Chapter Text

Diath Woodrow had lived in Waterdeep his whole life. He knew the city in more depth than any map so ingrained was it into his mind from having walked every street and more. Every alley, every tunnel, every back door or gate that never closed properly were committed tightly to memory and suffice to say it had saved his skin more than once when ending up on the wrong end of a dispute. The city was as much a part of him as he was a part of it and as a street rat it gave him an enormous sense of comfort to be certain that he knew his home better than any other man.

The docks along the Sword Coast were always scant of ships in the winter months, and the harbour of Waterdeep was not exempt from it. The fishermen had set out for warmer seas to catch their fill and merchants back to their homelands until spring came once again. Diath walked along the cobbles with an air of urgency in his step. The wind carrying off the sea was cold and like to get stronger if the way it tugged at cloth covered carts was any indicator. A scarf covered the lower half of his face, protecting it from the icy air, and he pulled his wool cloak around him. His clothes beneath were thin and worn, held together mostly by patches of spare cloth and thick thread. A beaten scabbard bounced at his left hip, the ill-fitting shortsword within it rattling. The blade was old and nicked in some places but sharp enough to still do some damage. Hanging from his swordbelt on the right-hand side a ring of keys jangled, clanging off the metal handles of the two daggers strapped to his upper thigh.

The ringing of the keys kept him determined as he stalked along the road. The sea was black today he saw as it lapped against the wooden posts of the loading bays sluggishly, and the sky above was smeared charcoal with swollen grey clouds. There would be snow soon. It wasn’t early morning by any means but the weather was enough to keep most indoors, the cluster of stacked up houses that ran on his left side all the way down some good few miles were quiet, any that had shutters were barred up. There was the odd person milling about, a dog scampering and sniffing the ground, and, more often than not, a cat skulking near the alleyways in search of scraps. Diath felt sorry for the skinny felines – he knew how harsh a life of scavenging could be – but had no food to spare them. He continued on his way.

Though it had gone midday, the lack of sunlight had kept the streets in a constant state of washed out dreariness and the lack of life gave the impression that the whole city had been frozen in time, as though the buildings themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. Some small part of Diath wished he had had enough money to pay for passage upon one of the merchant’s ships when they had still been moored. Perhaps by now he could have found out what the keys that hung at his hip opened. The feeling of having missed an opportunity was souring and had left him dejected for some time until a chance meeting with a locksmith at the Merry Sailor tavern some weeks ago.

“They’re not any keys fer locks that I’ve ever seen,” The smith had grunted, turning each key over in his large, calloused hands, “See the indenting on the teeth? They ain’t made fer any lock on a door, chest, or padlock you’ll ever find here.”

Diath ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, tousling the roughly chopped locks, “Where then? How far do I need to travel to find some that match? Ironmaster? Candlekeep?”

“Lad,” The older man said, struggling to make himself heard over the raucous laughter and singing of tens of drunken people, “When I say here I mean not anywhere you can think of.” He was about thirty years older than the young rogue and the years had not been kind to him. Despite the salt and pepper beard, it was still easy to see the lines in his wrinkled skin as deep as trenches. His nose was large and bulbous with a red blossom of broken veins at the very tip and when he smiled Diath could see the black and brown mess that was his teeth.

“What?” Diath frowned, confused, and the locksmith leaned forward on the table with a serious look upon his harshly lined face.

“You’ll be wanting to speak to Jandar Reymys,” He said lowly, voice gruff and when Diath repeated the name a little too loudly he hushed him sharply, “You’ll find him in Silverymoon, his house is called The Rookery. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Diath frowned, “How can he help?”

The locksmith looked over his shoulders briefly as though he were nervous of someone overhearing them and his behaviour was unnerving Diath slightly, “He’s one of them, what-you-call-‘ems… You know…” He dropped his voice to a whisper and Diath strained to hear it, “A teifling. Knows all about things that shouldn’t be here. You’ll know him when you see him; pointy ears, grey skin, big old horns sticking out of his head.”

