# Vagabonds & Diplomats



## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 13, 2003)

Just an introduction, this is a campaign set in the Forgotten Realms. Not really sure where it's going to lead (I'm not the DM, just a scribe . Anyway, I've been mulling several pet projects to keep myself entertained, and figured I'd brush off the dust of days gone by and passions almost forgotten. Hope its as entertaining for everyone else as it is for me to remember a forgotten hobby.


SIMPLE BEGINNINGS:

I am Ishmael, son of Il'kiir - king of the Gypsies, ruler of no land. My people believed throughout the ages that luck shall right the misdeeds of the past, as we cling to this hope that our saga may unfold. And so, we wait for the sign of times to right our short-comings. 

For it is the myths and legend of my people where my story begins, a time when we were held in the highest regard by the kings of Oerth. But it was not so much our company that the kings of men fancied, but rather the blessings of luck and prophesy that filled their halls. For we were the blessed of Tyche, and where we travelled, her smile gazed. But it would not be forever-so, for our blessing would soon become our bane. Our 
foresight and ability to seize and bestow luck to those in our favour, to sway the tide of battle, and divine the throes of war, would be taken from us. We were left by our god, like sheep to the wolves, and our barren abilities divided our people, and caused us humiliation from those we served. It was this humility that we were cursed by the priests of men to forever walk the Oerth, with no home, and no welcome in the lands of civilization. 

Many generations have passed, and legend and lore gathered from our travels have allowed us to understand the peril and humiliation that we suffered. We believe that we are the better for our fate, and know that the Lady still smiles upon our path. Stories we shall tell to our children of the treachery of Moander, and how he corrupted the heart of our god. Of how the love of Selune and Lathander has given us renewed hope through the birth of Tymora. But it is not these stories that lead me to my current fate, it is the dreams, the visions, the prophesy which have returned. 

As quickly as they were taken from us, we find ourselves waking in a cold sweat, reeling from the mental agony that envelopes us through our sleep. Images of death painted across the land, the black swath from the broad scythe of death sparing no mercy on the souls of men. Our people understand that there shall be no escape from this manic sleep, and must endure. So, they find their reprieve through faith and stories of old that tell of a hero that shall repair the reputation of the gypsy people. They believe that time has come, and they believe that man is me.

I am not sure why they selected me for this task, to take the pride of my people to the ends of the Oerth, in an attempt to gain the trust of the civilized world. I will not forsake them of their hopes, for their dreams have been shattered, and sleep does not show them mercy. And so it is, the 17th of Mirtul, that I leave my people and venture forth, in the hope that I can fulfill the fate that was prescribed to me.


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 13, 2003)

THE FORTUNATE GUARDIAN:

It was in the town of Tentras that fate had led me, for I had no legitimate destination in mind but to follow each step I took. The journey was surprisingly short, and thankfully, without strife. It was utter splendour, greater than I had ever imagined, having never set foot within the walls of a city in my short lifetime. The structure, the throngs of people, and all of the confusion and bustle that teemed around every corner; there was little I could do to obscure my obvious displacement. But perhaps it would be my trusting nature that would be my saving grace.I made my way through the throngs, unsure of what I was looking for, until it struck me, like a flash of lightning searing the earth. The sign glowed with a majestic assurance, as if it had been placed in this tiny square of Oerth only for the purpose to reaffirm my path. The Lion's Head Pub. It is suprising how dear, mementos of one's home can be, especially considering when one has no true fixed home. For the lion was the symbol of our tribe, an apostle of courage to our children, and an ambition of valiance for the elders. 

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"Let me buy you a drink, traveller. Saradoc LittleLeaf, at yer service." The half-man wiggled through the crowd, and propped himself up on a barstool next to the disheveled Ishmael. "It looks like yer new to this here area." 

A peculiar little man, the likes that Ishmael had never set eye upon, which made him all the more intriguing. "Well, thank you good sir. It is always a pleasure to have such...," but before Ishmael could finish, he was abruptly interrupted. A towering man stood over his shoulder, and firmly gripped the halfling by the scruff of his neck, lifting him a good foot off of the stool. 

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice the half-pike tryin' to tip ya a drink with your own coin..." interjected the unnamed guardian. "This pricklin' dog would have looted you of your self-esteem had he more time. Fortunate for you."

