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Shadows in the Desert - A Sime Tale - Part 1


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#1 Guest_VigaHrolf_*

Posted 25 September 2012 - 03:49 PM

Amkethran.

It wasn’t much, just a dusty, mid-sized caravan town on the caravan routes to the south and Calimshan. Most other routes were safer or faster or easier than the road passing through this high mountain town and it showed in the well-kept but shabby buildings. The views however, were spectacular. The town itself was built into the side of stark, red mountains, giving amazing vistas of the high desert that stretched off into the distance. It was a stark land, the only green coming from what little land the local farmers had managed to put to the till.

It all added up to a minor little speck on the map, one that most people would likely never even notice. Yet there were fresh walls going up and brand new barracks. This little desert town now flooded with sellswords, mercenaries and their ilk. Along with all of them, there was one stubborn, persistent Shadow Thief who couldn’t leave a problem well enough alone.

The south of Amn had never exactly been stable, but it had been getting progressively worse, first with the Sythsillians and then the troubles in Tethyr. Athkatla lived off the free flow of trade and the caravan routes were her lifeblood. War threatened those and if trade started to die, so would the wealth that the fed the Guild. Things get tight, security gets better, payments shrink. So, the Shadowmaster of Athkatla could not afford to pay attention to just what happened inside of the city limits. Lack of information nearly wiped out them out before and Aran wasn’t going to let that blindness nearly kill him again.

All of that meant that one morning Aran had showed up at her door. A number of agents were heading out, but she was his best shot. No one knew the dialects of the south better. No one could blend in nearly as well as she could. No one was better. Knowing full well she was being manipulated by the compliments, she’d packed her gear, hugged Mook and with a few others, headed south to Tethyr.

They’d walked into a war zone. The south was aflame. War raged in Tethyr. There were rumors that Saradush itself was besieged. She’d sent a few of her people back with her reports and pressed south. She’d found inconsistencies; odd movements of supplies and goods, mercenary companies mustering south and nothing coming back. She planned on going no further than Riatavin, but there she’d found word of mages moving south as well and odd goings on at an ancient mountain monastery.

The smart thing to do would have been to hire a coach and ride back to Athkatla as fast as she could. Write it all down and let Aran deal with it, if he really felt like it. But there she’d found too many strands of the tapestry and she had to weave it together. Had to find out what was happening.

All of it drew her to Amkethran. She wished it hadn’t. She’d found many more of the threads in its dusty, overcrowded streets. She found those merchant caravans and the sellswords. But there was more than that, a lot more. All over the countryside, armies were forming and swallowing up whole chunks of Tethyr. Those armies weren’t just mercenaries but giants and even dragons, if the one captain was to be believed. Then there were the drow. Not many, but a few, lurking in the dark corners of the town. Finally, there was the business with the monastery. She still was missing pieces, still hadn’t figured out what it added up to, but the picture she was assembling was frightening.

Something momentous was happening. Something involving ancient prophesies she only partially knew, but involving the blood of the dead god Bhaal and the last of his children. It was enough to chill her blood, even in the summer’s heat. Aran would want to know about this, she knew that. The smart thing would have been to steal a fast horse and ride north as fast as she could.

Two things kept her in place. The first was her cover. Caravanserai in this part of the world always had at least a few dancing girls, Amkethran was no different. But its isolation meant that the dancers were mere farm girls with not a single trained dancer amongst them. Now, even a mediocre dancer like one of those farm girls could wheedle out all sorts of information with a few shakes of their hips and some batted eyelashes. And she was an excellent dancer, trained to catch a noble’s eye. These poor fools didn’t stand a chance. With a few old tricks, she’d assembled a near complete map of mercenary forces and likely locations of some of these other spawn alongside a veritable fortune in coin.

The other reason was that if this was to be a nexus of the children of Bhaal as it seemed to be, Aleria of Candlekeep would be drawn to it like iron filings to a lodestone. There might not be any logic to it, it was pure intuition. Since she’d parted ways with her when Aleria and her company had marched east to Suldenessellar, she’d heard nothing of her. It seemed that she’d vanished from the face of Toril. But somehow, she knew she still lived. And if she still lived, she’d be coming to Amkethran. She owed that woman a debt of honor for saving her life so many times, one she wanted to repay. And, she reflected as the wind danced over the balcony walls, it would be good to see her again

“Zahrah!” called Zakee, the innkeeper, up the stairs from below. For an innkeeper, he was actually quite decent. He stuck with the usual petty cheats, kept a clean place, his men kept the peace and he paid promptly. It might have something to do with a very pointed discussion they’d had about the limits of her employment. He had looked so deliciously surprised that she was still armed in dancer’s regalia. “The musicians are ready!”