Diath was puzzled, “Horns? Wait- How can you know all this? How do you know this teifling?”

The locksmith shrugged casually and handed the keys back, “Used to live in Silverymoon meself and he was my neighbour. I helped fix his locks a few times. Just tell him Jormund sent you.” Diath took the keys back into hand and left the Merry Sailor with his spirits higher than before and his determination set on earning some coin for the journey ahead.

Waterdeep’s cheapest livery was still another three roads away on the next left but at least between the buildings the sea wind couldn’t bite at him as much. His fingers were stiff and ached even through the rabbit fur gloves he wore and he flexed them, urging the blood to keep moving. He had planned out his finances as well as he could, setting some aside for food, some for supplies, and some for any emergencies, and had come out with what he hoped was enough coin for a decent horse. He hadn’t set his hopes high for a fine beast but anything that wasn’t crippled, sick, small, and could take his weight was good enough. As he turned the last few streets, the smell and sound of the horses hit him even through his thick scarf, the sharp scent of manure making him wrinkle his nose.

Stepping into the cobblestone courtyard, he was greeted by the clopping of hooves and the metallic clang of a smithy fitting shoes. A small parade of horses of all sizes and colours were either milling about or being led across to stalls by stable boys and girls. He had barely enough time to take them all in before he was approached by a dusty looking boy. He was younger than Diath, perhaps by five years, and he patted himself down to shake off the hay from his clothes. He held out his hand in greeting and Diath took it, surprised by how firm and strong the younger’s grip was, and tugged down his scarf to show his face.

Diath didn’t consider himself handsome despite what some girls and women he had met told him. He was tall and lithe and he thought his face too thin to be appealing. His cheekbones were high and slanted and his nose bore a slight crookedness to it just below the crease of his brows. His lips were cupid bowed and pale like the rest of his complexion and his auburn hair was cropped but his longer fringe parted in a way that framed his face and jade eyes. Still he found his cheeks warming when the other boy smiled, “Mari said you were a handsome one when you last came here. Didn’t believe her though, but now I do. I’m Bren, her brother. I set out some horses you might like.”

He remembered Mari with her big brown eyes and dark complexion. Her hair had been pulled back from her pretty face and she was dressed in boyish clothes as befit someone working with horses. Now that he looked at Bren he could clearly see the relation, the similarities in face. Bren led them around to a corner of the yard where four horses were lined up, ears flicking and hooves scuffing at the stone. He nodded and told Diath about each one’s temperament and even let him see how each one rode. By the time they were done it was approaching evening and Diath had made up his mind.

After turning over the required amount of coin, he rode the white palfrey mare out of the livery and down to an inn which he knew also provided stabling and provisions for journeys. The mare beneath him made for an excellent ride. She was a lean but powerful animal with long legs and a slender neck. Her coat was pure white like fresh fallen snow and her mane and tail an ashen grey which fell long with a natural wave. Bren had told him she was a gentle creature with an easy temperament and from the fluid way she responded to being guided with the reins, Diath was certain he had told no lie. He had yet to name her, “A beautiful horse like her needs a beautiful name,” Bren had said and Diath agreed; he would need some time to think it over. He brought her about into the stabled area of the inn and climbed down from the saddle, handing the reins over to one of the men working there and made his way to the front of the building.

The Waterside Inn was rather poorly named considering it was a good half an hour away from the sea, and there was not a drop of water to be found around it anywhere unless it was bought from the bar which Diath had learned to never do again the hard way after a flagon full almost made him retch up his own stomach. Not only did the inn suffer an unfortunate name, it suffered an ugly appearance too. The stones that it was assemble from were a muddy brown and the cracked mortar that held it together was crippled from years of weathering and moss. The timber frames that held a pathetic shelter over the doorway were rotten and flaking and one suffered more gouges from drunken blades than the other. One window was cracked at the corner and the wooden shutters hung limply from it, hinges almost ripped from their frames. Diath could already here the muffled sound of music and laughter as he approached and when he opened the door he was hit with a wall of noise.

