How it all began

How our aforementioned rag-tag band of yokels came to find each other. Also includes bits of rag-taggery and yokeldom.

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Nearly 2 months before Sandpoint, Swiftus was traveling with Gomie. He was running out of money and had been entertaining, much like a street performer, and barely scraping by on the coins people dropped in his hat. Gomie was hungry and starting to lose faith in Swiftus' ability to provide. Without his mentor, Swiftus had become down-trodden. Weeks had passed since Rinzel disappeared. There was just very little spark left in him, his half-orc side was starting to take over and he was becoming more and more physical and violent, sleeping and drinking way more than his constitution could support.

One day, in the early evening, he was levitating people's hats in a crowd for coins and from the corner of his eye, he saw a smallish, part elven, man pick-pocketing in the crowd. Enraged that this little imp was taking the coins that he was working to earn he grabbed him by the scruff and threw him up against a wall. He was in such a stuper that he barely noticed the dagger poised at his rib-cage, the little elven man was not shaken or frightened. He confidently and steadily held the dagger just between Swiftus' ribs. The crowd had started to disperse, interest in Swiftus' show had been lost and Swiftus soon realized that he was in a precarious position. “Who are you?!” he bellowed. “Marcel” the man replied after sizing Swiftus up and down.

Fatigue and hunger had taken over and Swiftus realized that his hair was in desperate need of a comb. The man called Marcel gently lowered his dagger, still at the ready but no longer in Swiftus' ribs. “We can help each other” the little half elf said. And he nudged Swiftus into a nearby inn.

The two ate and drank well into the late night. They had very little in common, “Marcel” was exiting a bad relationship where the woman had run off to follow a peddlar. He had been on foot, at first to find her, but now just wandering. Swiftus relayed the situation with his mentor, and after a few pints became aware of his coin pouch. “I can't pay for this meal, you pick-pocketed all my patrons!” “This one's on me” said the half elf and started rustling through several purses he had snatched, looking for the right amount. By the time they had settled their bill, they had devised a plan where Swiftus would perform as he had, draw a crowd, and Marcel would snatch what he could during the 'show'. Then they would meet up after and divide their earnings.

The first night they enacted their plan and it was quite successful, Swiftus carefully counted all his coins and Marcel did the same, they divided their shares, slightly more for Marcel as his end carried more risk. They carried on this way through a couple of towns, finding solace in each other's company. Gomie never took to Marcel, he continually tried to warn Swiftus that Marcel seemed shifty, but hungry for company and now sated and fed, Swiftus did not pay attention. “Quiet, bird, you're eating aren't you?”

One night, business as usual, Swiftus and Marcel were working their act. Marcel had picked a smallish dwarven man as a mark and was gently lifting his purse when, before he knew what had happened, he had an axe swinging at his head, knocked his hat clean off. The half-elf sat on the ground waiting for his fate and then he saw his opening, the dwarf stumbled and Marcel caught the smell of beer and women and took off, sure that the inebriated little man could not follow.

Swiftus packed up quicker than usual after seeing Marcel bolt and they met up hours later at the Inn where they were staying. As they were dividing up their purse the inn door burst open and there stood the dwarf. “I'm looking for a little imp thing, and I'm looking for a fight.” He slapped a barmaid on the backside, “And I'm always looking for hide.” He belly-laughed. In the midst of his humor he spotted Marcel and Swiftus. Not a bright man, but not completely dense, he put together that the two were in cahoots. He heavily dropped his axe on their table. “Do you know how I make my money?” He asked as he pulled out a stone and began to sharpen his axe blade. The Inn patrons had gone back to eating--it wasn't hard to tell this wasn't the most exceptional thing that had ever happened here. “I am a paid blade, do you know what that is?” Both the half-orc and the half-elf blinked at him. “A sword for hire?” he continued, pausing for an answer he knew would not come. “We get the picture” asserted Swiftus. The dwarf looked up from his task, seemingly surprised that they had spoken (intimidation was usually his strong suit), shrugged, and went on. “You, elf, are you any good with that blade?” He motioned to Marcel's sheathed dagger. “Better than fair, better than most, and there are no locks that can hold me in or out.” His thumb instinctively covered the handle of his dagger. “You, wizard, are you any good?” “Care to test me?” replied, Swiftus reaching behind his chair for his quarterstaff. A disgruntled Gomie had been perched on it and angrily flew off. “Not particularly.” Said the dwarf. “At first I was going to kill you.” He said very matter-of-factly. “But I think we're all in this for the same thing. My name is Riclamin Ironhouse, and while battle is certainly sweet, it can take me away for months at a time. I have not met a town (or a woman) that does not appreciate a skilled and calloused hand with some disturbance or another, and with a rounded group such as this we could fetch tidy sums traveling where the work calls. I can see you have the same morals I do,” he winked. “We should do nicely, but first I'll have my purse back.” Swiftus and Marcel looked back and forth between each other and the brazen dwarf squatting at their table. Marcel, eager for adventure patted Swiftus on the back, “we could find Rinzel, we could never be hungry or bored again.” Swiftus was hesitant, this was not what he thought his training had been for, but out of alternatives, he nodded, his freshly combed locks bouncing. “We're in, for now.” Said Swiftus. Riclamin slapped the table, “Who are you two, and I said, give me back my purse.” “Swiftus.” “Kent Zonestar.” Swiftus did a double take and the half-elf just shrugged and threw an empty leather bag at the dwarf. Gomie cackled above.

