I: Joining the Party

Özurr walked in the bright morning light, alongside one of the caravans of the peddlers he was accompanying. They were moving at an easy walking pace, leaving him plenty of time to wonder why he was being paid so well to accompany such a minor convoy... no more than 6 caravans made up this group of peddlers, small fish for any respectable group of bandits. Nevertheless, the money was good, the job seemed easy, and when everything fell together this perfectly... Özurr knew it was too good to be true. He had a gut feeling that by the end of the day, something would happen. Whether bad or good, something was coming.

* * *

Later that day, in a remarkably circular clearing, Özurr inspected his arrows one at a time, checking the fletchings were tightly attached, and properly aligned to give the arrows that little bit of stabilising spin in their flight towards whatever enemy needed turning into a pincushion. The same treatment was given to the arrowheads, checking the steel points were precisely straight and firmly in place. After that was his bow; he made sure there were no cracks in the wood, and the string wasn't frayed. Lastly he made sure to inspect his sword for any oily fingerprints which would damage the blade. If you take care of equipment, it'll take care of you back... so Özurr's father had often said. And he took him for his word, checking his weapons for any sign of wear and tear... the last thing he needed in a battle was for his bow to crack or an arrow to shoot off unexpectedly.

The convoy's caravans had formed a rough circle around the campfire in the centre of the clearing, with Özurr having pitched his tent between the caravans and the fire. Despite it being only nearly evening, it was cool, and the peddlers seemed to need a fire. To Özurr it was the equivalent of a bright and warm Saldaean day. Sighing, he set his weapons down inside his tent, right next to his bedroll, within easy arm's reach. His bow he set down particularly carefully, as he always did; he had ever preferred a bow to a sword, though being nearly as deadly with blade as with arrow. There was something satisfying about getting that perfect shot from a hundred feet away...

Suddenly, a set of voices approached from the woods. Unfamiliar voices... several of the peddlers muttered surprised gasps as the unknown group approached. Then a panicked scream of 'trolloc!' pierced the air. Rising from the mouth of his tent, Özurr approached the direction of the commotion and... an Ogier walked from under the shadows, accompanied by four other definitely human figures.

"Quiet, you, it's only an Ogier. Not even Trollocs march into a camp by themselves like that..." The peddlers knew him to be from the Borderlands, where Trollocs were practically next-door neighbours, so his reassurances calmed down any hysteria.

By now the party had approached one of the peddlers, presumably to ask for permission to use the fire for the night. A woman he could have sworn was from Arad Doman was effortlessly tying the peddler's tongue into knots; women from those regions were scandalously good at that. Özurr immediately recognised the next man, a burly man with hand on sword, certainly a Saldaean. The third human seemed to be a Cairhienin of some sort, rather shortish, and with an elegantly curved rapier; he looked like he could be intimidating when he might need to be, though. And of course, the Ogier, who Özurr could now see to be female, and rather large in both directions. She had an equally large pack on her back alongside a massive mace, although for the Ogier it seemed to be made of clouds for all the effort she showed in carrying it. Lastly, a woman who did not seem to fit into the group trailed somewhat behind the others.

Seemingly having attained the peddler's permission to use the campfire, they now headed towards him and the inner camp. Özurr was slightly nervous; he'd never been exceptional at talking to people; he had a knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

"Greetings, stranger, I am Giselle, and this is our... travelling party. I think you recognised Grrth as one of your own", the Domani woman said, gesturing to the bulky warrior, "and the Cairhienin gentleman is Morgant", indicating the other man, "and our Ogier friend and master cook is Lola". The Ogier had unpacked several untidy bundles of canvas and sticks from her backpack, presumably tents, and was now heading back to the peddler's caravans, muttering something about supplies for pies. "We are accompanying this fine woman, Morella,  to Baerlon, to her uncle; her husband was killed by Trollocs.", continued Giselle, indicating the sad-faced lady.

"So you will be joining us for the meal?" asked Morgant.

"Of course..." said Özurr. "I hope you like pies, Saldaean, for Lola rarely cooks anything else. Most any kind of meat she finds will make its way into a pie, save for Trolloc and human.", declared Morgant dryly. Özurr just about managed to mutter "Yes, pies are fine..." before Lola returned with dough and meat, and incredibly, started using her mace as a rolling pin on the dough. Surely enough, soon the smell of pies was filling the evening air with rather delicious smells. He would have asked what meat it was he would be shortly eating, but remembering what Morgant had said, he decided maybe it was best not to know.

Once the pies were ready, everyone dug in, and Özurr found the food to be even better than he expected. Just as he was finishing a particularly crunchy piece, Giselle leaned over to him.

"Would you be interested in joining our party?"

He nearly choked on his pastry; these strangers had appeared from nowhere and now were offering him employment?

"Of course, we do find ourselves putting our lives on the line rather a lot, but I'm sure it's not a problem for a fine young warrior such as yourself..." The Domani woman seemed to be eyeing him up, particularly his arms, which were well-muscled from years training with a bow, "...and we do occasionally find fabulous riches, such as Grrth's sword over there, a masterworked blade, very rare and deadly." Özurr noticed that Morgant seemed to be eyeing the shiny sword rather enviously.

"Well, my current employers are paying me handsomely for this job..."

"Ferrying around small convoys of peddlers? There is no renown in that! A man such as you certainly desires more adventure!" Giselle's voice painted a picture of him heroically defeating Trollocs, and riches untold falling into his outstretched arms...

"Well... I guess these peddlers are close enough to Baerlon not to be in such danger..." Almost feeling as if he were under a spell, Özurr found himself agreeing to join the party. He told the lead peddler he would be taking his leave in the morning, and the man seemed relieved; perhaps Özurr's habit of compulsively shooting ravens hadn't gone down so well after all.

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Well, that's the introduction done. So... didn't think it'd be this long, it's basically a sentence in my notes expanded to many many words. The next one will be the first adventure, in Baerlon... get ready for some door-smashing, Darkfriend-bashing action!