"It wasn't meeee!!!" squirmed the halfing, clawing at his captors' grip. "I've no need for a silly fan, anyway!"

"I've no time for such misdeeds, especially in a house of thieves. Return his goods, and be on your way." The halfling had little hesitance complying with the order, promptly leaving to escape the eerie silence that had crept around the three.

"The name is Perrens. And you're welcome." offering a hand and nodding in the direction of a table off to the corner of the musty bar. "You're obviously unaware that this tavern is frequented by the local thieves guild. So, what brings you here?"

"A quest. I search for a lost artifact, but have no idea of even where to begin my search," was all that Ishmael could offer. For even his own voice resonated with uncertainty. It was quite daunting to not be able to understand one's own burden.

"Well, I'm no foppin' loremaster, but I imagine if you were looking for one, it would be best to travel to Silverymoon." Perrens lets out a quirky chuckle to finish the sentence. "Which would probably be a good four months journey from here. Let me introduce you to my employer. This is Master Jonrad, a local merchant and spice keeper. Jonrad, this is, err, ..."

"Ishmael, son of Il'kiir."

"Well, Ishmael. If Silverymoon is in your path, you indeed have a long journey before you. But in the meantime, there's drink at the table, and mugs to be emptied." It was as fine an invitation that Ismael had received in many a moon. The beverages flowed throughout the night, and soon the three had built a great comraderie.


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 13, 2003)

THE CREW:

Seeming that Silverymoon was an incredible distance away, and obliged to fulfill a debt to Perrens for saving his dignity, Ishmael agreed to venture with the spice caravans of Jonrad as an extra-hand in the security detail. The final destination was slotted for Arabel, a small town south of Tilverton, that had become a refuge from the recent Goblin Wars. It wasn't Silverymoon, but it was forging the path. In retrospect, it was Ishmael's first ever job, and the pay was rather promising to a near broke gypsy.

The caravan began in the early crisp of morning, a small crew managing three horse-drawn wagons packed with exotic spices. The fore-wagon would be lead by Jonrad, escorting his son Rael on his first run of the family business. A brute of a man, Keegan, would helm the horses of the second cart, with Ishmael and Arwyn manning the flanks. And, the final wagon, would be managed by Jonrad's right-hand man, Perrens.

The journey to Ordulin was rather uneventful, and allowed Ishmael to better acquaint himself with the company that Jonrad had hired. Keegan was a barrel of a man, short on words, and short on temper, but he had many years of experience escorting caravans on the dangerous paths throughout the Dales. His eye for perfection and his stature allowed him to quickly gain the respect of the crew, for his high demands were not as much to stroke his gentle ego, as much as they were to ensure survival on the road. His voice was gruff, and his words short, but to the point. Ishmael quickly found that conversing with Keegan would result only in discovering the tasks for the day. 

The township of Ordulin was in reality nothing more than a depressed farmhouse converted into a tavern to house travellers and their mounts. It was agreed that the stop would be brief, with Jonrad making some quick business transactions and Keegan meeting an acquaintance at the Leaning Mount. 

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"Pick a card", Ishmael playfully fans a deck of cards for Arwyn to try her fate at chance. "What is this, some game gypsy? I'm not going to regret this, am I?"

"Of course not. It is believed that my people have the ability to see into the future through the cards of fate. These are but ordinary cards, the only pain you'll have to suffer is my company." Ishmael lets out a convincing grin that eases her concerns. 

"The Queen of Spades. Well, lets, lets try something different... Maybe I can read your palm?", he quickly pulls her hand free from her scabbard as a shock of light bursts through his mind. Images of horses running free through the green meadows of the Beastlands pulls Ishmael from reality. And overseeing them is Arwyn, as if she were orchestrating their movements with the flowing movement of her arms. It was a majestical sight, the color of the fields were greener than Ishmael had ever seen. An ease flowed over him as the image flashed away and darkness consumed him.

"Ishmael?" Arwyn grips his shoulders and looks him in the eyes. "What is up with you? First you offer to tell me my fortune and then you billow off into some unholy slumber. Strange indeed."

"I apologize. Perhaps I shall rest before we head off to Highmoon."


