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Sare stands and watches the battle between gnoll and man for a long moment, sighing she starts to reach for sword but drops her hand from the pommel. She pivots and walks briskly in the direction of Garren Windspear’s cabin. She is covered in gore, and she does not even want to think what some of the chunkier pieces of organic material are that cling to her tunic. The stench of dried blood from, kobold, orc, troll, goblin, hobgoblin, vampire, werewolf, ogrillon, etc, was making her feel, in a word, gross, and in spite of being a despised, and feared bhaalspawn, terror of the Sword Coast, descendent of the God of Murder, insert honorific or dishonorific here, she had enough of killing in the last twenty four hours.
Sare was still reeling from the discovery that Firkraag was a dragon, a big, fat, red, powerful, obnoxious, greedy, bored, and unfortunately still living, and fire-breathing dragon! Somehow, she feels she should have known that salient detail before her encounter. She is astonished that nobody thought to mention it. Not Windspear, not Taar, not Queen of the Dryads, Vaelasa, although to be fair to the queen, she had mentioned a great evil. If Garren Windspear was less honorable, and had a little less pull with the Order of the Radiant Heart, she would think that he had manipulated her.
“Sare! Where are you going?” Astounded, Anomen runs after Sare.
“I’ve had enough.” Sare keeps walking. “Those fighters are perfectly capable of taking down the gnolls. I am leaving,” she shrugs, “Who knows who those people are? For all I know the gnolls are innocent peasants and the men are werewolves or something equally idiotic. The Gods know what goes on in this place.”
“It is against my principles to walk away when people are in need.” Anomen yells after her retreating back.
“Do what you must but I am not getting involved. If you wish, meet me at Windspear’s cabin.” Sare does not bother to turn around; she waves her hand at the flies that are beginning to swarm around her head attracted by the gore that coats her.
Sare leaves a stunned group behind her but she does not care. In less than a minute, she hears the clash of metal upon metal, and the war growls of the gnolls, as the battle is engaged. She shrugs off a twinge of guilt and continues walking away. She pushes blood-stiffened strands of hair away from her face. Her hand encounters something wet and meaty that she flicks from the top of her head with a disgusted shudder.
She has taken only a few paces more when the sounds of the struggle end, and she hears a conversation begin between the men and her companions. She stops and strains to listen in hopes of hearing a mention of reward but instead the men seem to be bickering among themselves. Typical, she thinks, no reward naturally, just the universal problem of inter-party squabbling and backbiting. She tries to pluck her tunic away from her chest but it resists her tug, glued as it is to her body by fluids that have soaked and dried into her shirt.
She sighs in revulsion, closes her eyes, and tries to resist the urge to scream in frustration when she hears a cry of horror and shock from Anomen, immediately followed by sounds of striking weapons. Sare is debating whether to pretend she has heard nothing and continue on her way when the sound of howling from multiple throats rents the air. She turns quickly towards the fight and counts six werewolves, drawing her weapon; she shouts her favorite war cry, “You will die by hand!” and races towards the battle. Well, at least that was what she intended. What actually happened was her throat was so dry from lack of water that she croaked inaudibly, and she was so exhausted from the fighting and lack of sleep of the last twenty-four hours that she was barely able to pull her sword from its scabbard. Then she tripped when she turned and barely missed being skewered by her own weapon.
Luckily, her companions were too involved in fighting for their lives to notice Sare’s incompetence. She staggers clumsily to her feet, using her sword as a support. She stands and tentatively walks towards the battle, as she gets closer, her adrenalin kicks in with a rush of momentary energy. She slashes her blade into the nearest werewolf neck. She feels a warm spray of blood bathe her face, as the beast falls to the ground, twitching his last. She turns and another were runs into the sharp point of her blade. His claws swipe and miss at her face but delivers a glancing blow to her temple before Valygar’s katanas strike his heart, and the werewolf’s body drops heavily.
