She'd had high hopes for the Nashkel carnival. Mariel suspected that was a large part of the problem–high hopes.
“Is it gonna breathe fire?” asked a little boy missing most of his teeth, craning his neck up to stare at the pseudodragon riding proudly on Mariel’s shoulder. Chime made a sound somewhere between a purr and a chirp, staring back at him, and the boy shrunk back.
“I don’t think there shall be any fire-breathing dragons today,” Mariel responded, reaching up to gently hold her familiar in place. “But the man back there was planning to swallow some flaming knives, didn’t he say that, Imms?” She looked to her left, where her friend wasn’t. “Imms?”
A slender, green-garbed figure burst from one of the tents and broke into a run, chased by a girl’s indignant shriek (“You give that back!”) and then the girl herself. Imoen was a fast runner, but the pickpocket was faster, weaving around the small crowd that was starting to form around the knife-swallower and disappearing into the trees. With the little boy all but forgotten, Mariel hurried after them, her mouth going dry as she saw Imoen reach for an arrow in her quiver.
“Stop!” Mariel shouted, her voice ringing sharp and clear over the clamor of the crowd. Imoen froze. So did the pickpocket, to Mariel’s surprise, but only for a moment.
Imoen turned to pout at her. “I coulda got him!” she protested.
“And been arrested for it?” Mariel scolded, closing the distance between them. “What did he take? Just money?”
Imoen nodded, staring down at her shoes, her frown resentful rather than contrite.
“Then let it go.” Taking her friend’s hand, Mariel tugged her gently back in the direction of the carnival. “We still have more. Come on, I’ll buy you something nice.”
Imoen.
Tranzig had paled considerably with Imoen’s shortsword at his throat, his spells exhausted. He was babbling, now, pleading for mercy, and Imoen looked into the mage’s eyes and saw that the scales had tipped in her favor.
“If we let you live,” she began, drawing the words out slowly and watching him crumple in relief. Then she slit his throat, stepping neatly away from the spray of blood. “Can’t have you telling Tazok,” she told the man’s corpse, letting his body fall to the ground.
Mariel stood by the door, stricken, hands covering her mouth. “Imms, we have to go, what if someone heard…”
“Go stand watch, then. Draw ‘em off.” Imoen waved her out of the room so she could pick through the fallen mage’s things at her leisure.
The eleventh of Mirtul, 1368. Evening.
We went in search of Brage, cursed captain of the Nashkel guard. Instead we found another madman, surrounded by skeletons, as well as a talking chicken.
The talking chicken. Yes, it is easiest to write of poor Melicamp. He claimed to be a mighty wizard’s apprentice, stricken by a foul curse, but it was his own foolishness that clucked things up. I’m afraid Imoen and I may have egged him on, as master Thalantyr has agreed to take him on as an apprentice properly, this time. Hopefully he won’t turn out to be a bad egg–gods willing, the experience with the cursed bracers will have made him too chicken to steal from his master again.
I’m done.
OUT OF CHARACTER:
Travel times between areas means that game-time is going by fairly quickly. Somewhere along the lines, the girls became pretty rich, so Imoen got a nice fireball necklace from the carnival and Mariel bought two wands from Thalantyr. And some scrolls. Which she managed to memorize this time. So now she knows sleep and invisibility; that'll be helpful later on. I'm thinking I might head back to Nashkel and pick up Minsc to go save Dynaheir soon.
Comments
“Is it gonna breathe fire?” asked a little boy missing most of his teeth, craning his neck up to stare at the pseudodragon riding proudly on Mariel’s shoulder. Chime made a sound somewhere between a purr and a chirp, staring back at him, and the boy shrunk back.
“I don’t think there shall be any fire-breathing dragons today,” Mariel responded, reaching up to gently hold her familiar in place. “But the man back there was planning to swallow some flaming knives, didn’t he say that, Imms?” She looked to her left, where her friend wasn’t. “Imms?”
A slender, green-garbed figure burst from one of the tents and broke into a run, chased by a girl’s indignant shriek (“You give that back!”) and then the girl herself. Imoen was a fast runner, but the pickpocket was faster, weaving around the small crowd that was starting to form around the knife-swallower and disappearing into the trees. With the little boy all but forgotten, Mariel hurried after them, her mouth going dry as she saw Imoen reach for an arrow in her quiver.
“Stop!” Mariel shouted, her voice ringing sharp and clear over the clamor of the crowd. Imoen froze. So did the pickpocket, to Mariel’s surprise, but only for a moment.
Imoen turned to pout at her. “I coulda got him!” she protested.
“And been arrested for it?” Mariel scolded, closing the distance between them. “What did he take? Just money?”
Imoen nodded, staring down at her shoes, her frown resentful rather than contrite.
“Then let it go.” Taking her friend’s hand, Mariel tugged her gently back in the direction of the carnival. “We still have more. Come on, I’ll buy you something nice.”
Imoen.
“If we let you live,” she began, drawing the words out slowly and watching him crumple in relief. Then she slit his throat, stepping neatly away from the spray of blood. “Can’t have you telling Tazok,” she told the man’s corpse, letting his body fall to the ground.
Mariel stood by the door, stricken, hands covering her mouth. “Imms, we have to go, what if someone heard…”
“Go stand watch, then. Draw ‘em off.” Imoen waved her out of the room so she could pick through the fallen mage’s things at her leisure.
The eleventh of Mirtul, 1368. Evening.
The talking chicken. Yes, it is easiest to write of poor Melicamp. He claimed to be a mighty wizard’s apprentice, stricken by a foul curse, but it was his own foolishness that clucked things up. I’m afraid Imoen and I may have egged him on, as master Thalantyr has agreed to take him on as an apprentice properly, this time. Hopefully he won’t turn out to be a bad egg–gods willing, the experience with the cursed bracers will have made him too chicken to steal from his master again.
I’m done.
OUT OF CHARACTER:
Travel times between areas means that game-time is going by fairly quickly. Somewhere along the lines, the girls became pretty rich, so Imoen got a nice fireball necklace from the carnival and Mariel bought two wands from Thalantyr. And some scrolls. Which she managed to memorize this time. So now she knows sleep and invisibility; that'll be helpful later on. I'm thinking I might head back to Nashkel and pick up Minsc to go save Dynaheir soon.