monasteries and habitats for contemplative orders that had long fallen by the wayside.
There must have been something about the austerity of the landscape itself that attracted the ascetic, introspective, hermit types that had the swelled the orders that had filled these citadels in years gone by. I guess they came looking for the meaning of life, didn't find it, and left, leaving their monastic dwellings behind, he thought.
The great gazetteer smiled.
Maybe I'll include something in the guide about these places being haunted to sort of make things more exciting. Local legends have to start somewhere, he surmised.
As Volo and his steed approached what remained of a stone arch that had in some earlier era provided egress for some now long bygone structure, the great gazetteer heard a scurrying like the scrambling of rats on a cellar floor. The master traveler smiled, and reached into the inner pocket of his cloak, the tips of his fingers caressing one of the numerous blades he had secreted on various parts of his person.
Company, he thought to himself.
Guiding the horse closer to the arch rubble, Volo allowed himself to slump down in the saddle as if he had fallen asleep, while tightening his hold on the reins to keep control of his steed in as inconspicuous a manner as possible.
Easy pickings, the master traveler thought to himself, usually leads to careless thieves.
He heard the scurrying on his left and above, and readied himself for the attack.
A last scratch of a scurry from above, followed by a grunt, clued Volo in on a moment's notice that the outlaw who was stalking him was leaping down on to his not unsuspecting prey from above.
The master traveler quickly spurred his steed forward, upsetting the dim-witted brigand's planned interception, causing him instead to go crashing to the hard stone ground below.
Once again at a moment's notice, Volo reined in his steed with one hand, this time quickly turning his mount around to face the inept assailant, while flinging a throwing blade with his freed hand. The blade met its mark, passing through the shoulder fabric of the black haired brigand's cloak, lodging its tip in the seam between the stones in the road, and staking him to the ground while barely scratching the less than deserving oaf.
Dazed and bewildered, the thief looked up and began to quake in his threadbare boots, beads of sweat trickling down his face from razor cut locks of ebony as he waited for another blade to make its mortal mark.
'What is your name, O inept felon?' Volo inquired.
'James,' the thief sputtered.
'Well, felonious James, or perhaps James Felonious since you do seem to be rather backward,' Volo blithely explained, 'I'm afraid that business demands that I go this way, and since the authorities that I would have to turn you over to lie back from whence I came, I'm afraid that I will have to leave you behind.'
James the Felon tried to get up but was still held in place by the blade-staked cloak.
'I can't get up!' the bewildered and dense brigand cried, unaware that it was his own cloak that was holding him down.
'That's right,' the master traveler replied. 'I have cast a static cling spell that is causing the ground to grip you up against it.'
Volo spurred his steed again, and began to set off at a light trot.
'Don't leave me here!' the thief cried. 'I'll starve!'
'The spell will wear off soon enough,' the master traveler assured, then added, 'and when it does you better hightail it out of these parts. I'll be passing back this way again soon, and I'd better not find you around.'
'What if someone should come upon me before it wears off? I'm helpless!' the thief cried louder.
'I wouldn't worry about that,' Volo replied jovially. 'From what I've seen and heard, the brigands that favor these here parts are a rather inept bunch.'
After a few moments Volo looked back in the distance. From what he could make out the thief was still struggling on the ground. The master traveler allowed himself a chuckle, and continued onward.
Others might have passed through the area at a faster pace, but not Volo. This was in no way due to the potential speed of his steed, but rather by the personal choice of the rider himself. The master traveler was a stickler when it came to local flavor and color, and he had no desire to rush through it at the risk of missing something, even if the flavor of the landscape was bland and its color was gray.
I must remember to include a warning about brigands in the book, the master traveler noted. After all, not all travelers are as observant-or as adept at handling such situations-as myself.
Sometime past midday, the master traveler came in sight of his destination: the isolated monastery known as the Retreat. The leisurely pace with which he had traveled obviously caused him to arrive while the various hermits of the place were on their lunchtime break deep within the monastic walls, as no one was in sight in the fields around the old stronghold.
I guess I should have sent word to wait lunch on me, the master traveler reflected with a chuckle.
Maybe if I can catch the eye of one of the members on watch, a place will already be set for me by the time I arrive.
A chill unlike the one caused by the Moonsea climatic conditions passed down the spine of the master traveler.
That's odd, he thought. No one seems to be on watch. Even during meals there is always someone on watch.
Volo put his two fingers up to his mouth and let loose with a birdcall almost identical to that of the Bowl- headed Greenwood, a bird indigenous to Shadowdale. He repeated the call, listening carefully for a reply.
None came.
He immediately realized that something was not right. Where could they be? he thought to himself. The elders would always respond to a Harper signal of distress, even when it isn't given by a Harper. The network of secret agents dedicated to preserving balance in Faerun were longtime allies of the old mages therein. Surely the Harpers could never fall out of favor with them. Where could they all have gone, and why wasn't anyone responding to his call?
Quickly reaching into his cloak to assure himself of the readiness of yet another blade, Volo urged the horse onward at a slower pace, eyes and ears wide open and ready for danger.
The gate of the Retreat had been left wide open, and though the rocky terrain obscured any tracks that might have otherwise been left, the dried spoor of numerous horses was still evident by the series of rails that were normally used for the tethering of steeds.
Volo dismounted, and, with reins still in hand in case he had to make a quick return to the saddle and an even faster egress, approached the evidential detritus, and stooped down to get a closer look at it. As I recall, the master gazetteer (who also considered himself to be a more than adequate detective) reflected, it rained just two days ago. Whatever caused the Retreat to be evacuated must have occurred since then, or else this fertilizer would have been washed away.
Righting himself and stepping carefully so as to avoid treading in the evidence at hand (or underfoot, as was the case), Volo approached the gate.
Before he had even gained entrance, he realized that he had been mistaken about the Retreat's evacuation, for there, just inside the gate, was the not quite two-day-old corpse of the Thayan exile who had been known as Donal Loomis. As two rats were feasting in the orifices of the elder's face, Volo saw no need to bend over for a closer examination. He knew the monk was dead and saw little reason to further turn his travel-worn stomach.
With a dagger in hand, the brave gazetteer stepped over the body, and ventured further into the stronghold that had been known as the Retreat. The further he went the more bodies he found, each gutted like a pig for a Mayday feast. The master traveler used his free hand to bring a neckerchief up to his nose and mouth to help fight back the gall that was rebelling in his stomach. Maintaining his composure, he tried to piece together what must have happened.
I would immediately jump to the conclusion that the Retreat had been attacked by some foreign force, he thought, but there seems to be no sign of a struggle. My second theory, he went on, would have been that they were the victims of a surprise attack, perhaps in the middle of the night, but all of the bodies are attired in their day wear, and the gate and stronghold walls show no signs of being breached, jimmied, or assailed. Whoever engineered this horrible bloodbath must have been granted entrance by the elders in broad daylight, and therefore
