How to Fail at Adventuring (I)

"Fairy tales lied to me."

That came with the definition.

"They never tell about the boredom, the endless marching, the sore feet, the sweat, the sore feet, the exhaustion, and did I mention the sore feet?"

Yes she did and yes they do.

"They always made adventures sound so exciting and heroic."

Except when they told about princes who reach a land of immortality then feel homesick and leave the place only to drop dead once they get home and realize their kingdom faded to dust during the centuries they never noticed passing. Or when they told the story of a sirine who sees the love of her life marry another woman and then commits suicide in despair. Or when they spoke about a princess being married to a prince whose ogre mother kept hatching plots to have her for dinner. As the main course. Or when they recount the friendship between an abused sheepdog and a sparrow only for the dog to die run over by a trader's cart, prompting the sparrow to engineer a series of terrible events that ruin the man's life and ultimately premeditate the man's death at the hands of his wife who was just trying to kill the vengeful sparrow at the time.

But Cyrus probably shouldn't give Bhaal more ammunition. Especially not by thinking about the one where vain and spoiled young girl ends up dying of a happiness-induced heart attack after a Deva visits her with forgiveness for the events that led her to ask an executioner to chop off her feet in order to escape her ever-dancing Red Shoes and rip/tear/kill/chop-their-feet-off so it looked like he had just outsmarted himself.

Dammit.

"And the past day had given me such high hopes too!" Imoen cried out before belatedly realizing what she implied. "And by that I in no way mean to imply that you being ambushed in the night and your dad nearly dying while trying to kill everyone nearby including you because of believing you'd already bit it was a good thing to have happening." The babbled apology only made her wince once she mentally tracked back. It did interesting things to her self-light. Embarrassment looked rather endearing (?) on her amidst all the merriment she always felt. "And I in no way mean to cast aspersions on you and your character either!" Imoen hasted to reassure Gorion.

"Rather late for that I'm afraid, child," Father said from where he was walking on Cyrus' other side. "Fortunately, it has been a long time since I felt moved enough by your antics to despair over your lack of tact." The flat response only made Imoen turn sour-faced. "Or the fact that said lack of tact only manifests when conversing with those closest to you, as opposed to total strangers."

"Hey!" Imoen cried out in outage. "That's not true!" Cyrus gave her a long side glance. He didn't even have to attempt any emotional mimicry either. "Well it's not!" Imoen huffed and turned away, crossing her arms. Then she suddenly whirled around and pointed at Elminster, "And you!" She shouted, ensuring that the two quietly talking Archmages were thoroughly distracted from their conversation. "That's not even proper Thespian! I can't believe you would mangle the holy language of us Bards to such a distressing degree!"

Elminster Aumar blinked a couple of times as he fiddled with the pipe he was drawing smoke out of. "A complaint well heard but not at all understood, I fear I must admit. What is it of mine speech that thou finds distressing?"

"That right there! That's not how it's supposed to sound at all!" The young woman cried, walking backwards but still pointing at the ancient man. "The correct way is 'A complaint well heard but not at all und'rstood, I feareth I wilt admiteth. What is't about mineth speech yond thou finds distressing?' I honestly hope you've just been faking your terrible diction this whole time because the alternative is too terrible to contemplate!"

Puff puff went the pipe as inner light coloured all kinds of merriment. Elminster slowly blew out sparkling smoke – it formed in the shape of a rainbow-colored butterfly swarm that flew away – before answering. "Alas, I fear thine misgivings be wrongly funnelled, little lady. For mine is the noble speech of old come before thine bardish ways even arose. 'Tis the proper diction, mine, on which thine Thespian was based." The tone was the perfect mix of lecturing, indulgent and sympathetic to completely confuse Imoen as to how she should react. Fortunately for everyone involved – except perhaps her – the Archmage was kind enough to dispel said confusion immediately. "A pity, truly, that thine Thespian be a mere bastardised, unwieldy mockery of proper acting that was popularised solely due to a prank gone too far. A hoax by a talentless but overly charismatic performer of centuries past."

Imoen stopped dead in her tracks, stunned. The rest of them advanced nearly 10 paces by the time she recovered.