No one paid him much mind as he slipped in and up to the bar, all too lost in their conversations and drinking to pay a newcomer much mind. He hopped up onto a stool and flagged down one of the barmaids, an older woman who smiled warmly at him as she approached, “What can I get you?”

Not wanting a repeat of the last time he drank the water here, he got a small cup of wine which was sour and oily but still better than the water. He also ordered some of the broth she offered and once she placed his final request upon the bar top, a cloth bag filled with provisions, he handed over the coins. She nodded kindly at him and wandered off down the bar to speak with some other patrons. Diath tore a chunk of bread off the piece that came with his food and soaked in the broth that turned out to be nicer than the wine if a little watery but he ate without complaint. Down a few tables he noticed a small gathering of people around a bard he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t an unusual thing, bards came and went often, but Diath had never heard of the songs he was singing so he watched with interest. Women, quite a few of them he recognised as bedwarmers, were fawning over him as he played and sang and Diath admitted that he had a pleasant voice and exuded that charm bards so often had but it seemed that his was tenfold more powerful and his face tenfold more handsome.

The bard was tall but, unlike Diath, was broader of shoulder and narrow of hip. His garb was bright and colourful with a soft yellow cotton shirt embroidered at the collar with golden thread, a lavender cloak with a glimmering clasp of hammered silver in the form of a raven was pinned about his shoulders, and a sash of teal silk was bound around his middle tightly, sitting just above his grey woollen trousers that were tucked into tanned leather boots. His skin was a dull tan and when he sang it was in an accent Diath had never heard before. His jaw was strong and his cheekbones sloped gracefully either side, his facial hair neatly trimmed into a goatee. His nose was straight and rounded off so that it was a soft feature and his pale blue eyes were framed by dark lashes. He tossed his head every now and then whilst he played the lute resting upon his knee, throwing back the blond fringe that tumbled into his face. It was easy to see why the women were flocking around him as he strummed out the final few chords of an unfamiliar tune.

Suddenly an uproar of cheers exploded from that end of the room and it took Diath a moment to realise that the bard had taken up a popular drinking song.

“He was a knight so brave and strong

But gods was he lonely!

He took an offer from a king

Across a distant sea!

They said she was a princess sweet

Who’d cost a pretty fee!

He gave his gold to cure his heart,

An impressive dowry!

But what a foolish knight was he!

There was no princess fair!

For what was in that wedding dress

Was an old ugly bear!

A bear! A bear! Covered in hair!

A big old ugly bear!

She ate that knight upon the stair!

A bear! A bear! All covered in hair!”

Diath could barely hear the bard’s playing or singing through the drunken voices that bellowed it from every direction. Tankards were bashed against the table in time to the music as women and men alike were thrown about the floor in dance. An elf knocked into Diath, almost spilling her drink on him before laughing out an apology and stumbling away. A few women had asked for a dance but he’d politely declined, not only did he not dance but doing so in a pack of horrendously drunk people was asking for trouble. The bard finished off the song to a tidal wave of applause and yells for more.

The room had become considerably hot during the dancing and Diath’s head was pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the wine he’d drank. He grabbed his cloth bag from the bar and wound his way through the writhing swarm of people, dodging elbows and trying not to step on anyone’s feet, before reaching the door and finally stepping out into the night.

Cool air hit him instantly and it was a welcome relief as his hot breath misted from his mouth. The sky had cleared somewhat, going against his previous assumption that there would be snow, but there were still a few wisps of cloud hanging about. The stars were bright and the moonlight washed the streets in a pale glow, giving everything a ghostly pallor. He headed for the inn’s stables, deciding to organise the contents of his provisions into the saddlebags and sleep there instead of paying for a room. The Waterside Inn’s rooms were not reputably the nicest and he could guarantee that sleeping in the stall with his horse would involve less fleas and lice.

