranger had seen enough death the last few weeks. Perhaps Seniyad had spoken truly, and humans were just a more advanced, tool-using kind of gibberling, reproducing unnaturally fast and destroying the natural balance. The druids often went on about that sort of thing, which made Iain wonder if perhaps druids were descended from archmages. Each seemed to favor talking their opponent to death through extreme boredom and frustration. The bandit had a right at a second chance, but a good shot is a good shot, and Iain was not one to quibble over the opportunity for long. And on a more practical level, that meant one permanently down and at least three to go; no village shaman would raise him up to snipe from behind, even for a single shot. Unfortunately, it sounded like these few had friends, and they were on the other side of the wagon, closing through the brush.

"Scuddy, your daughter is marrying an elf."

Roll, winch, roll, fire. Roll, winch, roll, fire. No real targets presented, but at least they were not rushing the wagon. They were probably gathering courage. Or perhaps they were waiting for those reinforcements. There seemed to be no animals to ask for assistance, all scared off by the small skirmish here and the larger fighting behind. From the commotion back there, it sounded as if the strongest of the bandits had struck from behind, hitting the rear guard hard. Gatekeeper Owen was a tough man, scarred by battle and capable in his management of the expedition, but his experience lay in castle defense, pitched battle, and tactical coordination. All that siege defense knowledge does no good when the enemy is not a real fighting force, but merely a mob of desperate men and women attempting to steal for their own survival. The primary force was up ahead, scouting for entrenched threats, sophisticated traps, and organized resistance to travel. But nothing stops forward momentum quicker than a narrowed section of the Trade Way and a volley of missiles aimed at the lead wagon's horses. And since the bandits were going to eat them anyways, there was no need to capture those horses alive. At least, Iain thought, they will not be that interested in eating me. Yet.

"Scuddy, your daughter is moving to Evermeet, marrying an elf, and shaving her beard."

Harald was far afield as well, faithful companion though he was; the dog had taken a liking to one of the soldiers, probably under some misguided notion that it was time for Iain to find a partner or mate. As a result, the poor woman had had to put up with a very adoring dog who just happened to keep manouvering her close to Iain. It was difficult explaining to the soldier that he was not intentionally sending the dog after her, but it was much more difficult explaining to the dog that the pack did not need expanding at the present time, and that the two of them were better suited alone. Those last few days at the Circle in Cloakwood, Faldorn had taken it into her head that Harald was too "civilized" and needed a refresher on pack structure. Iain was sure it was because Faldorn appeared interested in expanding her particular pack rather than any real affection for him or Harald, though the way Faldorn tended to carry on about wolves, one could never be sure if she truly liked Iain any better than Harald. Iain tended to be a more relaxed, save nature from uncontrolled destruction by unnatural encroachments type. Faldorn tended to see anyone except herself and a select few druids as a blight on the face of Faerun, to be destroyed as quickly as possible. It had lead to some very entertaining debates when she was younger, especially when she was first discovering how propagation of mammilian species worked and decided that Iain was the perfect training ground, but ever since Amarande ascended in the circle, she had gone fanatical. The last time they were together, she insisted on being dominated. Iain winced at the memory, accidentally smearing mug on his cheek as his hand rubbed half-healed scratches. Apparently, the concept of harmoniuos companionship and partnership was insufficient, and she had seen his refusal to conquer her as an insult. It made no sense, as animals avoided deadly confrontation when possible, and the very species she favored were more comfortable in displays of dominance and development of courtship than in true fighting, but she had been doing more talking than watching lately. The darker nature of all creatures was only part of nature's story, but somehow she seemed to revel in it and gain more strength from that negative than the true Balance. Her attempting to dominate him had led to a real fight, and Harald as one very confused dog. Ever since, Harald had seemed to feel it was very important that the pack be rebuilt. iain was pretty darned sure that was a bad idea.

"Scuddy, we are out of ale."

The rumbled harrumph from the dwarf was fllowed by a spate of deep coughing and a large hack of spit. "You be a stinkin' liar, you sorry excuse for a human. I done fit extra underneath... Oi. We got us some company? Why didn't you wake me afore now!"

