Adrian: Baldur's Gate

There region immediately north of Baldur's Gate could not exactly called montainous, or even really that hilly. But there was a small series of foothills, the same ones in which Imoen had gone head to head with Xasoruq. And in the highest of these foothills lived a Hill Giant named Grink.

Grink was alone, because all his siblings had been killed by "adventurers" or Iron Throne mercenaries. He had long since lost any bloodlust he might have had to loot or pillage. All he wanted was to live.

He had observed, at a distance, the battle between Imoen and Xasoruq. But as they had stayed at the bottom of the hill, he had left them alone.

His family had once been large and proud, and roamed these hills, killling th foolish pink-things from the city that had come this way. But that was a long time ago, now. One by one, they had died. One by one. Grink was no coward, he had fought as fiercely as any monster ever did....but when the last of his kin had fallen, he had fled. Back to his cave. The only one left now.

He squinted out of the cave mouth into the grey, cloudy day. The clouds were thick and dark, pregnant with the promise of rain.

Grink would have to leave these hills soon. Food was running scarce, at least in those areas where it was safe for him to travel. To eat well, he would have to travel further down, to where the pink-things travelled their small road. A road his proud family had once ruled, and now where he dared not tread.

But tread it he would have to, and soon. He would have to find a new place to live. Far away from pink things that, while individually were nothing, came in vast numbers now, armored and protected, and some weilding magic. But he knew not where to go. His family had come here long before his birth.

The family shaman had warned the leader to leave, five years ago. The shaman had foreseen, he said, that the pink things would not tolerate them here. The family leader had laughed, saying they were stronger than the pink things. The shaman had left three months later, leaving the family without a healer.

Today, Grink decided. Today he would leave. If he stayed here, he would die. At least if he fled, he would stand a chance.

So he gathered his few belongings and made to leave the cave...but his luck had run out. He could hear pink things marching up the path. They had come for him, then. He would die.

But at least he would die fighting!

He raised his club, let fly a shattering roar, and charged from his cave.

Besheridan and Kagain stared at the corpse of the Hill Giant. Kagain rubbed absently at the vicious bone bruise on his cheek, that even his abilities would take several days to heal.

It was purely by chance that the party had chosen to travel the foothill path rather than the caravan route. But of course, down there they would have been easy prey.

Besheridan eyed the corpse. He had fought Hill Giants before, and even seen one or two as slaves in Zhentil Keep when he was young. This was the biggest brute he'd ever seen of the breed. Powerful. They had been lucky.

"Come on!" Adrian shouted, from a little further down the hill.

Besheridan and Kagain shrugged at eachother, and moved on.