The shadows of late afternoon were beginning to stretch across the fields of sandstone as Nida wandered north in search of a place to set camp for the night. She was mildly nervous, as the road nearby was notorious for its bandit population, but she knew how to take care of herself. At least, she hoped so. She'd had pretty good luck fending off any attackers so far, and she knew how to run like a rabbit when it got down to the wire. Still, she didn't want to wind up dead-- worse, poor-- because she had chosen a poor place to sleep.
The sun was just beginning to slip behind the trees when Nida spotted a lone figure walking across the rocky fields toward a nearby escarpment. She reached for the machete strapped to her belt, but then saw that the figure was well-armored and carried himself upright and proud. Surely not a bandit. Perhaps she could camp with him; protection was good, and if he turned out to be another hormone-driven lonely man, she could just introduce him to the business end of a fireball or three. She began wandering towards him, waving as he noticed her and turned.
"Hail, traveler," she said with a smile when she got close enough to speak normally.
"Well met, young lady," the man said. "Odd to see a lass traveling in this forsaken region." He looked young, but his hair was receding a bit. Small scars dotted his face. He looked casually at the cliff face and dropped his pack and shield against the rock.
Nida shrugged. "I have a bit of wanderlust in me. Can't seem to stay at home."
"Ah, I understand you perfectly," the man chuckled, nodding. "I, too, am afflicted with a desire for adventure." He extended a rough hand, which Nida shook firmly. "I am Golarin, called the Brave by some. I come here often to get away from the bustle of overpopulation."
"Nida, of the Rocheron family," Nida said, making a half-curtsey. "Myself, I prefer to get away from the 'please m'lady, thanks m'lady, three bags full m'lady' of Waterdeep."
Golarin bowed deep. "Ah, had I known I was in the presence of noble blood, I would have been less coarse. Forgive me, my lady."
Nida shook her head and grinned. "No, I'm talking about what I have to say to everyone. We Rocherons are merely traders of cloth and silks."
Golarin laughed and began making a circle of rocks. "Perhaps you would indulge me the pleasure of your company for an evening meal? I have stories which you may find more entertaining than the prattle of merchants from Calimport, I reckon."
"I would be honered," she replied. She slipped her pack off and leaned it by his, then started gathering rocks to help Golarin.
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Nida wouldn't have minded Golarin's tales at all, had he the least shred of modesty in him. As it was, everything in the world east of Minthka seemed to find its center at either his wit or his sword. According to him, outlaws trembled at the mention of his name and the local mercenaries adored him as their ideal. She wouldn't be surprised to hear the words "Tiamat" and "fled from me" mentioned in the same sentence if he went on any longer.
Oh, well; at least his food is better than mine, she thought with an inward sigh. She was enrolled in one of Waterdeep's better magicians' guilds (if only by a favor owed her father by the relatively rich Zakara), but had not yet reached a level of skill which would allow her to conjure anything more palatable than flatbread, traveling rations, and plain water. Golarin seemed to spend all of his adventuring gains on weapons and food.
She detected a break between tales suddenly and jumped at the opportunity. "Ah, the night grows older," she said, stretching. It was true; the little fire was beginning to run out of fuel, and there wasn't any firewood for half an hour's walk. "I have enjoyed your stories, but perhaps I should sleep to be rested for the morning."
"Oh, but one more!" exclaimed Golarin excitedly. "My great encounter with a party of minotaurs, not far from here! You will certainly be glad you heard this one. It was nigh of a year ago, when I was tracking down the Nightfall Guild's notorious elite assassin--"
"I really must sleep, Golarin," Nida interjected with a yawn. "I would love to hear your tale, but I will be in no condition to appreciate it until morning. Please understand."
"--and just then, when I had my attention on my mount, the dishonorable monsters rushed from their hiding places, roaring and snorting and growling in that gutter language of theirs, of which I knew nary a word!" he continued, as though he hadn't heard her.
Nida stood up angrily and began striding towards her pack. "I do mean it, my good man. I am sorry, but I am unused to such late hours, and I will thank you to offer me the courtesy of my rest!"
Quick as a flash, Golarin scrambled to his feet and stood before her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You will listen to my story!" he shouted. His face was set in a maniacal stare, the muscles at the side of his left eye twitching.
Crap.
Nida slowly loosened her muscles, closing her eyes briefly to order her thoughts around the arcane patterns she had imposed on her brain earlier in the day. Then, calmly, she looked straight into his eyes and said, "I do apologize, friend, but I think that perhaps I should find another place to camp, perhaps farther from this dangerous area. And I must then rest. So please excuse my rudeness."
At these words, Golarin screamed and drew his sword with a furious motion. He rushed at her, swinging wide and even; only luck and her years of practice playing at knights and ogres with the children who lived in a ghetto near her home her safe. She let herself drop to her knees, rolling over her shoulder twice to come up several paces to the left and a little behind him.
"Aight, yo, you done wack yoself this time!" she yelled, letting her facade of formality drop; one less thing to concentrate on. "Crazy-ass motha, straight up askin' fo a blastin'!" Backing away two steps more, she held up her hand before her and began intoning the words that would form the energy in her mind into a devastating spell.
Golarin had already turned to face her, recovering from his attack easily; apparently, not all of his talk was hot air. Nida began to chant a little faster. Three more words-- come on-- think quicker--
Not quick enough.
"YOU WILL LISTEN TO MY STORY!" Golarin shouted, charging her. Red spurted onto his face, which was now tangled into a horrible expression of hatred. Nida wondered if perhaps he had burst a vein and it was spraying him.
Nope, it was her chest, which now encased his sword. Damn, straight between the ribs, too. Looks like went in deep enough to come out the back. This was a good robe, too-- Father could have sold the extra cloth for a lot of money, but he used it to make this for me instead. Now this nutcase has ruined it. Oh, yeah. He's gonna pay.
Golarin started to withdraw his sword, but Nida preempted him with a firm step, sliding further up on the blade. Summoning the the majority of her remaining strength, she thrust her hand forward to clamp around his face. Unfortunately, the shock had cleared her original spell from her mind; she had wanted to send a barrage of flaming rocks at him. Instead, she'd have to settle for melting his face off with acid. Should have done that in the first place instead of trying to be reasonable. I'm sure that's the moral to this situation.
She let the magical acid pour from her hand until he stopped screaming, then staggered back as far as she could manage. She didn't want to leave her body lying on his.
"Crazy... motha..." she muttered slowly past the blood filling her mouth, growling at his corpse. Then she let herself fall, grumbling in the remains of her mind about her luck as the rocky ground sped to meet her.
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-Nida *punch Golarin* Rocheron
An Encounter Near Black Griffin Road
Having spent a lot of time in his hood, I tend to see Golarin around a lot. After long exposure, I've come to believe he's quite underdeveloped as an NPC. He's brash and arrogant, yet completely clueless-- wanders around with dwarves, goblins, bandits, and the like, and nobody confronts him or even talks to him. Perhaps they've all heard what we haven't: he's a complete psychopath. Kicked out by his family at a young age due to his murderous rages, left to survive alone, preying off passerby... truly, a tragic (yet horrific) story.
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