Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

Hobin seems distant for a second. He stares at the fire, then turns to his campfire compatriots.

"Tis it not strange, that we find most glorious the moments in which we survive almost certain death? Is there no longer a glory in the simple ways of life? The plowing of land, a community of family and friends, dancing at festivals and simple worship of the gods that watch over us?

What is this odd satisfaction with tempting fate, our lives and the lives of our fellow man?

I tell you, it is an odd profession we share. Well, maybe not you, daughter of Illmater."

Hobin slowly stands...it is obvious that something disturbs him.

Alec smirks as he watches Hobin, patting his knee slightly amused.

"Aye, most the tales ye are just that, temptin fate. Somtimes, like my story fer instance, fate decided to tempt me. I could have just ran away, leavin the problem to somone else. What makes a good story, are the characters in the story taken action.

Now, ye just wait till I make my first big sale, an ye can be sure as sure that I will be sharin the tale of how lsayed the bargain monster. *he chuckles at that* I spose ye get what ya ask fer, rele. Besides... *he smiles* All folks wanna hear is somtin excitin, an thrillin. So have a seat, an quit yer worryin. Ain't gonna stop the hero's of today from creatin stories wit their actions."

Hobin listens well to what Alec has to say.

"You speak a bushel of truth, ye do Alec. But ye actually believe we are all heroes? Mighty big role to play, that hero business...You, dear Alec, speak well, but with a healthy measure of ego, ye do."

Hobin leans over from his stool and picks up his bow, examining it all over, looking admiringly at it's condition.

"Would you disagree with me, when I say a hero is chosen, not made?"

Alec smirks, and takes out ancient looking gold coin. He then holds it out for all to see, the fire light shining the golden surface.

"The way I see it... Everyone has got a choice. They can either do nothin at all, er choose to act. *he flips the coin high in the air, then catches it right before it hits the ground* No doubt the hero of the day ain't gonna stand around an do nothin. Then again... *he smiles* Ye never know who is gonna be the hero of that day. Hehe, fates a vague an fickle mistress. Never knowin where she be touchin next, er how often.

So while I agree wit ya that a hero is chosen, it be the situation, and a person's will that make the hero. Don't gotta be some necromancin, fightin paladin to be a hero neither. Lot's of everyday things make hero's wouldn't ya say?"

Hobin is entertained by Alec's coin toss, and the metaphor.

"Alas my friend, I am unsure about this word, fate. Tis hard, simple work...that is all there is. The commonfolk of the Coast know no other life. They must toil for what little they have...but in that non-heroes life, they find community and purpose. That is not "up to fate" as you might suggest, no. If Chauntea does bless the people through worship and deeds, how is that fate?"

Hobin continues to adjust the tension on his bow.

"Is it fate, or is it really just luck, the way heroes are chosen? And, to some's dismay, can it be an unlucky course, this heroes journey?"

Alec slides the coin away, and smiles.

"Luck has everythin to do wit it, mate. Lucky enough to be there at the right time, er unlucky enough to arrive just too late... Spose that is why I put most my faith in the Lady of Fortune, rather than the farmin goddess. Course, ye can't always be lucky. It always seems a coin toss fer folks who pray to the gods that aren't priests. Never know if they gonna answer yer call. *he shrugs* All us regular folks have, is to keep livin our lives the way we want."

Hobin acknowledges what Alec says, nodding in agreement.

"Well Alec, if you follow the flip of the coin, then it would be wise to pray to Tymora for the favorable kind of side, indeed!"

Hobin looks to Althea, wondering what one such as herself—obviously dedicated to the way of Illmater—thinks about putting faith in a god, or faith in a coin toss.

"I, for one, do not put faith in luck," the red-robed Thayan puts in.

"Luck betrays even Tymorans. I don't put faith in the Gods, either. Even the cries of clerics sometimes fall on deaf ears, if the God is for some reason, eh...unsatisfied."

She pushes back some of her short cropped, black hair and fits and adjusts a crimson colored ribbon, creating a ponytail.

"Put faith in yourself. Trust only in your own abilities, not on external forces...be they luck or the Gods. Because, eh...'you', are the least likely thing that will betray you."

The moon elf snorts and rolls her eyes. "Everyone is delt a different hand... luck has a bit of a say in that... but beyond that it is up to you on how you play your cards. One doesn't need to have an actual wining hand to win... just have to play them like you do. As for the gods? They've better things to worry about then worrying about us. They'll acknowledge us as they see fit and when they wish to use us in their games for their own purposes."

The words from the Thayan, combined with the comment by the moon elf, stop Hobin in this thoughts.