Valygar and Sare stand back to back their swords poised for the next attack. Sare watches Anomen smash the skull of a werewolf with his hammer in a shower of brain and splintered bone. She sees a bolt a lightning, called by Jaheira, strike, and burn one more of the wolves. The smell of singed hair and burning flesh fills the air. She feels Valygar lunge and watches Anomen swing his hammer against the arm of yet another, she observes as if from a long distance, the shattered bone pop through its flesh and protrude whitely against the dark fur before he finishes the beast with a blow to its head.
Sare hears the last werewolf groan his death throes, his final breath escapes from his throat in a soft snarl. She falls heavily to her knees in pain and exhaustion, swooning but before she can fall on her face, she dimly feels a hand on her shoulder pulling her to her feet. She leans unsteadily onto the leather-clad shoulder of Valygar. Someone presses a water bag to her mouth and she drinks greedily the warm and stagnant fluid. She feels herself being half carried and half dragged away from the scene of the conflict, before she loses consciousness.
Slowly, she regains awareness, her head rests on Jaheira’s lap, she feels a warm cloth carefully wiping the dried blood from her face, and her friend hums a sad and haunting melody. The smell of food roasting on an open fire makes her mouth water and her head spin with hunger. She opens her eyes to Jaheira’s fond smile.
“Feeling better?” Jaheira has removed her armor but is otherwise still covered with the filth of the last day.
Sare sits up shakily, “Yes, thank you. Where are the others?” Sare looks around and sees that camp has been set up while she was unconscious. The bedrolls are neatly rolled out and the camp is placed on a pebbled bank next to a small pond. A fire blazes; spitted meat roasts, and washed clothes are hung to dry by the fire. Their packs lie neatly by each bedroll.
“They are off bathing, they should be gone for another half an hour if you feel like a bath before dinner.”
“I would very much like to bathe. Join me Jaheira.” Sare stands and starts toward their packs to get soap, washcloths, and changes of clothes.
She walks towards the pond and strips off her blood-stiffened clothes as quickly as she can, unbraids her hair, and plunges into the chill water, submerging completely. She re-surfaces and reaches for her soap and starts to vigorously lather her body and hair into rich foam. She hears Jaheira splash into the water and let out a minor yelp at its coldness. The two women wash each others backs, and point out spots the other have missed. They finish and race to the bank drying off hurriedly and dressing in fresh clothes.
Sighing in contentment, the friends huddle next to the fire to warm up after the cold wash. They both drool at the smell of cooking food. Sare was just beginning to tell a long and complicated joke about Bhaal, a duck, and a Kara-Turan who walk into a bar when the men returning interrupt them. They all look cheerful and clean. Kelsey is carrying a large bowl covered in cloth; he removes the cloth with a flourish exposing cloudberry pudding still steaming lightly.
“A thank you from Garren Windspear.” He looks exactly like Sare feels, as if he wants to plunge his face into the warm dessert. He places the pudding near the fire’s warmth and removes the meat from the spit, placing it carefully on a tin platter to allow the meat to finish cooking.
Valygar walks over to the pond and pulls a large jug of ale from the cold water. He takes a long pull from the bottle before he passes it around to the rest of the group. All take a lengthy drink of the delicious and strong beverage.
They enjoy a leisurely meal, swapping tales of various adventures. Anomen told of the Order’s campaign against the Hillgnasher giants. Valygar gave the lowdown about his days of scouting for the Amnish armies, and relayed a sad tale of a fellow scout named Suna Seni. Sare and Jaheira amused the group with various tales of their sillier adventures on the Sword Coast. Kelsey wove stories of his travels on the merchant routes, and the fantastic and rare goods that he had come across on his journeys.
Jaheira licks the last of the cloudberry pudding from her spoon with a regretful sigh. “So fearless leader what is our next step?” Her voice is gentle and teasing.
Sare stretches contentedly and looks at the rising moon. “We kill a dragon.”
Edited by farsal, 04 May 2004 - 09:41 AM.