He found the saddle hung up on the wall beside his horse’s stall from a wooden peg and next to it the leather packs that attached to it. He spent a few minutes meticulously packing everything he had bought away before turning to the mare. She whickered at him softly, reaching over the gate with her long neck to nudge at him with her nose. He rubbed along her snout with an open palm, feeling the softness of her coat against his skin before moving to open the gate and step into the pen, closing it after him. The horse watched him intently with a curious look as he piled up hay to one side with his foot and lay down.

The straw tickled at his face and reminded him of nights he’d spent when he was younger sleeping in other stables around Waterdeep. Times had been harsher back then but Diath looked back on those memories with a little gratefulness. After all, without the lessons he’d learned as a child he would not be who he was today; a rogue blessed with a multitude of skills for survival. The air of the pen was warm if a bit musty with an underlying smell of manure but he had slept in worse places. He pulled his cloak around him and closed his eyes, shutting out the soft amber glow of the oil lamps hung above his head. He let the mare’s gentle harrumphs and breathing soothe him into sleep.

When he woke it was in a confused daze. His mouth was heavy and dust clung in a paste to his palate and the back of his tongue. Diath pushed himself upright, blinking blearily into the dimness around him. A few of the oil lamps had snuffed out but it was still dark, no morning light coming in through the window, and the stillness of night permeated the building. He tried to piece together what had woken him up so urgently but his head was clouded and his body seemed to be crying at him to go back to sleep. Something snorted to his left and he heard stomping by his head. Suddenly he remembered his horse.

She was restless, throwing her head and striking at the floor with her hooves. Her tail lashed side to side and she whinnied. Diath scrambled to his feet and tried to soothe her but the mare was having none of it, backing away from him with a hurried purpose. He looked around at the floor, trying to see what had her so spooked; a rat? Nothing moved on the hay below his feet and what little the oil lamps still showed him was just plain straw disturbed by the horse’s hooves. He backed away slowly from the mare, not wanting her to rear up at him. In such close quarters it would be a guaranteed kick to the head or chest that would prove fatal. He slipped out of the gate and shut it after him, watching as the horse still threw her weight around relentlessly. Something had her shying like this and Diath strained to listen, pushing past the cries of his horse to try and hear more.

Shouting coming from outside. Diath could make out a raised voice, deep and gruff and a higher pitched cry followed by a thud. His hand instinctively poised itself over the shortsword at his hip, fingers wrapping around the grip, and he stepped up to the doorway quietly, nudging the door open a crack to peer out. The street beyond was a dark void with the moonlight only hinting at the most general of shapes. He could barely see the cobblestones in front of him when a cloud passed briefly over the moon and even when it had moved on he could still see only fifteen feet in front of him.

A muffled cry broke out again somewhere ahead in the darkness and a moment later a robed figure came into his line of sight. They were huddled up on the floor, whimpering as they shuffled backwards, and their feet scrabbling for purchase. A much larger figure followed after, stepping out of the shadows to loom over the person on the floor. Diath hesitated a moment as he assessed the situation; did he really want to get involved in this? As soon as that thought flourished in his head he destroyed it, disgusted with himself at being so selfish and blamed his poor judgement on his tiredness. He watched the figures in the street a moment longer, the cold air that came seeping through the cracked door to blow against his face helping him feel more awake. The taller figure was saying something in his low voice but whatever it was muffled over the distance to Diath. Suddenly there was a scrape of metal and glint of a blade being drawn by the taller and Diath didn’t hesitate any longer.

He bolted forward and placed himself between the two, hand coming up to draw his own shortsword and holding it out before him threateningly. The pale light glimmered off the slightly damaged blade but it was clear enough to see that its edge had been honed and polished to a deadly sharpness. This close, he could see that the large figure before him was a man. He had stopped drawing his own metal and was looking at Diath in surprise. The young rogue refused to lower his weapon any, keeping it still and angled to cut, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Diath’s voice was steady, calm, but the blade he held between them was a promise that if the man moved any further he would find himself short of a finger or two… or much worse. The man still seemed to be in shock at having been intruded upon, a stunned expression on his fairly youthful face, and Diath could see the slight glazing in his eyes that suggested alcohol, “Demon,” The man said dumbly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Demon?” Diath repeated, confused.