She stepped back from the wall of the tiny rooftop balcony. It had become her refuge; an oasis from the bustle of the inn below, a little, sunbaked clay square, lined with a few plants and water basins. No fountains, no flowering trees, but enough green to cast back some of the unrelenting red of the surrounding mountains. She kicked sand from her sandals and stopped in front of the small silvered mirror to give herself one last look over. With professional attention, she tightened the laces of her wine colored, heavily brocaded vest and smoothed the matching, low slung, billowy trousers. Satisfied, she belted on her sash, a silken confection sewn through with tiny coins. Now ready, she adjusted her bangles and drew on her veil and scarf, the tiny coins lining it tinkling with a sudden breeze. It was cool and brisk, a rare northern breeze.

A storm was coming.

---@@@---

“To master dance, one must master their core,” Jocana said at the start of every lesson. She would stand in front of them, switch in hand, as the older women began to play. “Amateurs care about footwork. Feet flow from the core. Peasants worry about their hands. Hands flow from the core. Master the core and you can master any dance. And any room.”

The older woman would prowl around them, eyes hunting the tiniest mistake or lack of focus. The switch hunted out those mistakes, slapping the offending limb, or across the back for one of the worst failures, letting one’s core and hips slip out of alignment. They would drill for hours and then, if you were lucky, she’d take those who pleased her aside for special instruction. Specific dances she felt you would one day have the body to learn. She’d often be pulled aside as movement just came naturally to her. Eventually, she was one of Jocana’s star pupils.

Those lessons gave her some of the skills she needed to escape and more importantly, to survive after she escaped. As she glided over the smooth tile of the stage, floating on dulcimer and drum music, she wondered what Jocana would think. The situation she’d find intolerable, a caravanserai on a dusty northern road. She expected better of her, either a sultan’s palace or her own, a freedom she always believed her mentor wanted for her but never expressed. She’d find the clientele despicable. But she believed she’d at least approve of the skill she was showing, even if it was mostly wasted on unthinking, drunken clods.

She’d long ago learned one of the great dancer’s tricks, to let the body dance while the mind focused elsewhere. True art wasn’t required here, so it left her free to focus on her surroundings. The tap room had the typical midafternoon crowd of mercenaries and merchant factors avoiding the heat and to the lower reaches, the locals who still dared to come inside. She worked her crowd, a hip shake for a merchant, a dip for one of the mercenary lieutenants, a wave to a kindly farmer who brought her fresh cheese and a spin for one of the mercenary company’s female officers. Such things were always crowd pleasers.

In the middle of the Efreet’s Vizier, a rather athletic dance she liked to finish a set with, a cry went up amongst the crowd. Two of the mercenaries plunged in through the main doors, shouting. She threw in an extra spin to watch the mercs as both were wild eyed and very concerned. They jabbered something about newcomers, heavily armed and Hassan being in trouble. If Hassan was, it would be no loss. The man was a brute and a bully and she was already wondering about ways of making him disappear after he’d tried to make her acquaintance.

As was human nature, beauty paled before blood. Those mercenaries still able to stand pushed their way to their feet and rumbled towards the door, either to back their fellow or watch him humbled. The possibility of bloodshed dragged the rest of the crowd out the door, merchant and local alike. The tension was high amongst all the groups and a potential new player had to be scoped out to see what, if anything would change. She’d have been insulted at the loss of her audience if she didn’t understand people so well.

Wrapping herself in her veil, she shrugged amiably to her musicians. Aziz and Malbar showed their color as true musicians, immediately downing instruments and heading for the bar. Laughing to herself, she picked her way through the overturned tables and chairs to one of the flung open windows.

The town’s tiny square was packed full of people, with the mercenaries at the center with their fellows shouting and railing in the heat. Omar, who had been the town’s lord mayor until the monastery abandoned him and the town, was in the middle of the throng, pleading with someone she couldn’t see. Hassan, the mustachioed, scarred bully was on the raised platform by the well, glaring and shouting into that crowd. He had a woman by the arm, holding it against a heavy stone block and his other hand on his sword hilt. It took a moment to recognize the woman through the dirt, blood and torn clothing. But when she raised her head, eyes defiant, she knew it could only be Asana, Omar’s daughter.

