Journal di Madresh Sprinter Shestendeliath

Sprinter finished gathering wood just as the sun began to dip below the Sea of Swords. After arraying them in a careful pile around the tinder already in place, Sprinter leaned in close, taking in a deep breath. He exhaled sharply, allowing a thin bolt of lightning past his teeth. The well-aimed bolt landed squarely on the tinder with a small crack, and mere moments later a fire was crackling with bright vigor. Satisfied, Sprinter allowed a small smile to play across his features. "Lightning has its advantages", he mused, "no matter what Oathkeeper says." The smile slowly fell to a frown as his thoughts turned to his brother, then his mother. They couldn't know. None of the clan could. "No one can know of the stain father brought upon us." Sprinter vowed inwardly. "I will deal with this myself."

Leaning back against the smooth trunk of a tree, Sprinter allowed his eyes to close. Tomorrow would be a busy day. If he left by sunup, he could reach Baldur's Gate before noon. Perhaps he could find a caravan or merchant also on his way to Greenest. Doesn't hurt to be paid for your travels.

Sprinter frowned. He hated cities. The stares, the whispers that always followed. The feeling that he didn't belong. Not to mention the noise, the constant, never ceasing, noise. "If I work fast, I can be in and out of there in a few hours." Sprinter muttered under his breath as he settled in to sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

When he finally awoke, Sprinter felt sore. Both his body and pride had taken a sever blow, and he knew full well that he was lucky to be alive. If the half breed had swung but a few inches higher, he likely would have lost his head. Still, to be so... helpless... It was intolerable.

Wincing, Sprinter slid himself out of bed. He would meet that abomination another time, he was sure of it. Time to find his companions and plan the next move. These brigands needed to be brought to heel, one way or another.

Waiting. Sprinter despised it. They actually managed to infiltrate the bandits and here he was, confined in this cage of cloth and hide.

Hissing with frustration, he began to pace, mulling over the bits of news his companions had brought him thus far. The monk interested him. Was it merely pride and arrogance that made him stay, or did he actually think he had use here? Either way, it mattered little. Whatever usefulness he served vanished the moment he let himself be discovered. When Sprinter and his companions finally left here, they would need to bring him along, but how? Perhaps if Eliak was here, brute force might be an option, but as things stood now, something more subtle would be required.

Sprinter sat near the opening of the tent, began polishing his greatsword for the 24th time, and began to think.

Sprinter hastily retreated from the mayor, wincing at his conversational blunder. What in Io's name had he even wanted to talk with him about? That's why he left talking to the gnome. Ancestors' know he can't get enough of it anyway.

He exhaled a large breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, sending several small sparks dancing to the floor, and forced the thoughts out of his mind. No matter, there was work to be done. He had yet to test the holy powers granted to him. Would Tyr's promise be genuine?

Sprinter quickened his pace. The sooner they left, the sooner he would know for sure.

Leaning against the cavern wall, Sprinter fought to hide his annoyance. Finally, finally he found an opponent worth his mettle, and once again the elf wants to play puppet master. Still, the fight hadn't been a total loss: Tyr had made good on his promise. Sprinter could feel the power, like a warm light at the back of his mind.

Movement out of the corner of his eye jolted Sprinter from his thoughts. Was that... it was. Another human with an axe, just like the first. Suddenly the elf playing with puppets didn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

As he cleaned his greatsword, Sprinter took a moment to survey the results of their most recent battle. The half-blood, Cyanwrath, lay dead a few feet away, the greataxe still buried in his back. "One less evil in the world", Sprinter mused, allowing a small smile of satisfaction. The owner of the axe, also dead, was only a few feet away, a skeletal hand still clinging to his face.

Acid. Of course. He should have realized the significance of the black dragons on the walls. Sprinter grimaced in pain as he checked his gauntlets for damage. Even before the trap, he still hadn't recovered from their battle with Cyanwrath. He needed to rest - soon.

Sprinter bounded up the stone steps. Reaching the top, he looked back into the egg room, straining to see his companions. They needed to move. Quickly. Whatever that... thing was, he wanted no part in it.

