“I’m just bored with fighting,” Ruthrrien said with exasperation, having gone to Arlen’s cottage the very next night. He glowered over his shoulder as she followed him around to the back. It had been weeks since she had been to see him and he had become particularly sour when she told him why she had come.
“You’re asking for trouble, Ruth. You are being utterly reckless to accept a venture into the Black Peak Forest. It is nothing like fighting in the arena.” He started searching for a spare trowel in the large chest beside the back door.
“I can handle it.” She said gruffly. “I won’t be alone after all.”
“Oh yes. The others.” stressing the last word sarcastically. “You don’t even know them.”
“I know enough,” she lied. In truth she had almost retreated when she met the strange group that had been recruited alongside her. It definitely wasn’t the sort she was even remotely used to being around. The dwarf had an eerie look about him that raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and understood why when she found out he was a necromancer. Then there was the halfling druid with a very strange attachment to her pony. Having demanded that the pony be allowed into the pub, the halfling had even bought the pony a drink before the meeting began. Then there was the drow elf, which despite the apparently evil nature she had been warned of, she found herself the least bothered by him and simply wondered what skills he brought to the table. She later found out that he was a warlock, and typically cast a spell to make himself more likeable to anyone he first met. Still, she was determined and ignored her instincts. And once the forest was mentioned by their patron, all concerns vanished completely. Nothing would stop her from a chance to enter the forest.
“Don’t patronize me,” he snapped. “You just want to see if you can find evidence of this non-existent clan, or meet a pack of wolves, or some other such nonsense that will surely get you killed,” he turned and roughly handed her the trowel before pushing past her through the back door and into the room she had spent all those months recovering.
He wasn’t wrong. Arlen seemed to think that her odd mannerisms simply came from a long lost barbarian clan that idolized wolves, though no clan like that existed today. She had looked. The idea had latched onto her like a parasite ever since then, to his regret, and had only fueled her restlessness.
“I took this quest for your benefit too you know,” she huffed, following him inside. “Don’t you want to know what kind of potion they’re making?”
“You took this quest for you alone, Ruthrrien. You’re just trying to justify your selfish ambitions to stay in my good graces.”
There was no fooling him so she dropped the subject completely. “What do I owe you for the potions?”
He grumbled to himself as he reached for a few health potions. “Full price for your foolishness,” handing them to her.
She retrieved the gold from her pouch and placed it in his empty hand. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Arlen, but I am tired of not knowing who I am. Maybe I’ll finally learn something about myself out there.”
“I doubt it,” he said angrily. He walked to the front door and opened it, standing stiffly to the side with arms folded, glowering at the city beyond.
She walked slowly past him, turning back slightly as she crossed the threshold. “I know you’re only angry because you care.”
He finally met her gaze, eyes softening slightly. “Who ever thought I’d care about a barbarian.”
Smiling slightly, she turned and walked away. He sighed as he slowly closed the door, trying not to think that it might be the last time he saw her.
The Whitney Scott 