At the foot of the square was another, smaller group. One of them was the largest man she’d ever seen, standing with a drawn greatsword and body language that invited violence. No one seemed willing to take him up on it, at least not yet. There were others in heavy mail, two women in lighter kit, a man in what had to be a mage’s robes and…

Sime found herself out in the courtyard without even remembering deciding to do so. She pushed aside a few curious townsfolk and made her way to the outer edge of the mercenaries, finding a good spot to watch. She also eased two thin daggers from underneath her vest, just in case.

“She is a thief!” Hassan shouted down the steps. “She will get what she deserves!”

“It was bread! I stole bread,” Asana shouted, her voice muffled by busted lips. “The children starve while these men,” The word was punctuated with a surprisingly accurate gob of blood and spittle into Hassan’s mustache. “Drink and gorge. They won’t even let us buy it!”

“Whore!” Hassan raised his hand to strike the bloodied woman. His hand never made it, an armored fist catching his arm in midflight.

“You will not strike her.” The voice was as cold and hard as iron. That voice she knew. The north wind had brought the storm and Aleria of Candlekeep again rode the forefront of it. The knight overtopped Hassan by a few inches and used that advantage and her obvious strength to firmly push him back.

Hassan sputtered violently, eyes narrowing with rage as he struggled against that unyielding arm. Sime shifted her grip on her daggers. Most of the men didn’t like Hassan, but if it came to it, they’d fight with him. Aleria, her scarlet mail shining dully in the desert heat, seemed utterly nonplussed, her hand not even drifting to the heavy blade at her side. Of course, she’d seen the woman wield it and knew just how fast it could end up in her hand. She wasn’t alone either. Two other familiar figures joined her on the platform, the Lord Corthala in his flat black mail and Jaheira, who held her staff lightly but vibrated with enough rage she was surprised stones weren’t falling from the platform.

“You must help my daughter,” Omar said, racing up the stairs and crouching near his daughter. “You see the brutes they are!”

“She is a thief! You heard her. She admitted it. She must be punished!”

“Mayor Omar,” Aleria said, her voice icy sharp. “What is the punishment for theft?”

Omar’s face paled and he clutched his daughter. “It is… it is the removal of the hand so the thief can never steal again,” he said with dread finality.

“Is there any other recourse?”

“Only… only if the accuser choses to.”

“She is a thief! She stole from my men, the little whore! I demand justice.”

“I see.” Aleria took a step closer. “That is your right. However…”

“You will not deny me Justice, you stinking northern bitch.” Hassan sneered. “I see the symbol around your neck. You cannot deny me!”

The heat in the square suddenly became more oppressive, so hot Sime could feel the water baking out of the bricks.

“However,” Aleria continued, her voice clear and icily precise, “This woman, Asana, shows signs of severe injuries. Her clothing is torn, she is bruised and bloody. How did that come to pass?”

“She is a thief! I caught her stealing!” Hassan shouted, looking shocked the question could even be asked.

“And the punishment for that is the amputation of the hand, yes, I understand.” Aleria’s voice rang out like cold steel. “Omar, is there anything in the law that allows the accuser to beat and assault the accused?”

“No.” Omar said questioningly. His voice started to rise. “No. Not all, Lady. Only the hand.”

“And the punishment for assault?”

“Assault by fifty lashes. Assault of a woman, lashes and the amputation of the hand.”

“Very well. As this man is so desperate for Justice, in Tyr’s name, I will see it done.”

“What?” The incredulousness on Hassan’s face was priceless. “You have no right!”

“You will have your Justice, but you will not pervert it for your pleasure,” Aleria’s hand closed over her sword hilt. She half turned to Asana. “If he drops his accusation, will you?”

Asana glared but finally said, “Yes.”

“Very well. Your choice Hassan. Mercy or the lash. Which will it be?”

Hassan backed a half step back, to give him room to clear his weapon. “Madwoman! I am a captain of the Crimson Guard and I am not bound by your law! I will have her punished if I have to do it myself!”

The line seemed designed to whip up the crowd, but it was met with silence. Silence deep enough everyone could hear Carsomyr slide free of its scabbard. “You have a valid claim for Justice, but so does she. If you deny hers, I must step in to defend her claim.”

Hassan’s blade left free in a quicksilver blur. “Very well. Know you face Hassan al Abib al Quasan!”

Aleria shifted into a fighting stance, blade held high and feet spread. Her companions formed a defensive ring around her. “And you face Aleria of Candlekeep. Mercy or the lash, Hassan. Choose. Now.”

