[center][b]Adventure[/b][/center]
Triala wanted the Captain to like her. She needed him to like her. Was it a little pathetic? Absolutely, but life often forced people, especially non-humans, to make tough decisions based on logic and pragmatism instead of desire. Above all else, the elven mage intended to survive whatever challenges life threw at her, but her rank within the Company presented an opportunity to do so much more. It gave her a chance to thrive and get what she wanted. And she desperately wanted to rescue her mother from High Lord Ulster Howe of Estermont, her former master. To that end, she'd hidden two thousand Vorstagian gold pieces in various places throughout the wizard's wagon and on her person. Unfortunately, the elf knew it wasn't enough. According to Osric, who knew more about the Company of the Wolf than most, she'd need at least four thousand gold coins to convince the Captain to lead an assault on the Howe Estate. The amount seemed ridiculously high, but Triala's mentor assured her other mercenary companies would ask for more. Attacking a noble family's mansion always had far-reaching consequences and could cause trouble for even the most respected hired blades. Triala didn't mind waiting a little longer to gather the necessary payment, but all her efforts would be for nothing if the Company's leader hated her.

Between Blackheart eating the Captain's [i]flynska[/i] hat and her skirmishes with Connor, Triala had a feeling she wasn't the terrophenge's favorite person. It was definitely in the elf's best interests to pay attention to what the grizzled mercenary had to say.

Besides, the she-elf wanted to know why the Captain had called this diverse group into his tent in the first place. A band like the Company of the Wolf tended to be rife with rumors and gossip about current assignments, though this job felt different. Triala knew the Company was bound for the farthest reaches of the north to investigate strange happenings, but even the veteran sellswords weren't privy to any specifics. Osric himself swore he didn't know what the Captain's intentions were. As the band's leader explained why the Company was making camp near the renowned "gateway to the north," however, Triala thanked the gods she'd pulled her hood up. Nobody could see the expression of confusion and shock spreading across her scarred face. The Captain had lost his mind! It sounded like he needed a skilled group of negotiators to persuade the Orvston militia to let the Company pass through the city. Instead, he wanted to send eight hired blades and Lyssa Asteracae, the fucking Imperial Sorceress herself, because nobody would expect it. The whole scenario sounded like the beginning of a play written by reviled Vorstagian playwright Albrecht "The Annoying" Baum. Except some of the protagonists in this particular farce could easily double as fools. Or villains.

No-Quarter Kuro was a perfect example. The human swordsman scared Triala more than most of the people standing in the Captain's tent. His reputation as a vicious killer who gutted people first and asked questions never clung to him like a bloody shroud. Kuro's hooded eyes brought to mind an old woodcarving Triala's mother had shown her many years ago. It depicted Sindarin, the elven goddess of death, standing in the midst of a war-torn battlefield with a serene smile on her face. Kuro's gaze, shining with the promise of an agonizing death to all who opposed him, matched the expression the artist gave Sindarin. While the elf could certainly appreciate someone so dangerous and powerful, she felt more than a little uncomfortable whenever the lean sellsword was around.

Gideon Wryder, on the other hand, looked like he could easily be the hero of a play. Despite his cynical worldview, the rugged monster hunter was a kind man who'd clearly suffered a great deal. Triala could completely empathize with him, though she knew her own experiences were vastly different from whatever Gideon had endured. The two mercenaries had spent many nights together drinking tankards of lukewarm Solovian ale, and they always swapped stories during these memorable occasions. The human tended to be a bit tight-lipped when it came to his past, and the elf couldn't blame him. The past wasn't a happy place for many people in the Realms. Nevertheless, Triala didn't know any bards or minstrels who could tell a story with Gideon's consummate skill and passion. Maybe he should announce the arrival of the Company's envoys to the soldiers of Orvston?

The thought of Gideon making a flowery proclamation to a group of bewildered city guards made Triala smile. Her grin vanished immediately, however, when her wandering gaze fell on Connor Vaelis. Connor fucking Vaelis.

Truth to tell, the "cub's" constant mockery wasn't the main reason why Triala hated him so much. Most humans viewed elves and dwarves as being only a step or two above cattle. The elven mage just felt like Connor focused on her despite the numerous other easy targets in the Company of the Wolf. Triala certainly never shied away from making jokes at someone else's expense, but she also knew when to shut her mouth. There were certain lines that shouldn't be crossed, and people tended to lash out when these boundaries weren't respected. The childish human didn't understand that. At times, when he was really laying into her, Connor actually reminded Triala of a young Ulster Howe. The only son of the late High Lord Wilcott had been a quiet lad before marching off to war, but he'd never missed an opportunity to humiliate his family's servants. Whether it was pulling their ears while they scrubbed the floors or spitting on them when nobody was looking, the nobleman took a perverse pleasure in making the elves in his household miserable. It only got worse when he became High Lord of Estermont. And Connor Vaelis, especially after the burning camp incident, was starting to act more and more like Triala's old master. If he didn't move on to other victims soon then the she-elf planned to take action. Decisive, irreversible, and possibly flammable action.

The red-haired elf abruptly returned to the present when the Captain mentioned Lieutenant Odran Tarlach would be leading the ragtag group. Triala was relieved to hear she wouldn't be taking orders from someone like No-Quarter Kuro or the infamous Imperial Sorceress. The Lieutenant might be hard-headed, but he was intelligent and dedicated to completing the task at hand. The memory of the lecture he'd given her after she nearly set the camp on fire still stung, but Triala couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have in charge. Nodding to show her agreement with the Captain's choice, the elven mage looked to her right to see how Colette was handling all this. The youngest elf in the tent was a brilliant archer, and quite pretty, but her hatred of humans often proved problematic. Especially in a mercenary company mainly comprised of humans. Triala didn't disagree with the reasons behind Colette's rage, but she knew how divisive it could be. In all honesty, the elven archer and Connor seemed out of place amongst the more experienced Company members. Would they be an asset to this expedition or would their involvement ultimately lead to disaster? Triala had no idea.