"Oh woe is me!" She ran all the way to the front where she proceeded to hug Cyrus and wail in his shoulder. The dwarf ended up literally dragging her along as he walked. "Oh woe is me! That I shouldst be thus misjudged and scorned! And while away from my comfort foods, even!" A new determination rose within her, wrapping her like a cloak of bravery as she detached herself and pointed into the distance. "That's it! Clearly, the only way forward is to take my fate in my own hands and make a wholly new comfort food for myself! She, at least, will never betray me!" Her proclamation caused Arawn to look back from ahead where he was marking the latest tree he chose as a waypoint. Imoen didn't notice. "It will be made from a mixture of milk and cream, combined with fruits or other ingredients and flavours. I shall sweeten it with sugar and flavourings and the whole mix will be stirred and battered until it becomes nice and foamy, perfect for cooling at temperature below freezing. It shall be magnificence incarnate and its name will be-"

Whatever it already was because Gorion cut her off. "Ice cream already exists, child."

"NNNOOOooohhhh!"

Suddenly monster.

Oh, wait, never mind. Elminster was not particularly enthused by the rampaging ogre charging out of the woods and interrupting his attempt to resume the conversation he was having with Khelben. Conversation that Imoen's scream of despair had thoroughly distracted him from just moments before, again. Scream that probably called the ogre to investigate the ruckus now that Cyrus thought about it.

The Sage of Shadowdale spared no time in muttering a word of power and gesturing impatiently at the large creature.

The ogre fell over dead, head crashing face-first into the grass just short of the roadside. Arawn, who'd been roaming and marking the opposite side of the road, faltered mid-stride at seeing the large creature dealt with before he had a chance to make more than one leap towards it. Disappointment shone clearly from him despite the lack of proper ability to physically pout.

Imoen's reaction was, naturally, the total opposite. "Yay! More loot!"

Watching her run to search the still warm body and "engage in the noble task of taking everything not nailed down because finders keepers," Cyrus mused that being happy and having no room for shadow in one's spirit did not necessarily mean an overabundance or even a minimum of shame. Then again, that had been a raving lunatic of an evil monster out to try to kill and eat them all, so he probably wouldn't have earned any of Cyrus' pity and respect even if he had any to spare, which he didn't because he barely felt much of anything, Bhaal compulsion aside. And searching every nook and cranny had already netted Imoen some surprising treasures, most notably a diamond she found in a tree hollow and a Ring of Protection she got from the crack in a rock they passed an hour or so prior.

"Oooh!" Imoen gushed, unfastening what looked to be bracelets from the ogre's large wrists. "Big guy was wearing two girdles as wristbands!" She held the two items up for all of them to look. Arawn padded closer to sniff at the items and even the Archmages had set aside their conversation (which consisted of Elminster grilling Khelben for a complete backstory of… everything while the latter stubbornly refused to let the man sidetrack him even once). "What do you think? Would the one on the right look out of place on me?" Because they were obviously both magical so altering their looks wouldn't work too well.

"No, but I would advise you against securing it around your waist," Gorion told her, peering at the item with narrow eyes. The item that wasn't the Girdle of Piercing. "While I am aware you made sure to… experiment thoroughly with the spell to Alter Self, I imagine you would still prefer not to be locked in the opposite gender."

"Huh," Imoen wrinkled her nose, holding the Girdle or Femininity and Masculinity as far away as she could. She gave the ogre a suspicious look. "So… that was really a she-ogre?"

"At some point I would say yes," Khelben Arunsun said, giving the dead creature a look of distaste. "Little wonder it was unstable enough to roam looking for trouble." His gaze switched to Imoen then. "But you should not be too quick to avoid new experiences, particularly when you are not entirely unfamiliar with the concept." Looking at the way Khelben's soul colored as he spoke, Cyrus was certain he would feel impressed with his ability to keep a straight face if he could feel anything besides the urge to kill everyone and everything. "Particularly as there is one among our number with extensive experiences in such matters for you to draw upon." Elminster's self-light shuddered with realisation but the man didn't have time for more than the beginning of a warning glare before Khelben blithely (on the inside at least) gestured in his direction. "Why, the Sage himself spent years upon years living as a woman. I could not even begin to imagine the wisdom he would have to share about life as the fairer sex." He reached forward to pat Imoen on the shoulder and finished in a serious voice. "I imagine he would have even come up with ways to alleviate the monthly menses."