"That is how you see it, eh? Do you both live such a faithless existence? Have you neither felt the grace of the gods show you favor? The gods often walk in these lands, yes they do, and by their hands their children are guided."

"I see it quite brazen to assume the gods do not watch, listen and grant gifts to their flock. You say we play in their games? What pity I have for you in your faithlessness."

Hobin does not speak these words with animosity, more with empathy, a certain sadness.

Late at the evening, as darkness befell the Friendly Arm Inn, hunters from Cloakwood, weary travelers and adventurers of all sorts have gathered around the campfire to share a tale or two. Many drop heavy gazes towards Flaming Fist encampment, their demeanour is uneasy as images of full scale warfare form in their heads. Many drink, many eat, many cuss at Amnian dogs. A merry laughter is often accompanied by loud belching and quiet sobs. A ministrel picks up a lute and produces a joyful melody to please the ears of gathered folks.

A human child, a boy, no more than 13 winters old is watching the campfire curiously, from afar. His eyes excitedly study magical weapons and armours, bulky warriors accompanied by beautiful maidens, arrogant wizards and patient priests, lending their aid to all injured regardless of how much coin is in their pocket, murders and thieves of all sorts, going by a single name: Adventurers. He catiously walks towards the gathering, and almost immediately, he is pulled closer by a drunk and friendly dwarf, who is no higher than a boy, himself.

"Wot's yer name, son?", a dwarf asks, with friendly, yet terrifying grin, as he sits the boy on his lap. His lazy eye looking in a completely different direction.

"Asic, sir.", he quietly replies, embarassed by all the attention towards him.

"That's a fine name young Asic. Where do you hail from?", asks a man, garbed in highly polished steel armour, head to toe.

"Athkatla, sir.", boy replies just as quietly, looking up at the knight, his eyes study the equipment of supreme quality.

A melody ends abruptly, silence falls as everyone turn to gaze upon the boy. Knight shifts uncomfortably under his steel shell as he hears boy's reply.

Scared of all the attention, the boy hurriedly speaks, "Ma and pa are just traders! We were on our way to the Baldur's when the bridge collapsed, now we are stuck here, at Friendly Arm as Flaming Fist doesn't allow us to pass through their camp..."

"Da bridge didn't collapse ya slug! Amnians blew it up!", someone from the crowd speaks.

"He might be a spy! Get him!"

Boy cries out in dread and surprise as he is grabbed by one of the angry commoners. His desperate gaze turns towards the gathered adventurers...

*Rhys cant help but sigh as he walks up to the fire and the sight*

"Don't be so foolish. A spy you say? You telling me this child traveled all the way from amn to spy on you, despite the fact that the roads to amn have yet to be closed? You could ask the nearest adventure the latest troops movement for 10 gold coin. Try having information worth spying before you worry about spys."

Hobin's attention is pulled away from the waning theological debate by the cries of the young lad. He grabs his scabbard and walks quickly towards the commotion.

"Calm yourselves good people, do calm yourselves," he yells out.

Hobin pushes his way through the small crowd towards the boy and the commoners that have grabbed him, fastening his belt and scabbard to his side.

"Loosen that there grip off that lad. Can't you see he's frightened to near wetting himself?!? What sort of crazed sense has invaded your minds my good folk. Tis but a boy! When a leaf falls from the tree, do you jump in your boots that it might have been the wind of Amn that has rustled it?!?"

Hobin steps to just in front of the boy, kneels down, and visually examines the boys face.

"Now lad, do you know why these people are so upset? Tis not you exactly, so be easy in your fear. Tis the world that has gone mad, and you are unfortunately caught in the middle..."

Hobin ruffles the boys hair, and with a easy move pulls the lads shoulder out from under the grasp of the people holding him. He pulls the boy close, and looks around at the group.

"You fine stock of the adventure class have the right to wage war as you see fit, and as the Dukes command, if that is your calling....but have you also reduced your morales to the wickedness that desires harm to the young and the pitiful?"

"You boy, what's your name...and let's find you parents, before this mob gets anymore unruly..."

With one hand on his hilt, and one hand on the boy's shoulder, Hobin slowly walks the lad out through the crowd. Hobin's eyes cross those as he passes, but he flashes no sign of challenge, only concern that a loose temper might unleash itself unexpectedly.

Alec would look up in suprise in the angry mob's actions.

"Oh damn..." is all he musters to say, watching Hobin lead the boy away, keeping his eyes to the riled up crowd.

Alison looks over the crowd with a look of angry bewilderment.

"Did someone slip stupid sauce into your ale!? Its a child, you idiots!"

She positions herself between the crowd and Hobin and the boy, and puts her fists up, trying to look intimidating (Intimidate Skill = 3)