The silence shattered into a dozen yammering voices. Sime smiled viciously. That name was known even in the south and the stories told in breathless voices. Hero of Baldur’s Gate, slayer of dragons and countless other tales. From the look on Hassan’s face, he’d heard those stories too.

“Mercy.” The way Hassan paled everyone knew he was asking for himself, not for Asana. He staggered back a few drunken steps and even managed to sheathe his sword on the second attempt. “I can show mercy.”

“Good.” Carsomyr disappeared as fast as it appeared. Her hand fished into a pouch and pressed it into Omar’s hand. “This should help with the other problem.”

“Thank you. Thank you!” Omar exclaimed as the crowd, denied their bloodletting, started to disperse.

“Jaheira, could you help Omar with his daughter?”

“Of course.”

Not wanting to be spotted out in the open, Sime melted into the crowd pushing towards the inn. Hopefully Aziz and Malbar wouldn’t be too drunk. She’d need them in at least mediocre form for what was likely to be a restive crowd. And so that she could make her approach.

#2 Guest_Blue-Inked_Frost_*

Posted 25 September 2012 - 09:11 PM

Good fic. :) More Sime is always intriguing!

Amkethran.

It wasn’t much, just a dusty, mid-sized caravan town on the caravan routes to the south and Calimshan. Most other routes were safer or faster or easier than the road passing through this high mountain town and it showed in the well-kept but shabby buildings. The views however, were spectacular. The town itself was built into the side of stark, red mountains, giving amazing vistas of the high desert that stretched off into the distance. It was a stark land, the only green coming from what little land the local farmers had managed to put to the till.


Lots of starkness!

It all added up to a minor little speck on the map, one that most people would likely never even notice. Yet there were fresh walls going up and brand new barracks. This little desert town now flooded with sellswords, mercenaries and their ilk. Along with all of them, there was one stubborn, persistent Shadow Thief who couldn’t leave a problem well enough alone.


Very cool! I like Sime getting a role here in Amkethran in the crisis.

The south of Amn had never exactly been stable, but it had been getting progressively worse, first with the Sythsillians and then the troubles in Tethyr. Athkatla lived off the free flow of trade and the caravan routes were her lifeblood. War threatened those and if trade started to die, so would the wealth that the fed the Guild. Things get tight, security gets better, payments shrink. So, the Shadowmaster of Athkatla could not afford to pay attention to just what happened inside of the city limits. Lack of information nearly wiped out them out before and Aran wasn’t going to let that blindness nearly kill him again.


Hmmm, but isn't Tethyr taking that foreign policy to rather extreme limits from Athkatla?

All of that meant that one morning Aran had showed up at her door. A number of agents were heading out, but she was his best shot. No one knew the dialects of the south better. No one could blend in nearly as well as she could. No one was better. Knowing full well she was being manipulated by the compliments, she’d packed her gear, hugged Mook and with a few others, headed south to Tethyr.


Aww. :)

They’d walked into a war zone. The south was aflame. War raged in Tethyr. There were rumors that Saradush itself was besieged. She’d sent a few of her people back with her reports and pressed south. She’d found inconsistencies; odd movements of supplies and goods, mercenary companies mustering south and nothing coming back. She planned on going no further than Riatavin, but there she’d found word of mages moving south as well and odd goings on at an ancient mountain monastery.


Interesting different point of view here, from Sime's investigations rather than the general approach of a Charname.

The smart thing to do would have been to hire a coach and ride back to Athkatla as fast as she could. Write it all down and let Aran deal with it, if he really felt like it. But there she’d found too many strands of the tapestry and she had to weave it together. Had to find out what was happening.


I'm approving of Sime's curiosity!

Two things kept her in place. The first was her cover. Caravanserai in this part of the world always had at least a few dancing girls, Amkethran was no different. But its isolation meant that the dancers were mere farm girls with not a single trained dancer amongst them. Now, even a mediocre dancer like one of those farm girls could wheedle out all sorts of information with a few shakes of their hips and some batted eyelashes. And she was an excellent dancer, trained to catch a noble’s eye. These poor fools didn’t stand a chance. With a few old tricks, she’d assembled a near complete map of mercenary forces and likely locations of some of these other spawn alongside a veritable fortune in coin.