As the horse galloped uncomfortably beneath him, Sprinter pondered his party's achievements thus far. They had done well, or as well as could be expected. The dragon eggs had been destroyed - he couldn't decide if he was glad that Selbin couldn't get his hands on one or not - and Cyanwrath had been killed. The woman, Frula or whatever, had escaped, which could be trouble later. Still, they had done good work. For the first time since leaving Baldur's Gate, Sprinter felt pleased.

Now if only he could get off this damn horse.

"Ternocki di Tiamut! Batobot malai terunt! Jacion vur batobot owl!"

Sprinter was livid. Imprisoned without adequate charge, wrongly accused, beaten, and now banished from an entire city. And why?! Because the damned owl couldn't be bothered to mention the difference between an army and a trade caravan?!

Overcome with frustration, Sprinter reared back his head and roared at the sky, lightning streaming forth from his mouth.

Perched on his branch, Sprinter watched Kismet toiling away on the road.

"What is this fool thinking? Surely our quarry won't be the only ones on this road, why doesn't he find a tree like I di-" *SNAP*

Sprinter shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.

"How is he white?"
"Did he have different parents?"
"Wait, how does that even work with Dragonborn?"

He shouldn't have told them about his brother.

Noise pressed all around, as if trying to smother him. Kismet had called the Blushing Mermaid an inn, which was far more generous than it deserved now that Sprinter had seen it first hand. A barmaid pressed a glass of some foul smelling drink close to him expectantly. Annoyed, Sprinter waved her away.

He shouldn't have told Oathkeeper, he knew that. But then, he hadn't expected him to react with such anger. Perhaps leaving the clan had taken more of a toll on his brother than he had imagined.

The noise swelled. A fight broke out near the entrance.

He was starting to regret coming here.

The wagon lurched forward. Finally, it was time to leave Baldur's Gate. Sprinter was not sorry leave it behind. As the driver beside him chattered away, we wondered where exactly they were headed.

Sprinter sat, still as a statue, studying the body at his feet. The hired hand lay dead, the poison having made short work of him. His fault. His pride. Varisay.

He looked back to the inn, where he could hear the killers still enjoying themselves, laughing as though nothing had even happened. Varisay. He wouldn't forget.

He had barely drawn his sword when she was on him, blades moving so quickly they were a blur. Sprinter grunted as he felt steel bite into his side. She had him on speed, they always did. He would have to rely on his plate and scales. He caught her low swing with his blade and countered with one of his own, his sword burning hot as divine power coursed through it.

Sprinter felt a smile creep across his features. Finally, a straight fight. A duel, with no interru-

The greatsword tore through the cultist's shoulder, nearly rending her in two. He blinked in surprise. She was supposed to have parried that. Why hadn't she parried that? He peered at the other cultists, almost willing them to disgrace themselves and attack, to seek revenge, but they began to disperse.

It was over.

Before he could even blink, the druid had stormed the room, kicking open the door. "Fool", thought Sprinter, "What is he thinking, charging headlong?". As he made for the door Cyrri had rushed through, he heard the deafening blast of the thunderclap the druid was so fond of using. Reaching the door, he peered in to view the carnage that always followed the druid's favorite bit of sorcery.

The room was in shambles. Tables had been knocked askew, food splattered on the walls and ceiling, and various trinkets flung to the far corners. But what should have been a dozen or so bodies - foes rarely stood back up after Cyrri struck - was instead a collection of cultists, standing and able-bodied, surrounding Cyrri. He was on the ground, bleeding.

Sprinter went numb. His sword was in his hand. He was charging. His muted roar rang in his ears.

He had forgotten the weight of his gauntlets, and his arms felt light without them. Having propped them against a wall so not to lose them in the mists, Sprinter sat a few feet away, studying his gauntlets. He hadn't understood what the fiend had said, but its tone was clear: Unconcerned. Mocking. Bitterly, his thoughts turned to Tyr, and for the second time in his life, he prayed.

"I've kept my word. Not once have I broken my oath, nor brought dishonor on upon myself or my companions. I haven't called upon you or sought your favor until now. And never again will I. I will bring justice to the evil, wearing your badge. I will slay those who seek to harm others and bear your symbol, but never again will I call upon you to lift up the weak. That work can belong to some other favored puppet of yours."

Sprinter stood, and donned his gauntlets once more.