Early in the morning Swiftus and Kent waited outside the inn, the place they had been told to meet Riclamin. They waited and waited and waited... As they were about to disperse and carry on with what they had been doing, the inn doors swung violently and a hurled Ric came crashing into the dirt at their feet. “You stay away from my daughter and my bar,” yelled an enraged innkeeper. Ric dusted himself off and chuckled. “On our way, then!” And the three headed east to wherever.

Along their way the three men talked and Swiftus recanted the situation with his master, Kent hopped ahead, climbing trees, looking out for bandits and road threats. Ric did his best to seem sympathetic, but having been on his own for so long and battle-hardened, he was hard-pressed to care. They stopped in towns along the way, inquiring about work and about Rinzel. They took small jobs, goblins stealing horses, mischievous pixies booby-trapping houses, even a woman who believed her home to be haunted, turned out her husband was just sneaking out at night to meet the neighbors wife in the barn. Things were going well.

One night, in the third town they had travelled to, they were eating supper in the inn. Ric spotted a woman from across the room. She was beautiful, red hair, braided for work, eating quickly, and alone. He sauntered to her, placed his hands on her table while Swiftus and Kent looked on. She glanced at his hands then politely acknowledged him with a nod. Kent saw him whisper something to her, her eyes widened, she smiled, and rose as if she would follow the dwarf. Ric turned his back and she, in one smooth movement, swept his leg, dug her knee into his chest as he lay on the floor, breath knocked out of him and drew a shimmering scimitar and held it at his throat. “Say that again” she said in a saccharin voice. “Calm down, just a bit of fun, ginger has a temper!” The young woman scoffed and let him up. Not one to be rejected, or beaten (especially by a woman), Ric drew his axe and yelled suggestively, “Think you could handle me, now?” The woman turned on her heel and looked at him. Suddenly, she closed her eyes and she appeared to be surrounded by light. “I don't have any problem with you, I was merely eating. I am on a journey that does not concern you and I don't need distractions!” As a show of faith, she put her scimitar back in its resting place on her back. She was rubbing a wooden medallion and Swiftus curiously went in for a closer look. “Sarenrae” he said. The woman raised an eyebrow. “What do you know of the goddess?” “You're a cleric, young, but determined” Swiftus deduced. “Let us get you a drink, we have a proposition for you.” Ric and Kent looked at Swiftus with horror, what the hell was he thinking, they don't need a woman tagging along. The woman cocked her head to one side and whispered something to herself. She opened her eyes and seeming contented she extended her hand, “Elyryan.”

Introductions were passed. Stories were shared. Ric told battle tales, a drunken Kent lamented about loves lost, Swiftus, once again to the dismay of Kent and Ric, told the tale of his missing master. Elyryan listened quietly, politely. “And what is your journey?” Ric asked her. “I am trying to find my parents,” She said sadly. “I don't know who they are, I was left at a temple when I was new.” The three men did not know what to do with this information, but Swiftus recognized that she had potential. He pulled the other two aside and relayed to them the usefulness of a cleric. “But what use is a woman?” pouted Ric. “If she's any good, she's a healer, and a caster, and a fierce warrior,” continued Swiftus, “put your libido aside and see that she will come in handy.” “She did whip me, even though I was unarmed!” Ric admitted relcutantly.

After many hours of convincing Elyryan that she could travel faster, safer, and with more comfort in their company, and promising to help her with her search, she left with the three men in the morning. Westward, and none quite sure what to expect of their journey or of each other... All three remembering they had come to join this group through deceit and violence...

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