Oh, dear. XD

The other reason was that if this was to be a nexus of the children of Bhaal as it seemed to be, Aleria of Candlekeep would be drawn to it like iron filings to a lodestone. There might not be any logic to it, it was pure intuition. Since she’d parted ways with her when Aleria and her company had marched east to Suldenessellar, she’d heard nothing of her. It seemed that she’d vanished from the face of Toril. But somehow, she knew she still lived. And if she still lived, she’d be coming to Amkethran. She owed that woman a debt of honor for saving her life so many times, one she wanted to repay. And, she reflected as the wind danced over the balcony walls, it would be good to see her again.


That makes sense, wanting to catch up.

She stepped back from the wall of the tiny rooftop balcony. It had become her refuge; an oasis from the bustle of the inn below, a little, sunbaked clay square, lined with a few plants and water basins. No fountains, no flowering trees, but enough green to cast back some of the unrelenting red of the surrounding mountains. She kicked sand from her sandals and stopped in front of the small silvered mirror to give herself one last look over. With professional attention, she tightened the laces of her wine colored, heavily brocaded vest and smoothed the matching, low slung, billowy trousers. Satisfied, she belted on her sash, a silken confection sewn through with tiny coins. Now ready, she adjusted her bangles and drew on her veil and scarf, the tiny coins lining it tinkling with a sudden breeze. It was cool and brisk, a rare northern breeze.

A storm was coming.


It so very much often is, in Tethyr in this time.

“To master dance, one must master their core,” Jocana said at the start of every lesson. She would stand in front of them, switch in hand, as the older women began to play. “Amateurs care about footwork. Feet flow from the core. Peasants worry about their hands. Hands flow from the core. Master the core and you can master any dance. And any room.”


Cool brief flashback!

Sime found herself out in the courtyard without even remembering deciding to do so. She pushed aside a few curious townsfolk and made her way to the outer edge of the mercenaries, finding a good spot to watch. She also eased two thin daggers from underneath her vest, just in case.

“She is a thief!” Hassan shouted down the steps. “She will get what she deserves!”

“It was bread! I stole bread,” Asana shouted, her voice muffled by busted lips. “The children starve while these men,” The word was punctuated with a surprisingly accurate gob of blood and spittle into Hassan’s mustache. “Drink and gorge. They won’t even let us buy it!”


Aw, this story is familiar. I think it's a pity that Sime's not the one saving the day this time...

“You will not strike her.” The voice was as cold and hard as iron. That voice she knew. The north wind had brought the storm and Aleria of Candlekeep again rode the forefront of it. The knight overtopped Hassan by a few inches and used that advantage and her obvious strength to firmly push him back.


Hello, you there!

Hassan’s blade left free in a quicksilver blur. “Very well. Know you face Hassan al Abib al Quasan!”

Aleria shifted into a fighting stance, blade held high and feet spread. Her companions formed a defensive ring around her. “And you face Aleria of Candlekeep. Mercy or the lash, Hassan. Choose. Now.”


Oh, sheesh, any blankety-blank of Candlekeep is going to be pretty scary at this point. This part in the story made me kind of wish for someone to be able to stand up to the Bhaalspawn, because even though Hassan is a jerk he also seems very steamrollered by a lot of power here! At this point in the story there isn't any Balthazar yet to serve as a balancing factor.

Not wanting to be spotted out in the open, Sime melted into the crowd pushing towards the inn. Hopefully Aziz and Malbar wouldn’t be too drunk. She’d need them in at least mediocre form for what was likely to be a restive crowd. And so that she could make her approach.


Splendid! I like this hook for the next part of this series. :) I'm looking forward to seeing Sime taking responsibility for solving some of the quests in this part--Charname doesn't deserve all the fun!

#3 Guest_VigaHrolf_*

Posted 27 September 2012 - 06:58 PM

Good fic. :) More Sime is always intriguing!


Amkethran.

It wasn’t much, just a dusty, mid-sized caravan town on the caravan routes to the south and Calimshan. Most other routes were safer or faster or easier than the road passing through this high mountain town and it showed in the well-kept but shabby buildings. The views however, were spectacular. The town itself was built into the side of stark, red mountains, giving amazing vistas of the high desert that stretched off into the distance. It was a stark land, the only green coming from what little land the local farmers had managed to put to the till.


Lots of starkness!


It's what struck me most about that map - just how stark the landscape was. Honestly, it reminds me of some of the drier parts of the American Southwest - so I sort of ran with that feel.

It all added up to a minor little speck on the map, one that most people would likely never even notice. Yet there were fresh walls going up and brand new barracks. This little desert town now flooded with sellswords, mercenaries and their ilk. Along with all of them, there was one stubborn, persistent Shadow Thief who couldn’t leave a problem well enough alone.