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## Shaele (Feb 13, 2003)

*Vagabonds*

Hey Dursk, keep it coming! I can't wait to see how you handle what comes next <g>


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 14, 2003)

THEY ONLY COME OUT AT NIGHT:

It was with great pleasure that Ishmael would at least have another soul to bare Keegan's company throughout the remainder of the trip. Arwyn was a resident of the Dales, coming from a nomadic family renown for their ability to tame and sell horses. She wished to follow the path of the Rangers of the Dales, a tight-knit group renown for anonymously  protecting the woods and the men who travelled through them. But one could not join the Rangers, for it was the Rangers who selected their brethren, and their membership was held in the strictest of confidence.

The trip to Ordulin must have been profitable for Jonrad, for the crew was graced with a warm meal, and another body was added to the rotation. But more interesting was the paying passenger who wished to be ferried to Aradel. A slim man, who was well decorated and distinctly refined. But inroductions would have to wait, as there was business to be conducted, and time was money. Or at least, according to the proverbs shared by Jonrad.

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Night fell quickly along the roads of the Dales, for the trees that spared the winds also robbed them of the daylight. The caravan conveniently found a place along the side of the road to waylay for the evening. 

"Ishmael, Arwyn, you'll take the first shift. Perrens, and you, yeah, the new guy, you've got second watch. Don't mess it up!" Keegan barked. His alpha-male tendencies were never at bay, and were starting to pinch the nerves of some of the crew.

The shift was passing rather uneventfully, as Ishmael and Arwyn watched the campsite. 
"Arwyn. Remember earlier in the day. When I blacked out?". Ishmael was unsure of how to approach the subject. He'd never had a vision such as this, at least not through sheer contact with someone. "I think I finally unders...". "Shhh!" was the only reply from Arwyn's lips, and an eye that had a panicked tinge to it. "Did you hear that?"

The sound of a small dried branch cracking in the darkness reverberated through their hearts. The adrenaline flushed through their bodies, and sly smiles crossed both of their faces at once.


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 14, 2003)

TREACHERY AT THE HIGHMOON CORRAL:

"Nothing of interest Arwyn. I believe our shift is nearing a close. We should wake Perrens." winked Ishmael in an attempt to imply otherwise. A soft nod in response, and the two left their post to prepare the party for the worst. 

"Master Keegan. I believe we're being watched from the woods." Ishmael had drawn the short blade of grass and was destined to wake the sleeping bear. "Mmmmph? Aye, its prob'ly wulves. They be herdin' this area fer years. Go back to sleep." and with a grumble, he turned his shoulder and bedded down again.

Odd. But he was the expert of this area. Ishmael decided that it probably would still be wise to pass the shift on, and see what happens. They all met at the campfire, Perrens, Arwyn, Ishmael, and the new guy. "Umm, how come nobody ever mentioned your name?" Ishmael blurted out. "Devis." looking a little sheepish, and temporarily out-of-place. "Anyway, we've heard noises out in the woods. I wouldn't be able to sleep without investigating first." Arwyn quickly broke the eerie disassociation that perhaps resulted from a lack of sleep. "Ishmael and I will try to flush it out. Just watch the camp." Ishmael couldn't determine whether he was more surprised at being volunteered for the task, or the strategic motivations of the graceful Arwyn. 

Arwyn silently navigated her way through the brush, attempting to sneak up on their hunter. But she hadn't ventured more than 20 feet before Ishmael bumbled through the underbrush to catch her position. The distraction was more than enough to wake Master Jonrad, let alone alert anyone in the area with enough motive to be concealed by the night's darkness. And like a race-horse, the unintroduced visitor sprinted further into the trees. Without hesitation, Arwyn and Ishmael sped after their predator, running deeper and deeper into the woods. It must've been 200 yards that passed before Ishmael realized the danger that they were putting themselves in. "Arwyn, stop! We must return to the camp. We can't afford for this to be a decoy, our duty is toward Master Jonrad."
Arwyn turned to see Ishmael, and realized that even the campfire was no longer visible to them. It was best to head back. 

Surprisingly, the rest of the evening passed uneventfully. The morning gave some relief from the tension to the watch. Perhaps the sun was a sign of Lathander's assurance. Perhaps, but thankfully there were no priests to droningly remind them. The caravan quickly made off, as the startlement of the night before left everyone a little uneasy. 

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After travelling for less than an hour, the caravan came to a grinding halt. Master Jonrad unexpectedly pulled up his reins which almost brought the wagons to an impact. A single hulking man stood in the middle of the road, blocking their path. The man grabbed the reins of the horse and pulled them from Jonrads' grasp. 