Luckily, there were people like Thdris Tholyr to keep everyone calm and focused. Grounded, insightful, and smelling of some kind of delectable pipe-weed, the dwarven ranger always put Triala at ease. She also knew a great deal about animals and herb lore, which could only help out in the wilderness. Several months ago, Blackheart had contracted a nasty case of hoof rot, and Thdris suggested mixing together a poultice of crushed sweet thistle, river mud, and ragveil weed. After applying the foul-smelling compress to the afflicted hoof, Triala was stunned to see the rot fading rapidly. It vanished completely in less than two days. Actually, Thdris seemed like an excellent candidate to discuss the Company's intentions with the guards of Orvston. The air of wisdom and determination she exuded would be a tremendous asset during the negotiations.

The final Company member in the tent, besides the Captain himself, was Kaerun. He might have been a decent herald for the group if he didn't behave like an elf of such advanced years that he no longer cared about anything. Or anyone. Triala found herself both drawn to and repulsed by the incomparable elven warrior. She wanted to ask him so many questions about their peoples' history, but his overall demeanor was extremely off-putting. There were times when the she-elf honestly wondered if Kaerun enjoyed being alive anymore. Would she become like that when she was his age? Triala ferverently hoped not.

"Dismissed."

The elf nearly swallowed her tongue. She'd missed the rest of the damned speech! Saluting impeccably out of pure instinct, the she-elf hurried after her fellow mercenaries as they exited the tent. The Imperial Sorceress, her beautiful green cloak swishing around her, led the way and proceeded to address the group. Triala bared her teeth and resisted the urge to start an argument with one of the most formidable spellcasters in the southlands. Connor Vaelis may have reminded the elf of how the young High Lord Howe behaved, but Lyssa Asteracae reminded her of how the fully-grown High Lord Howe spoke to those he considered inferior. And yet there was an opportunity here as well. Osric constantly told Triala that magic was as much about stealing as anything else. Why did mages guard their techniques so carefully? Because there was always another caster hoping to improve their spellcraft by learning the secrets and methods of their peers. It was entirely possible to study the way a specific mage went through the steps required to cast a spell. These observations, once they were properly analyzed and applied, could improve one's understanding of the mystical arts tenfold. Lyssa was a gifted mage, and Triala didn't need her limited magic-sensing abilities to appreciate this. The Imperial Sorceress was a treasure trove of knowledge just waiting to be explored.

Abruptly, Kuro said, "Hail Firestarter. Our approach to Orvston should not worry the militia overmuch. You and one other amongst us should ride your charger to the gates in order to formally announce the approach of an envoy. Ease their nerves, get them talking even if they don't want to. I have a respectable sum of regional marks local to the area from my prior life in the North that I will lend you if you think greasing their palms might help, but you should select one of us to ride with you in order to dissuade any temptation on their part and...keep things civil." The disconcerting hired blade paused and, looking at something behind Triala's head, eventually said, "I myself will be unable to accompany you. Would any other here think they would be suited to the task?"

It took the she-elf a full minute to realize she was the 'firestarter.' Delightful. Blinking and pushing her hood back, revealing her scarred face, Triala said, "I don't think having a scarred elf leading the way is a wise idea..." However, she was cut off when Arno Fossey shouldered his way through a gaggle of mercenaries playing dice and stood before the group. He was leading an all too familiar Vorstagian Charger through the crowd, and the way he was gripping the horse's reins suggested Blackheart wasn't feeling cooperative today. Grinning widely, Triala reached out and took the reins from the heavyset sellsword. Gods in the Beyond, it was good to have Blackheart back. The horse had come down with hoof rot, a common ailment of his breed, a few days ago. He'd been given light duty until Thdris' ointment could work its magic once again. Neighing happily, the beast nuzzled Triala's face as Arno said something that sounded like, "Osric said the horse was ready to be ridden again. He also wanted me to say sorry about what happened earlier so...you know, you're welcome." He snorted and, after giving the Imperial Sorceress a blatant once-over, trudged back into the bustling encampment.

And then Connor Vaelis decided to open his mouth. What a surprise. "Hail Firestarter. I would like to volunteer to such a journey, milady, my expertise in understanding people would be quite useful. Also you'd need someone to stop you from burning every damn thing after the first negative response you receive," the new recruit said, clearly trying to be funny despite the topic under discussion.

Triala took a deep breath. In and out. In and fucking out. Blackheart was finally feeling better, which was a blessing from the gods themselves. She wasn't going to let this immature asshole ruin that. The elf shot the Imperial Sorceress a sideways glance and said, "I think we should let the Lieutenant decide who should announce our arrival, honestly. Blackheart is a bit unruly unless I'm riding him, and he's only just recovered from another bout of hoof rot. He might not be capable of galloping away if anything unfortunate happens. Considering my...past mistakes and heritage, I don't think I should be heavily involved in the negotiations. I think the Lieutenant and Thdris would be the best choices to talk with the Orvston guards. Not me and certainly not our wet-behind-the-ears cub here." Sneering at Connor, the elf stroked Blackheart's neck and reached into one of the bags dangling from his burnished leather saddle. Pulling out a wizened apple, she offered it to the stallion, who whickered and ate the morsel in one bite. No matter what happened next, Triala felt like she could take on the world as long as her cantankerous steed was nearby.