Very cool! I like Sime getting a role here in Amkethran in the crisis.


That's the problem with characters. Let them have a few minutes in the sun and then they want more and more. *snickers*

The south of Amn had never exactly been stable, but it had been getting progressively worse, first with the Sythsillians and then the troubles in Tethyr. Athkatla lived off the free flow of trade and the caravan routes were her lifeblood. War threatened those and if trade started to die, so would the wealth that the fed the Guild. Things get tight, security gets better, payments shrink. So, the Shadowmaster of Athkatla could not afford to pay attention to just what happened inside of the city limits. Lack of information nearly wiped out them out before and Aran wasn’t going to let that blindness nearly kill him again.


Hmmm, but isn't Tethyr taking that foreign policy to rather extreme limits from Athkatla?


The Shadow Thieves are not exactly a single city organization, more of a multinational corporation, so they're going to be looking at the larger operating picture. And Athkatla itself is somewhat an amalgamation of historic Venice, Seville and Constantinople, with it's southern feel but deep dependence on trade. Those cities, because of their dependence on the free flow of trade often had trade missions through out the world and cared very much for maintaining, if not peace, than at least the unimpeded flow of coins to their coffers. I see that tracking very well with both the Shadow Thieves and Athkatla.

All of that meant that one morning Aran had showed up at her door. A number of agents were heading out, but she was his best shot. No one knew the dialects of the south better. No one could blend in nearly as well as she could. No one was better. Knowing full well she was being manipulated by the compliments, she’d packed her gear, hugged Mook and with a few others, headed south to Tethyr.


Aww. :)


Sime: "She's family." *shrugs*

They’d walked into a war zone. The south was aflame. War raged in Tethyr. There were rumors that Saradush itself was besieged. She’d sent a few of her people back with her reports and pressed south. She’d found inconsistencies; odd movements of supplies and goods, mercenary companies mustering south and nothing coming back. She planned on going no further than Riatavin, but there she’d found word of mages moving south as well and odd goings on at an ancient mountain monastery.


Interesting different point of view here, from Sime's investigations rather than the general approach of a Charname.

The smart thing to do would have been to hire a coach and ride back to Athkatla as fast as she could. Write it all down and let Aran deal with it, if he really felt like it. But there she’d found too many strands of the tapestry and she had to weave it together. Had to find out what was happening.


I'm approving of Sime's curiosity!


Some folks just can't let a mystery go. Sime is one of them.

Two things kept her in place. The first was her cover. Caravanserai in this part of the world always had at least a few dancing girls, Amkethran was no different. But its isolation meant that the dancers were mere farm girls with not a single trained dancer amongst them. Now, even a mediocre dancer like one of those farm girls could wheedle out all sorts of information with a few shakes of their hips and some batted eyelashes. And she was an excellent dancer, trained to catch a noble’s eye. These poor fools didn’t stand a chance. With a few old tricks, she’d assembled a near complete map of mercenary forces and likely locations of some of these other spawn alongside a veritable fortune in coin.


Oh, dear. XD


Sime: *smiles* "It's amazing how easy it is." *laughs* "Actually, it's not."

The other reason was that if this was to be a nexus of the children of Bhaal as it seemed to be, Aleria of Candlekeep would be drawn to it like iron filings to a lodestone. There might not be any logic to it, it was pure intuition. Since she’d parted ways with her when Aleria and her company had marched east to Suldenessellar, she’d heard nothing of her. It seemed that she’d vanished from the face of Toril. But somehow, she knew she still lived. And if she still lived, she’d be coming to Amkethran. She owed that woman a debt of honor for saving her life so many times, one she wanted to repay. And, she reflected as the wind danced over the balcony walls, it would be good to see her again.


That makes sense, wanting to catch up.


Aleria has a way, like many Bhaalspawn, to just make an -impression- on people. She did for Sime.

She stepped back from the wall of the tiny rooftop balcony. It had become her refuge; an oasis from the bustle of the inn below, a little, sunbaked clay square, lined with a few plants and water basins. No fountains, no flowering trees, but enough green to cast back some of the unrelenting red of the surrounding mountains. She kicked sand from her sandals and stopped in front of the small silvered mirror to give herself one last look over. With professional attention, she tightened the laces of her wine colored, heavily brocaded vest and smoothed the matching, low slung, billowy trousers. Satisfied, she belted on her sash, a silken confection sewn through with tiny coins. Now ready, she adjusted her bangles and drew on her veil and scarf, the tiny coins lining it tinkling with a sudden breeze. It was cool and brisk, a rare northern breeze.