"Now let's not be hasty-"

But Imoen had already gasped, charged straight for him and was hugging his left arm to her chest before he even got those few words out. "Is it true?" She asked with stars in her eyes and hands clasped under her chin while nevertheless keeping the hold on the man's arm, somehow.

Elminster went for the sagely old man routine, which worked, barely. "Many and varied are the trials one must undergo before being counted among the Wise."

It only inflamed Imoen's fervour further. "But then I have so many questions!"

Elminster looked ahead and pointedly pulled a long whiff of smoke from his pipe. "All of which I am sure thine own experiences and studies have already answered."

"Can you tell me a story about trollops and plugtails, pleeeaaaase!?"

The Sage of Shadowdale experienced a sudden coughing fit.

And was that…? Yes, it really was embarrassment overtaking his soul-self behind that rapidly readjusting façade of his. Oh, if only he could be bothered to feel anything, let alone curiosity, Cyrus would have things to ask the man regarding that.

One outwardly composed but internally flustered Sage of Shadowdale later, they all resumed their walk and continued walking, talking and watching the scenery for another hour or so.

At which point the dwarf walking ahead of them all tripped on a loose stone he hadn't seen – yes he had, he'd just… failed to notice it? – and barely regained his balance instead of falling on his face.

Gorion laid a firm hand on his shoulder and called a halt immediately. "I believe it is time to call it a rest for today." He looked up at the sun still a fair bit high up in the sky, as well as the large clouds approaching from the west. "Though I would normally have us walk until sunset, we should be far enough along that camping now would still allow us to reach the Friendly Arm Inn by afternoon tomorrow." He looked down to catch his son's gaze with a wry smile. "That is, provided that 'disaster of a conversation' can be considered to have been sufficiently walked off by now?"

Cyrus reached up to rub his eyes. "That's been the case since noon." Stopping, he returned his father's gaze as impassively as he usually did. "But your mood continued to recover in gusts and flares even afterwards so I decided to afford it as much time as I could." The words seemed to make Gorion glow inside more than the last few hours of travel combined. It left the dwarf feeling conflicted. He looked down at his hands which were completely colourless again, flesh and blood notwithstanding. "I think I… would benefit from early rest though."

Elminster hummed behind them, prompting them to turn. "I remember my first time adventuring," he gestured vaguely with the pipe stem. "Well, the parts that came after my early youth as a petty thief in any case." Ignoring the looks from Imoen at that, he gave Cyrus a peculiar look. "Those experiences in mind, I find it odd that fatigue would be catching up to thee already, young one. Mayhap thou shouldst at last share with us what thou meant when thou spoke of a compulsion, being that it seems to wear on thee in more ways than one."

"Or perhaps," Khelben Arunsun cut in, "the cause is a night spent standing on top of a waypoint monolith while weighed down by post-combat weariness and the burden of his father both." The Blackstaff frowned at the other man when Elminster gave him a surprised look. "Had you not kept interrupting me with questions, I may have even reached that point in my retelling."

Gorion sighed. "I doubt this is the time and place for this strange rivalry of yours to carry on."

"Quite right," Elminster nodded sagely. "Indeed, we shouldst instead focus on the reality that this shall be the very first time the young ones experience the true nature of adventuring!"

"Actually," Imoen cut in, always eager to correct. "I've already made this trip before so I-"

"Hmph!" Elminster sternly shot back. "Riding a wagon along protected trading routes in a guarded merchant caravan doth not make one an adventurer."

"What about the last two days then?" Imoen asked, confused.

"Until thou hath hiked more than twenty miles a day, slept in a ditch and eaten something that tried to kill you first, thou art not an adventurer. Anyone who is not an adventurer is a greengrocer."

Which was when Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun cast Mordekainen's Magnificent Mansion.

There was a prolonged silence.

Then another one that lasted until a cricket actually started creaking.

Throughout them both, Elminster Aumar stared at the disembodied door, appalled.

Then he switched to the other Archmage himself, expression not changing.

Which was when Khelben finally seemed to notice, though his inner light told a different story, naturally. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"