The man pointed to something behind him and Diath remembered the second figure, “Her.”

Diath didn’t have time for this. The man was clearly drunk out of his wits and was beginning to sway on his feet, staying upright even becoming a challenge for him. Diath prodded at him with his sword, stopping short at the metal connecting with flesh, and put on a more serious voice, “You should be on your way. You’re drunk and delusional. Leave the woman alone.”

The man made to step forwards but Diath moved the blade to his barrelled chest threateningly, “I said you should leave.”

An expression of consideration fell upon the other’s face, clearly gauging whether or not to take Diath on, before he seemed to think better of it and turned heel, staggering off into the darkness. Diath waited a moment longer before sheathing his weapon and turning his back to face the woman on the floor. Her face was hidden from him but already he could see that she was no ordinary woman.

Demon.

His heart leapt and his mouth went dry as he took in the creature on the ground before him. Even in the dim light he could see the bony protrusions of black horns pushing through her hair and from where her robes bunched up awkwardly beneath her there appeared to be what looked like a forked tail, thin and ridged and twitching against the stones next to what looked like a staff, strange symbols scrawled upon the crescent shaped head. Diath’s mind raced as he tried to process what it was he was seeing. The drunken man had been right.

Demon. Demon. Demon.

Diath’s fingers twitched back around the shortsword, unsure of what to do as fear coursed through his veins, when she looked up at him. Her ears were long and pointed but, unlike an elf, they stuck out sideways and curved at the back, folding over themselves. Opal white eyes peered out from behind tangled black locks with only the faintest trace of pale silvery irises and the skin around them which was an eerily pale blue-grey was puffy from her tears as she cried. The flesh of her left cheek was broken and dark, almost black, blood oozed sluggishly from the cut and her bottom lip was split, where a sharp tooth peeked out. Diath’s fear melted immediately to be replaced by pity as she sobbed at his feet. He remembered Jormund’s description of teifling and this woman seemed to fit to it. This must be what Jandar Reymys looks like too, he thought, no wonder that man thought she was a demon.

He let go of the sword and held out his hand to her but she backed away when she saw it, flinching slightly. Diath couldn’t help but feel sorry for her as she sat huddled up on the ground and tried to make an effort to show her she was safe now, “I’m Diath Woodrow.” She said nothing, looking up at him in abject fear as he stood there, hand outstretched to the point where it started to become uncomfortable, “Do you have a name?”

She stared.

Diath frowned, “Please tell me your name.”

She stared some more.

“Then I’ll have to make one up for you,” He sighed in defeat and started looking around for inspiration. Moon? No, that was stupid. Cobble? Even more stupid. His eyes wandered down to the necklace he wore, the chunk of worked amethyst a pale lilac in the dark, “Amethyst?”

The expression on her face was a little less afraid so he took that as a positive sign, “It’s a little long but maybe I can all you Amy for short?” He rambled, starting to feel embarrassed under her gaze. He almost jumped when she took his hand and he helped pull her to her feet, noticing the long black talons that were her nails as she gathered up the staff from the ground. She didn’t look as scared anymore but her face was still stuck in some haunting emotion of wariness as he let go of her, “Do you have a home nearby?”

She shook her head silently and Diath found himself relieved that she understood Common at least, even if she didn’t speak it. She started to dither in the cold and when he looked at her, he could see the tears filling her eyes again, “Hey, hey, don’t cry. It’s okay. We’ll get you sorted out, please don’t worry.”

He indicated for her to follow and led her into the Waterside Inn which was still open this late but not as full as before. Diath stopped her briefly outside the entrance and unbuckled his cloak, throwing it over her shoulders and explaining to put the hood up and cover her horns. “Don’t take it down no matter what,” He warned her and she nodded in agreement, following after him as they went in. Though the inn was practically empty, he could feel Amy’s fingers clutching at his sleeve as they sat down at one of the tables clearly anxious and she chose the seat closest to him.