In a gutteral voice, he booms "Get off yer wagons, and lay down yer weapons, and we'll let ya live. We're only 'ere fer the money."


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 15, 2003)

STUBBORN DEFIANCE:

Arwyn clambored down from the wagon, and looked toward the rest of the crew. Everyone was in a stupor as to what all of this was about. The ruffian raised his voice "I'S NUB SAYS IT AGAIN! HUES OFF DA WAGUNS, NOW!" It was evident the half-orc's temper was getting the best of him. "AMBUSH 'N FIRE!"

Understanding the brevity of the situation, Ishmael disembarked from the wagon. Perrens and Devis quickly followed suit. Keegan though, he sat there, in a daze as if nothing were going on, with his fists tightly gripped upon the reins. "What about him?" Ishmael wondered aloud, nodding towards the burly Keegan. 

"Keeg no bad. LIE DOWN, NOW!" The half-orc started to make his way toward the pestilent gypsy. 
"Arwyn. I think this is the part where we're supposed to do something..." The thought struck her at the same time, but laying no waste to words she drew her blades in a flash of steel. She would have no tolerance of these petty road-thieves. She would defend her honor, and her commitment to Master Jonrad.

"CUI COMEDO LETHARGAS ". From further down the road, a cowled man comes forth, blowing grains of sand from his palm into the air. The particles expand into a maelstrom of sand, yet gently flow through the air and swarm around the female threat. As the air dissipates, Arwyn falls to the ground in a deep slumber. Ishmael sneezes off the effects to find Keegan slumped over upon the wagon, and the half-orc chortling as he barrels toward him. A swarm of bolts fly through the air, barely hitting the wagon as if it was their original target. The battle had begun, and Ishmael was quickly feeling singled out!

The 250 pound half-orc had already taken a strong dislike to the man in the flowing robes. The hot blood flushed to his face in a bitter anger he was famous for. The defiant one would be the first to taste death today, Prulok thought. It was the least he could do to repay his insolence. Just as Prulok approached Ishmael, a loud thud caught both of their attentions.  Turning to see the commotion, they both see one of the snipers pinned to the earth at the rear of Jonrad's wagon. He was brazen enough to approach the wagon to position himself for a better shot, hiding along the back of Jonrad's wagon and peering beyond to find a mark. He spotted Ishmael fending off the frenzied half-orc, yet, at the last moment got the impression that the tables had turned. Peering up, only in time to see the point of Jonrad's crossbow glaring down at him. 

If only to add more fuel to the fire, Prulok quickly turned, raised his huge sword and cleaved it deep into Ishmael's body. The blade was cold as a starless night, and Ishmael's eyes glazed over, and suddenly, everything turned to black...


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 28, 2003)

PYRRHIC HEROISM:

Arwyn awoke in time to see Ishmael's body topple to the ground, as Prulok glanced about. His thirst had not been quenched by such an uninspiring kill as this. "JU ALL DIES TODAY!" His confidence growing as his blood boils with the sport of the kill, glaring at his next victim.

"You shall not see the end of this day, you, you foul beast!" Arwyn lept from the ground, unsheathing her scythes while spinning through the air and slashing through the half-orcs mid-section. It wasn't even enough to stagger him, but focused his anger from the lifeless Ishmael.

Perrens and Devis were making quick work of the snipers that had soon discovered that the protection of the underbrush also made it extremely unwieldly to hit their marks. Yet, it wasn't the threat of the archers that concerned them. It was the ominous voice that echoed from down the road, only to turn into blasts of energy that pounded into their chests. The majicks were not easily counterable to the scouts, and they were quickly running out of ideas. 

But it was Aiden, who surprised them. The regal elf passenger, who had been hiding all this time in his wagon, who found some well of courage, and stood up in plain sight of the remaining archers! "MAGUS CENTO!" and a blue burst of energy flowed from his fingertips in a sizzling arc, burning through the cowled man's robes, blasting him to the ground.

But Prulok still stood. He would have no business retreating from a flock of sheep, ready to be fleeced. They would fall like apples from a tree, and he would enjoy the plunder himself if that was what it came down to. But it was no longer about the money for Prulok, it was about the blood-thirst. He hungered for it, and it consumed him. He wiped the blood from his midsection, and tightened both hands around his tremendous blade. There would be no end to the savagery that would ensue. As Arwyn held her scythes to defend against the blow, there would be no resistence to the force that Prulok brought forth. For his anger would not cede until his mission was finished. Arywn watched, as her life was already stolen, but her eyes capturing everything, still not understanding that her life had been snuffed as a candle.

