A Brush with Death
Chapter I: Duel in the Dark
Nedrin crawled through the narrow tunnel, the space in between too tight to even afford him a look back as he climbed his way up on hands and knees. He thought to himself about the little adventure he’d just had. About how he’d wandered off the highway and stumbled upon a hole that looked almost like it fell straight into the earth. He didn’t actually know where he was now, or how far he’d gone. None of that mattered anyway. That’s what adventuring was all about.
Climbing free from the hole, the wizard dusted himself off and replaced his pointed hat. He’d kept it tucked in his robes while he squeezed through the crevice, and now it was a bent mess. Giving up on fixing it, the half-elf took in a deep breath and placed the crooked hat atop his head before retrieving his quarterstaff and finally taking in his surroundings. Staring up through the trees he thought to himself, It’s evening already. I must have ventured further than I guessed. After a moment he decided to keep moving, hoping he’d find somewhere to rest until dawn.
The mage walked with more grace than your average man, his elven eyes granting him some measure of sight even in the gloom. However, Nedrin made his way through the unfamiliar wooded hills with a wary step. This night was particularly dark, and there were few stars in the sky to help light his way. He could have cast a simple cantrip of light, but if there were any hungry beasts about he would make for an easy meal. Instead, he simply squinted his eyes and tried to focus on the path before him. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and found himself staring down from the crest of a large hill at what appeared to be a hamlet below.
Perfect. Surely these villagers will put me up for the night. At this point I’m willing to sleep in the stables if I must. He stifled a yawn, trying to decipher the best way to make it to the bottom of the hill without tripping over his robes when suddenly his elf-like eyes caught sight of something. He couldn’t tell what it was at first, even from his vantage point. There were several shadowy figures stalking toward the hamlet. If not for his elven eyes he may not have spotted them at all, for they were clad in cloaks of black with their heads sheathed in darkness.
Nedrin was debating whether or not he would be better off slinking back into the woods when he noticed something gleam in the moonlight. Something one of the figures was carrying. No, something many of them were carrying. As the figures drew closer to the hamlet they all brandished wicked sickles from within their robes. The young wizard panicked for a moment, his resolve wavering upon the crest of that lonely hill. He could still turn back. After-all, as far as he could tell they had not yet noticed him. Perhaps they weren’t even interested in him regardless. Hadn’t he come here entirely by chance anyway...?
Just then he heard the terrified scream of a woman. When his eyes followed the shadowy men were no longer visible. Dammit all! They were already in the hamlet. “Damn me to the Nine Hells!” he said before leaping down the hill with a reckless abandon. Catching on his robes, he tumbled, rolled, landed on his feet again and kept sprinting. He couldn’t think about the burning pain in his knee right now, or the fact that he was likely racing toward his own death. At this moment he understood only one thing: He had to hurry!
His heavy boots felt like they were filled with lead as he raced toward the nearest house. Each step he took made him feel more and more sick. Just when he thought he was going to wretch, or turn and flee back up the hill he rounded the corner of the nearest home and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a tall shadowy figure standing not a stone’s throw away. Nedrin couldn’t make out the man’s features for the black cloak that obscured his vision, but he could see the man had his grim weapon in one hand, and it was dripping with blood. A woman sat defeated and sobbing a few feet from the villain; a limp, bearded man lying next to her with scarlet splashed across his thread spun tunic.
Without another thought Nedrin raised his hand and spoke the incantation of a spell. He felt the Weave pour into his fingers as he extended two of them toward the cloaked man. Just as the figure turned to face the voice he’d heard behind him two arcane darts burst from the young mage’s hand and swirled around one another as they raced toward the man, smashing into his face. The darts seared through the black cowl he had been wearing, exposing pale and now burnt flesh beneath. He reeled back in sudden agony, clutching his mouth and nose. For a moment Nedrin thought he’d gained the upperhand. The moment did not last long.
The man wrenched his burnt cowl free with bony, white fingers and tossed it aside, cackling like a madman as he did. The laugh was unsettling, but it was the man’s sickly powder-white flesh and empty, black eyes that caused Nedrin’s courage to sink like a stone in his belly. “I’ll deliver you to the Silent Lord you welp!” the pale man scowled and spat. Suddenly he raised his sickle high and lunged menacingly at the young wizard. Nedrin quickly tried to pull the Weave around him for protection, but the pale man was as quick as a ghost. He leapt the rest of the way to Nedrin and aimed his curved blade straight for the half-elf’s neck.
Were it not for the grace of Mystra herself Nedrin would have surely lost his head, but at the last moment he instead pushed the Weave up and over him. As it fell upon his head, he spoke the words of a spell that instantly reduced him to the size of a halfling. The blade cleaved air, and Nedrin darted frantically between the man’s legs. Running toward the woman who was still sobbing next to her fallen love, Nedrin shouted for her to run, “You must leave! Get away, get to safety!” The woman did not move. She couldn’t, her legs wouldn’t listen. Cursing, the young wizard turned on his heel and cast his staff aside as he held out both hands. He quickly spoke the incantation for a fiery spell, and in an instant a wave of flame erupted forth to wash over Nedrin’s attacker.
“Is that it, boy?” the man’s voice suddenly cut through the flame in defiance of Nedrin’s attack. “It’ll take more than that to kill a monk of the Long Death!” The flames died with the last of the young wizard’s hope. He nearly froze like the poor, helpless woman behind him as the monk began stalking toward him. He smiled a sickly smile despite the burns across his pale skin. Nedrin frantically spoke one final incantation. He reached out to the Weave and wrapped it around his legs. Feeling them strengthen he turned, grabbed the sobbing woman up from her dead husband and sprinted away with all his might. He heard the monk laughing mockingly behind him, but he pressed on. His pride would only serve to get him and the woman killed.
He darted between two of the houses and ran straight into another cloaked man. This one was much bigger, and broader. He grabbed Nedrin up by the throat and lifted the young half-elf clean off the ground. Behind him he heard the woman scream again. His vision blurred, and he couldn’t breath at all, but he managed to raise one hand to the monk’s face. He barely had enough breath to left to speak the incantation, but fortunately cantrips were the most simple of all spells to perform. He felt his hand warm as the Weave coiled into his palm. Suddenly a flash of bright orange light sprung forth and blinded the monk, causing him to stagger away. Finding himself free, Nedrin turned to see what had happened to the woman.
He gritted his teeth, wondering what he’d done for Tymora to give her sister mastery over his luck. The laughing monk from before stood before him once more. He had the woman by the arm, and his blade was held threateningly to her neck. Nedrin’s mind raced. He tried to think of some spell to help him out of this situation. However, before he could act a sharp pain jolted through his neck, and down his spine. He fell forward, collapsing face first into the dirt. The larger monk stood over him, his sickle in hand. He’d used the handle to bash Nedrin over the back of the head, knocking the young mage out cold.