Adrian: Baldur's Gate

The barkeep's name was Winston Silonius. He had held court here in the Elfsong for a long time, more years than he cared to remember.

The fliratious theif handed him the gold for the night, telling him another party member, a mage, would be along later. She'd given him a wink, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. She was strained. The entire party was strained, the pale-faced young warrior most of all. He'd asked her if the lad was hurt, but she'd told him no, it was just a bad shock.

Winston watched them go upstairs, almost carrying the young man. A bad shock, aye. It showed in all of them, from the surly dwarf to the skittish elf, but the young warrior showed it the most. He looked a tough soldier, and Winston wondered what horrible thing could have shaken him so badly.

He felt a vague surge of pride that the adventurers had chosen the Elfsong, rather than the Blushing Mermaid. Some people who didn't know the city well said the Mermaid was closer to the action, and in a way it was, for the more unsavory types, as this troupe seemed to be. But he was glad they had come here, a far more peacful place. Peace looked to be what the lad needed right now.

Oh, the Elfsong was noisy and at times rowdy, but it had a serenity and calm the Mermaid lacked. Sometime violence did erupt here, it was true. But Flaming Fist rarely involved itself; the patrons themselves, hard characters mostly, did their best to keep the place under control.

Which was not to say the Fist didn't have a presence here. Many of them chose it as their off-duty watering hole, and often used it's meeting rooms above. Just a few months ago they had gotten "gentlemen's agreements" from both the Zhentarim and Shadow Thieves to keep their operations in the Gate quiet and discrete.

Winston looked at the rest of the patronage. He liked looking at people. A laughing merchant woman at the bar, her gnomish companion smiling at his own wit. A halfling standing on a table, half drunk, trying to dance. An elf woman, holding a low-voiced conversation with a human cleric of Ilmater. A rough bruiser of a half-orc talking to an equally brutal dwarf in the corner, both trying to drink eachother under the table, a rough comraderie. Three humans losing at cards to a half-elf and an older rich man.

Suddenly all talk ceased, as the Elfsong's namesake made itself known. A woman's voice, speaking in an elven tounge, began a lamenting ballad. The elves in the tavern wept, some quietly, some openly. They would never explain the words; they said they were too sad.

But all of htem, even the elves, found it peaceful, soothing.

Winston leaned back and smiled.

Adrian sat in the dark of his room. Safana and Viconia had left him there, at his own request. The others needed little persuasion not to pester him. Adrian assumed, with bitter amusement, that they feared he might kill them.

And mightn't he? They were useful allies. good in a fight. Could he destroy those most helpful to him?

All his life, Adrian had been focused, centered on the here-and-now. Be it work, play, or protecting Imoen, he had always lived day to day. This was not a deliberate choice; he had simply always dealt with things as they were. In Candlekeep this had not been hard.

Even when he had begun forming strategies for battle, based on what he had read, it had been to deal with things as they were. To solve the immediate problem. Even his long range pursuit of the golden eyed killer had been on a day to day, do-what-I-can-to-accomplish-it fashion.

But now he had to think on a larger scale. It didn't hurt to do this, but it was an unfamiliar way of thinking for him. It was puzzling and damned slow.

Gorion must have known. Of course he had; that was why he had taken him in. Adrian vaguely remembered Gorion talking to him, at a young age, about not letting his own fury consume him. But the memory was distant and vague.

He sighed. He felt melancholy, and lonely. Unfamiliar, frustrating feelings. For the first time in a long time, he thought of Imoen. He missed her light, easy nature; it had been a soothing balm to him all these years.

From Imoen his thoughts drifted to the golden-eyed murderer. Murderer....of course. One of his "Bretheren," who knew what Adrian was and had moved to eliminate the competition. A tactically sound move, Adrian had to concede. Gorion had merely been in the way. Not that the other had even hesitated to kill him. Why should he? Why should a child of Bhaal hesitate to do such things? Adrian himself certainly had no problems in that line.

Adrian slowly gathered his feelings unto himself. He would take control of this taint. As he had told Elminster, he would use it, rather than letting it use him. His temper was a powerful weapon, but only if he was it's master, and not the reverse. Knowing it's source didn't make him feel any better, but Adrian didn't mourn that overmuch.

It was the simple shock of it all, really. To have the foundation of your life upheaved. He wondered if his gold-eyed brother had felt the same when he found out.

Adrian sighed. He could do this, but it would take looking at the big picture. Not the immediate problem, but the whole situation. His *entire* life.

But not tonight. He wanted to sleep, he really did, but he felt sure his dreams would be nightmare carnival rides. No, he needed people around him. The party, and the revellers below.

He came out of his room slowly, and the others looked at him. He looked back, and smiled feebly. "Let's go downstairs for a while. I need to be surrounded by life that I don't need to kill."

"What if a fight breaks out?" Coran asked, then bit his tounge for saying it.

Adrian smiled shakily. "I'll let you handle it, brave adventurer."

As they went down the stairs, a single tear coursed down his cheek. Just one. But he did not wipe it away.

Xzar entered the tavern. "Adrian! Are you well?"

"I will be....eventually."