It was all that the company would stand for, and with renewed vigour, they swarmed the half-orc as quickly as they could. His murder of Arwyn would be the last action he would ever commit, and his fate in the here-after would be permanently decided. And with a few mumbled words, a blast of energy from the elf, the half-orc slumped over, devoid of life.


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 28, 2003)

REMEMBRANCE OF THE FALLEN:

Ishmael felt the cold of the steel as it seered through his body, and the sudden flow of pain that filled its void. His breath left him, and in its place was a cool breeze that numbed his senses. Yet, he did not feel cold, nor did he fear what lay before him. An unexplicable paradox of calm and anxiety swarmed over him, and as he opened his eyes, he was blinded by the complete darkness.

And as he sat, he could feel the movement of air flowing around him, and what was the unmistakable sound of a coin, striking the ground. It seemed to roll endlessly, spiraling about him until finally coming to a rest. And a slight chuckle came from the darkness and filled Ishmael with hope.

"It is not your time Ishmael. Return to your friends. For you have my favour this day."

The voice was the sweetest sound that Ishmael had ever heard, and he knew instantly, that he would forevermore strive to hear its soothing pitch.

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Ishmael awoke, covered in a blanket, lying flat on the back of a wagon. Instantly fear enveloped him, as he had no indication of where he was. Frantically, he swung his arms, jumping about, trying to escape the confines of the darkness. It wasn't until he finally managed to fall of the moving wagon that he finally freed himself of his confinement. There was little that Devis could do to keep himself from laughing at the recently revived Ishmael. 

It was two days since Ishmael took the blow, it was a miracle that he was not killed outright. But not all were so fortunate, and it was Aiden who was given the grievous task of updating Ishmael of the aftermath. The thieves were over-run, but at great cost. Arwyn, the Ranger, had arisen from her slumber to see the near-fatal blow to Ishmael. She had leaped to protect Ishmael's body from certain death, and ripped at the half-orc with her scythes, pushing him to the boundaries of life. But in an act of desperation, he hefted his monstrous sword above his head and swung it clear through her. Ishmael was aghast at the terrible news. It was the first friend he had ever lost, and he felt terribly responsible.

"I am sorry about your friend, Ishmael. She was valiant indeed." Perhaps it wasn't much, but the gesture from Devis gave Ishmael some hope for the world. 

When they finally reached Highmoon, the town was quickly closing down with the tide of nightfall. But there was protocol to be followed, and respect to be paid, and the company stopped at the temple of the morning-lord. With a ferverish pounding of the door, a small robed man answered, slightly dishevelled and adrift. 

"Do you realize the hour? It's nightfall. I have sermon at the break of dawn!" a hoarse voice echoed from between the small opening of the door. It was immediately evident that the party's company was not overly appreciated, especially with the sudden realization that they had just awoken this poor old priest.

"I am sorry morning-lord, but we have grievious business with you to properly care for our friend, who has fallen. I respectfully request your aid to properly care for her, come morning, Lathander willing." Ishmael pleaded. 

A silence filled the air, as the priest pondered the query. "Aye, it will take some time. We will need a donation for such a service, though." The response caught even the priest off-balance, and as he tried to correct himself for his lack of priorities, Ishmael quickly passed a pouch full of coin through the doorway.

"It is only 30 gold, but I hope it is enough." The rest of the caravan stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind him, and the look all of their faces spoke volumes to what it would mean. 

"Very well, leave the body here, and meet us at the break of dawn behind the temple."

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And so, Arwyn, daughter of the woods, was buried under an unmarked stone in the town of Highmoon. All was left for the good of the church, except for one small penchant. A small necklace bearing the symbol of a horse upon its face. It would be a keepsake for the party to remember the friend they lost on the roads of Highmoon.


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 28, 2003)

that was a close session. we lost one PC, and I almost kicked the bucket as well. Was at -5 and rolled a 19% to stabilize.


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## Dursk Starkfire (Feb 28, 2003)

image of Ishmael attached. CG Monk/Cleric of Tymora.


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