A storm was coming.


It so very much often is, in Tethyr in this time.


Virtually all the time in Tethyr. Civil war is nearly the national pastime.

“To master dance, one must master their core,” Jocana said at the start of every lesson. She would stand in front of them, switch in hand, as the older women began to play. “Amateurs care about footwork. Feet flow from the core. Peasants worry about their hands. Hands flow from the core. Master the core and you can master any dance. And any room.”


Cool brief flashback!


Thank you.

Sime found herself out in the courtyard without even remembering deciding to do so. She pushed aside a few curious townsfolk and made her way to the outer edge of the mercenaries, finding a good spot to watch. She also eased two thin daggers from underneath her vest, just in case.

“She is a thief!” Hassan shouted down the steps. “She will get what she deserves!”

“It was bread! I stole bread,” Asana shouted, her voice muffled by busted lips. “The children starve while these men,” The word was punctuated with a surprisingly accurate gob of blood and spittle into Hassan’s mustache. “Drink and gorge. They won’t even let us buy it!”


Aw, this story is familiar. I think it's a pity that Sime's not the one saving the day this time...


It's still Aleria's tale, we just have a different narrator in this case. :)

“You will not strike her.” The voice was as cold and hard as iron. That voice she knew. The north wind had brought the storm and Aleria of Candlekeep again rode the forefront of it. The knight overtopped Hassan by a few inches and used that advantage and her obvious strength to firmly push him back.


Hello, you there!


One paladin, present and accounted for.

Hassan’s blade left free in a quicksilver blur. “Very well. Know you face Hassan al Abib al Quasan!”

Aleria shifted into a fighting stance, blade held high and feet spread. Her companions formed a defensive ring around her. “And you face Aleria of Candlekeep. Mercy or the lash, Hassan. Choose. Now.”


Oh, sheesh, any blankety-blank of Candlekeep is going to be pretty scary at this point. This part in the story made me kind of wish for someone to be able to stand up to the Bhaalspawn, because even though Hassan is a jerk he also seems very steamrollered by a lot of power here! At this point in the story there isn't any Balthazar yet to serve as a balancing factor.


I think that this is part of the problem with TOB and with incredibly powerful characters is that the number of forces that can oppose them starts decreasing rapidly. Most mercenary captains might be skilled swordsmen, even accomplished warriors, but most of them aren't going to have the skill, equipment and talent to really oppose a lvl 20+ paladin with epic and minor artifact level gear. That's actually why I had him stand down is he's confronted by that much power and knows he's a little outclassed. One of the things that bugged me about TOB is that some of the grunt enemies either had to be hyper geared or just get splatted. So, I had a situation resolve itself without violence.

Additionally, Hassan is a bully - no bully fights when he's horribly outclassed.

Not wanting to be spotted out in the open, Sime melted into the crowd pushing towards the inn. Hopefully Aziz and Malbar wouldn’t be too drunk. She’d need them in at least mediocre form for what was likely to be a restive crowd. And so that she could make her approach.


Splendid! I like this hook for the next part of this series. :) I'm looking forward to seeing Sime taking responsibility for solving some of the quests in this part--Charname doesn't deserve all the fun!


Right now the intent is just a short story - but I'll see what I can do about satiating some of that need.

Thanks for reading and commenting

VH

#4 Guest_AlphaMonkey_*

Posted 05 October 2012 - 08:12 PM

“Very well. As this man is so desperate for Justice, in Tyr’s name, I will see it done.”

“What?” The incredulousness on Hassan’s face was priceless. “You have no right!”

“You will have your Justice, but you will not pervert it for your pleasure,” Aleria’s hand closed over her sword hilt. She half turned to Asana. “If he drops his accusation, will you?”

Asana glared but finally said, “Yes.”


“Very well. Your choice Hassan. Mercy or the lash. Which will it be?”


So, I think this right here is my favorite part of the piece.

I know BIF brings up the point that it almost feels a little "easy" that the bad guy just kind of chickens out and stands down here, but I don't really read it that way. You and I are always talking about how paladins get the "lawful stupid" treatment in a lot of places. This right here, though, is, I think, paladinning done right.

I suppose if you want to get all technical about it, yeah, of course Aleria just outlevels the poor bum by so much and has so much gear and everything that the guy doesn't stand a chance, but to me it reads more like "Why fight him when I can talk my way out of this?"