“Are you hungry?” He asked and she shook her head, “Thirsty?” That one received a nod and he ordered two cups of hot mulled wine. Spending his savings on someone else wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d planned his journey but he wasn’t about to leave her alone without at least seeing that she was alright.

She made for silent company, only moving when she sipped at her drink and kept herself huddled out of sight under the large hood of his cloak. Diath didn’t press her with questions because he felt that he would gain no answers but slid her some money across the wooden table top. She looked at it uncertainly and then back at him, “I’m leaving at sunrise. This should be enough to get you by. You can keep my cloak, I don’t mind.”

Amy looked at him with an unreadable expression before taking them into her hands and Diath noticed from over her shoulder as she examined the coins that the bard who’d been performing earlier was watching them with a slightly amused expression upon his face. Eventually Diath decided that it meant nothing, the man clearly had had too much to drink whilst performing because he got to his feet unsteadily and swaggered off up the stairs to his room, humming a tune all the way. With him gone, Diath turned his attention back to the teifling, “Get yourself a room here for the night and remember to lock the door, stay safe.”

She nodded and Diath showed her how much coin it was for a room. She may not be able to speak to the barmaid but sliding across the correct amount of money would clue her in on what she wanted. After making sure the room was paid for Diath bid her farewell, “I hope our paths cross again someday,” he smiled and left back for his horse, hoping to catch at least another hour or two of sleep before he set off at sunrise.

Sunrise saw Diath awake and outside the stable of the Waterside Inn, gearing up his horse. He tightened the saddle and tested it fit with a stirrup. Satisfied he wouldn’t slip, he made to climb up onto the mare’s back when something caught his elbow. He looked over his shoulder to see Amy stood behind him, thin fingers pulling at his sleeve. She was still wearing the cloak he had given her last night but in the morning sun he could see her more clearly. She was haggard and slim and her cheek had bruised considerably, forming a dark patch around one eye. The robes she wore were more like patched together rags, holes and tears all through the dark fabric. He thought he saw something move under the sleeve where it joined at the shoulder but he didn’t dare ask about it. He held the mare still with the reins and frowned at her, “Amy? What’s wrong?”

She said nothing but reached for his hand, slipping something into his palm and when Diath looked down he saw the remainder of the coins he had given her last night. Immediately he tried to hand them back, “No. These are for you. You don’t need to give them back.”

Amy refused to take them and side stepped around him, stretching an arm up to pat the saddle on his horse with an expectant gaze. Diath was beyond confused, “You want my horse? I’m sorry but you can’t I-”

She shook her head again adamantly and gave him a hopeful expression. Diath stared at her dumbfounded a moment before it clicked in his head, “You… You want to come with me?”

Amy nodded and, as Diath started to mull it over, she shoved a sandaled foot into a stirrup and pulled herself over. She wiggled the staff awkwardly from the holder buckled around her and fed it through a loop in the saddle, placing a leg over it to hold it firmly in place, and turned to Diath expectantly.

The rogue was flabbergasted, blinking as he tried to process what was happening. Part of him wanted to tell her to get off the horse and stop being ridiculous but the other much larger part was telling him that she technically was his responsibility now. It was clear she had no home here in Waterdeep and he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her to fend for herself if people were afraid of her appearance. He wouldn’t let anything awful happen to her. The very idea of doing that unsettled him deeply. Diath hadn’t planned on there being another person joining him on his journey to Silverymoon and it would require reorganising the provisions and his finances but he sighed in defeat and made a motion with his hand for her to scoot further forward in the saddle, “Fine. Let’s go, we might be able to find your home on the way.”

Amy nodded and, for the first time, spoke, “Yes.”

Her voice had a strange twang to it from an accent Diath had never heard anywhere in his life and he blinked in surprise as he hoisted himself up onto the saddle, arms either side of her to hold the reins, “So you can talk.”