"I thought would wait until you had a real challenge. After all, I have just been lying here, thinking about the past, killing the odd bandit, deciding what to wear to the big city, and pondering why dwarves sometimes appear closer to the rocks they carve than to living beings yet smell like rotting carrion. Or is that just you?" Iain's bolt snapped a branch beside a bandit's head, and the woman threw herself back down behind the treeline. "But I thought you should know. I hear some movement on your side, and I am down to my last three bolts. After that, I can throw some twigs and mess up their hair, but they will not have to close range and engage. They can pincushion me, and then they might even spring a leak in your precious ale reserves, and then where will you be?"

"Humanfolk talk too blighted much." The grumbly stony rasp of arcane syllables fell like sand from Scuddy's mouth as he drowsily pointed a rod at the far side of the treeline facing him. Blue flame flickered, forming a protective wall encircling the wagon. With a snort, the dwarf rolled over, opening one eye. "Now, you were saying somethin' about me daughter? Don't be puttin' any moves on th' lass. She be only eighty, an' her beard's too silky for th' sorry likes o' you."
He rolled back over, closing his eyes again.

"I would not dream of it, my friend." Iain reloaded, tugging a small leather pouch of bolts from the back Scuddy's belt pack and inspecting their engraved runes. A shame to waste good ammunition on simple opponents, but when regular ammo runs out, dead is dead whether by simple kinetic energy or by arcane magic. "But, just as a gentle thought, do we want to do something about the two tons of books laden in this cart, which apparently is coming apart at the seams, threatening to squish us? We are not rolling out through that wall any time soon..."

The dwarf rolled over, glaring at Iain's grinning face with both eyes. Without a word, he jammed his helmet between a stone next to him and the axle of the wagon, then rolled back. "Hmmph. No imagination."

Iain's grin widened. "Oh, Scuddy, Master of Dwarven Architectural Masterpieces, don't you think that will only be enough to protect you? That only holds up a few inches. I am slightly thicker than you, though not by much, I admit. What about your boon companion and friend?"

"The dog's not here. An' you need to lose some weight." The dwarf mumbled drowsily. "Besides, th' main company will be tearin' 'em up any second now, an' it be too blighted hard to sleep while drivin' the wagon. Shuppap an' watch your side, an' let me be."

Watching turned to waiting, then to idle speculation. A full half hour gone, then another. The blue light playing fitfully about under the wagon seemed mesmerising, and relaxing, and very comforting, but Iain could smell the slight unnatural bent of the enchantment slowly seeing into his bones. "Scuddy... spell... Sc..."

The sharp cold splash of water was both painful and welcome, but he did not recognise the armoured figures supporting him. The gasp of air was followed by a swift bodyblow to the figure on the right, and a snap of foot towards the knee on the right, a roll forward, and suddenly thirty pounds of warm, wet, very smelly dog slammed into his chest, carrying him to the ground. The shouts of the others faded under the assault of friendly insistent greeting. "Right, rescued. Got it, Harald. Underst... not on the mouth, eh? I understand..."

"Ranger, you have a good companion there. Though you have a closer bond than I can believe. I thought he was going to attack ArchMage Ralle when he cast that sleep enchantment centered on the wagon. Good tactics, though - put everything in the entire radius to sleep, and we could take our time arresting those that did not fall under your fire. A relatively low body count, for such an operation." The sharp steel of the woman's voice matched her battlescars, some still fresh. "Gatekeeper Owen seemed to worry you might be taking your duties lightly, and insisted we check on you. I'm Lieutenant Vei, Flaming Fist. Good thing you were out like a light, because we were about to try to figure out how to get close enough to identfy as friend without your dwarven companion turning us into stone."

Iain pulled himself up, wiping at the muddy mess clinging to his torso. "Vai. Good to meet you. Iain Hull."

"Do I know you? I know I have heard your name before." Vai eyed the ranger carefully.

"My older brother served with the Fist before retiring to the joyous bonds of matrimony and the peace and quiet of guarding the Library. Perhaps you knew him?" Iain bowed gently, asking Harald to come close and sit quietly instead of checking everyone's knees and belts for any potential snacks.