The section just seems to encapsulate everything I like about paladins. They're folks who put themselves on the line for others (Championing the poor girl against the guy bullying her) using wit, charm, and diplomacy to defuse a situation when possible, but never backing down if it should come to a fight.

So, yeah. I just... I just really like that scene. I'm a sucker for a well-written paladin.

#5 Guest_The Blue Sorceress_*

Posted 07 October 2012 - 01:05 AM

Hey VH,

Just wanted to pop in and say how much I liked this. I never played with the Sime mod, so I can't say much about her one way or the other, but I really liked the descriptions and the pacing.

The little flashback makes me think you know someone who took some dance classes. I know my dance teacher wished she could have switched us sometimes. Maybe it's just one of those things that has osmosed through the culture, but it rings true. Likewise with the little touch about shaking the sand out her sandals. Bits like that add a nice realism and a sort of tangibility.

I look forward to future installments.

-Blue

#6 Guest_VigaHrolf_*

Posted 13 October 2012 - 03:20 PM

“Very well. As this man is so desperate for Justice, in Tyr’s name, I will see it done.”

“What?” The incredulousness on Hassan’s face was priceless. “You have no right!”

“You will have your Justice, but you will not pervert it for your pleasure,” Aleria’s hand closed over her sword hilt. She half turned to Asana. “If he drops his accusation, will you?”

Asana glared but finally said, “Yes.”


“Very well. Your choice Hassan. Mercy or the lash. Which will it be?”


So, I think this right here is my favorite part of the piece.

I know BIF brings up the point that it almost feels a little "easy" that the bad guy just kind of chickens out and stands down here, but I don't really read it that way. You and I are always talking about how paladins get the "lawful stupid" treatment in a lot of places. This right here, though, is, I think, paladinning done right.

I suppose if you want to get all technical about it, yeah, of course Aleria just outlevels the poor bum by so much and has so much gear and everything that the guy doesn't stand a chance, but to me it reads more like "Why fight him when I can talk my way out of this?"

The section just seems to encapsulate everything I like about paladins. They're folks who put themselves on the line for others (Championing the poor girl against the guy bullying her) using wit, charm, and diplomacy to defuse a situation when possible, but never backing down if it should come to a fight.

So, yeah. I just... I just really like that scene. I'm a sucker for a well-written paladin.


That actually was the feel I was going for - why fight when you don't have to? One of the weaknesses of TOB is the 'situations' you run into, like the Oasis scene or this one where you have so few potential solutions., The Oasis is the worst, there's no way out of fighting a general who's just doing his job. This one isn't that much better. It always bothered me - this scene has been stuck with me for a long time, it's just the rest of the idea came along and gave it an opportunity to get written.

Because yes, this is what I believe being a paladin is about. It is about championing the weak in before the strong. Seeing that Justice is actually served. Sure, Aleria could have just cut the guy down - she's got the gear and levels it wouldn't be that hard to do. But that wouldn't be just. There is a crime here - but instead of just adhering to the rule of the law, she looks for compromise to actually get to a just solution. A solution maybe not everyone is happy with, but it is Just. And it doesn't involve a whole lot of bodies on the ground.

It's why I love my paladins and love writing them.

Thanks for the comments Alpha.

VH

#7 Guest_VigaHrolf_*

Posted 13 October 2012 - 03:25 PM

Hey VH,

Just wanted to pop in and say how much I liked this. I never played with the Sime mod, so I can't say much about her one way or the other, but I really liked the descriptions and the pacing.


Actually I've never played with the Sime mod myself. My entire characterization of her is based off of those few lines she has in Ch 3 when you're on your way to Brynnlaw. The voice struck me and all of a sudden, this character appeared. She had a multi chapter tale 'In the Shadows' I finished a few months ago, dealing with Chapter 2 from her perspective. And since she's come to light, I haven't been able to rid myself of her. I just like the snarky little troublemaker too much. And she's a fun foil for Aleria, one of my favorite PCs.

The little flashback makes me think you know someone who took some dance classes. I know my dance teacher wished she could have switched us sometimes. Maybe it's just one of those things that has osmosed through the culture, but it rings true. Likewise with the little touch about shaking the sand out her sandals. Bits like that add a nice realism and a sort of tangibility.


I in fact do know someone who took dance classes. Years of them. :) I'm also a martial artist, and when comparing notes, the similarities in training (not stylistically but what is focused on) stuck with me. And the attitude of dance teachers - well, I think they carry across all universes. :)

I look forward to future installments.

-Blue


More should be coming soonish. Glad you enjoyed Blue. :D

VH




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