“…Yes.”

He spurred the palfrey into a brisk trot, turning her out and onto the main road that ran through Waterdeep and out to the east. It was far too early for many people to be out and about but there were some milling around, mainly shopkeeps setting up stalls and restocking. None of them paid much notice to the couple on the horse and Diath was certain that as long as Amy kept her hood up it would stay that way. Thinking of her reminded him to say something, “If you can speak, what’s your real name?”

She gave him a wary glance over her shoulder and remained silent. Diath tried not to feel hurt by her clear lack of trust but understood. Amy was most likely just using him as a ride back home and nothing else, they didn’t need the formalities for that. Instead he kept his mouth shut as they rode out of Waterdeep and into the rolling green hills beyond, heading for the Dessarin River.

By midday they had the three forks of the Dessarin within sight, one branching off to the east, the other the west, and the middle one to the north. They would take the middle one and follow up through woodland to Yartar. Diath estimated it would take up to four, maybe three days if they made good time and they could restock at the town providing it proved not to be Amy’s home. The teifling was humming quietly to herself, hands holding the pommel of the saddle. Diath had worked the mare down into a steady walk, not wanting to risk the animal twisting its leg on the uneven hills and becoming lame. He leaned back as they descended, moving with the horse to ease the ride down. He had ridden horses a few times before and found that he had a natural talent with riding. He and Amy swayed side to side with the mare’s steps as she plodded along and Diath took in his surroundings.

Though it was winter, the sunlight had made for balmy weather; neither too hot nor too could. A lot of the plant life was barren, trees and bushes stripped bare of leaves, but the evergreens remained as lush as ever and in some places smatterings of snowdrop flowers blossomed. The sky was an icy pale blue and a few wispy tendrils of cloud shifted across it, barely thick enough to block out much sunlight. They had followed the Dessarin for a few hours now, never once losing sight nor sound of the gushing water. It gurgled and twisted, carrying an assembly of things from rotting leaves to discarded items of clothing. Diath watched as a boot floated on by before getting tangled in the reeds that grew along the bank. It was peaceful, listening to the river and Amy’s soft hums.

He guided the mare to the stone bridge that stretched over the west branch of the river and would allow them to continue following north when the distant sound of hoofbeats going at a faster pace than his own rumbled behind him. Diath pulled the mare about and immediately drew his shortsword. Amy twisted in her seat in front of him and seemed to be fumbling for her staff but the angle of the saddle loop wouldn’t let it go. She made a frustrated noise and kept on tugging until the hoofbeats were practically upon them.

The bard from the Waterside Inn galloped over the lip of the hill and when he saw them began to pull his horse to slow. He trotted around them once in a wide circle before stopping, a warm smile on his face. Diath didn’t lower the sword.

“Hey!” He said in greeting as his horse, a jet black destrier with a white star on his forehead tossed his head and pawed at the ground, gouging at the grass. All its leatherwork was black with brass buckles and stirrups and it jangled with every movement, the bard’s lute he was playing last night firmly secured to the back of the saddle by the bags. The stallion was larger than Diath’s palfrey but the rogue doubted it could run as fast or as far as his own mount.

Diath nodded in greeting but made no further effort. The bard clearly didn’t understand the tension he was causing as he continued to speak, “Saw you leaving this morning. Where’re you headed?”

Amy was still tugging furiously at the jammed staff and Diath lowered his shortsword a little, still on his guard, but responded, “Silverymoon.”

The bard looked pleased at that, “I’m headed there too! Mind if I tag along some of the way? I’m Paultin. Paultin Seppa.”

Diath regarded the other man, judging his worth and whether he could be trusted. Amy accidentally punched him in the thigh as she gave one last pull before giving up. Diath sheathed his sword, “I’m sorry but I don’t think I can take any more companions on.” He was already stretching his funds to support two people, it wouldn’t accommodate for three.