"Well, perhaps. No matter. What really matters is what we need to do in order to stay alive for the next few hours. And Owen says that you are the man for the job." Vai's smile seemed strained, which contrasted oddly with her warrior appearance.

"Lieutenant, I am at your disposal, though I am sure that I do not know what I can help with. You seem to have dispatched these bandits quite handily. Surely they were no match for even a small force from a vaunted mercenary regiment."

Vai's snort of derision cut short as she looked at Iain's face. "Bandits... you don't know, do you. Well, I suppose they might be called bandits, and appear weak to experienced adventurers. Woodsman Hull, you just kept a small section of skirmish troops of the Chill Mercenary Company at bay. You were caught in the diversion, or perhaps as part of the diversion. Your rear guard caught a bellyful of fighting. Someone tried to take out your whole little adventuring company in one blow before it ever got started. Now, don't try to deny it - news travels fast. I heard the news that Candlekeep was recruiting and active for the first time in centuries a few days ago. I am sorry you got left here alone for a bit, but trolls do not fall easily, and we lost a few good soldiers out there. We just got a lucky meeting on one of our bandit sweeps."

Iain rubbed his jaw gently, glancing around for Scuddy, but the dwarf was nowhere to be seen. "Well, that explains all the arms and equipment. Most villagers take to banditry out of desperation, and armor and weaponry is makeshift or stolen. These people were better equipped, though sadly ill-trained and led. Light skirmishers hired to get killed while slowing us down? That sounds like hobgoblin humor. They can feast on the dead of either side. They would not have realized that the shock of dropping the horses would cause the blighted iron holding the axles to break. Nashkel's finest, my... well, let's just say I have come to expect metal to shatter when I look at it the wrong way." Go find Scuddy, Harald, and help him. Iain's thoughts melded gently with the dog, and the impressions passe between the two were of no interruption to the conversation between humans. No, I do not have anything to eat here for you. And no, I am not going to go check on Rosalind. She is an alpha herself, and does not need my help. Go.

Vai's face pinched closed, worry creasing her features and starting a small cut on her cheek bleeding again, which she absentmindedly wiped with the back of her hand. "The wagon is not operational? Well, then, Seargent, get me a squad to help unload it immediately. We can't stay here more than a few hours. And Woodsman Hull, I need your help even more."

"What is the hurry? Why do you need my help?"

Vai turned and walked towards the top of the wooded hill, gesturing for him to follow and calling orders as she went. At the top of the rise, she motioned for him up the tree, while she conferred with her soldiers and set about rescuing what gear could be gleaned from the wagons. She might have had more to say, but ArchMage Rolle had discovered the damage to the wagon, and his cries of outrage and demands for an immediate four star invesitgation into everyone present soon occupied her time, her hands, and the small remnant of her patience. Iain decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and that standing anywhere near an angry ArchMage with a violent temper, years of fortified academic tenure, a penchant for seeing parchment as more real than the humans around him, well past his prime... that all added up to extreme danger. He climbed the tree smoothly and swiftly, peering out across the hills and vales. It took a moment to reattune, especially with the large hawk which appeared to have claimed the tree first alternately glaring at him and hopping from branch to branch, but he could see some odd movement to the north, moving rather rapidly judging by the birds fleeing the area.

"Ho, friend." A soft voice called from the base of the three, and Iain looked down to see touseled a head, lean form, a gentle face, and gleaming hawk-like eyes. Where he came from, Iain had no idea; neither Harald nor any of Iain's finely tuned senses had detected him in the area, let alone within arms length. A man of either extreme woodskill or magic, but judging by the staff and the clothing, more likely a druid or ranger than a mage. "My companion seems to think you are not looking in the right direction."

"Ah, friend. So this hawk is with you, eh? I'm Iain of Cloakwood. Any clues to give me as to where he says to look?"

"Tanek of Cloakwood. And he says to look to the base of the trees on the opposite hillside, in the clearings, but I believe it will do you no good without some spell or Gondian contraption to see with a hawk's eyes. I can tell you, though..."


"We seem to have a small gibberling problem".

Edited by cmorgan, 20 November 2009 - 10:44 AM.