Paultin shifted in his saddle, “I’ll be paying my own way, don’t worry. Might be I can get you guys half rate rooms at any inns we come across. Besides, not every day you get to travel with a teifling round these parts.”

That immediately had Diath back on guard and he could feel Amy tense against him, “How do you know that?”

Paultin looked taken aback at the sudden coldness, “I’ve seen a few before, I know what they look like. What? Were you going to tell me she was a half-orc that conveniently never takes her hood down?” He looked amused at his own joke but Diath wasn’t amused at all and neither was Amy from the expression on her face, “Look, I’m not looking to hurt you or anything. Just say the word and I’ll be on my way.”

Diath thought over the offering of possibly half rate rooms which on his now stretched coinage would be a blessing and Paultin seemed relatively harmless even if he did know about teiflings. Jormund at the Merry Sailor had known about teiflings too and Diath had put enough trust in him to make the journey to Silverymoon. He nodded, “We’ll travel with you as far as Yartar, we don’t plan on staying there too long.”

Paultin smiled, “Cool. So, what are your names? If we’re going to be travelling together I should at least get to know them.”

“I’m Diath Woodrow, and this is Amy,” He gestured between them, “She doesn’t talk much.”

Paultin looked at the teifling with curious eyes, “Huh.”

Diath pulled his mare about to face the bridge once more and spurred her on, “We should keep moving.”

It was a fair distance to the bridge despite it being in sight, the ground was uneven and a little difficult to manoeuvre on, and by the time they reached it the sun was already sinking below the horizon. Paultin had sang bits and pieces most of the way to fill the silence as they travelled but by now had fallen quiet, sitting tiredly in his saddle. Amy was much the same, starting to slump only to jerk herself awake. Diath knew they would have to set up camp soon somewhere amongst the trees the other side of the river and get started on a fire.

The hooves of the horses clattered against the stone as they crossed, cutting over the sound of the rushing water beneath. Dusk had started to settle in, hazing the sky over with dark shades of pink and inky blue and turning the warm air frigid. Diath could see their breaths misting before them as they reached the middle of the bridge and wanted nothing more than to get off the horse and sleep.

Suddenly a loud thrum cut through the air like a knife and Paultin’s stallion screamed, rearing up as it flailed and Diath caught sight of the crossbow bolt jutting out of its rump. Paultin fought to stay in the saddle as the horse tossed against him and Diath’s heart leapt into his mouth, adrenaline surging through his veins as he looked desperately for their attackers but was met with nothing. Another thrum and a bolt whizzed past his ear, narrowly missing his head, and jolting his own horse into a panic beside Paultin’s.

Amy cried out and grasped at the mare’s mane with desperate fingers as Diath wrestled the reins. Yells alerted him to their assailants, a group of armoured bandits charging through the treeline the opposite side of the river ahead armed with crossbows and swords. Diath reached for his own shortsword as his horse thrashed but everything was happening so quickly that he hadn’t the time to process Paultin’s mount coming towards him until they crashed together and Paultin came slamming into him, finally thrown from the saddle.

Diath’s grip on the reins slipped as he was tossed sideways, the world blurring as he fell, and the harsh stone wall of the bridge came rushing up to meet him and suddenly he was overwhelmed by pain that blew through his skull like a hammer. He rolled off the edge, momentum carrying him, then there was nothing beneath him but air. He fell and fell and fell. Wind rushed past his ears. His head screamed in agony and then he hit water.

It was ice cold and his first instinct was to gasp in shock, flooding his mouth and lungs with it. He tried to right himself but which way was up and which was down wasn’t clear and his head couldn’t make sense of any of it. His lungs burned like fire for air but there was none to be found. He could hear his own pulse slugging in his ears and though his eyes were open there was nothing but murky darkness. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He fought against the urge to suck in more water but the need to do gasp was overwhelming and the water clogged his senses and turned his limbs to lead as he drowned. What small light he could make out was dimming, pure darkness eating at the corners of his vision until it was all there was and he couldn’t even think.

Then there was nothing.