It was a fine day to be an adventurer – the sky was a field of spotless turquoise with not a cloud in sight, and the warmth of the summer sun was tempered by a breeze that both cooled the sweat on the skin and turned the rolling fields of savannah grass into a rippling yellow ocean.

Logan Galehaut sat within a small wooden barge as it made its way steadily up a small winding river that ran from the Orsraun Mountains in the north, where the river went south towards the Vilhon Reach, and from there out into the Sea of Fallen Stars. Around him were barrels of beer and ale, sat upright and lined up in rows, crates filled with bottles of wine stacked on top of each other, and hempen sacks of fruits and vegetables. Thankfully, he still had enough personal space, even with the bargeman standing not too far away – a pudgy, stout halfling dressed in a drab beige tunic and brown breeches, a wide-brimmed and floppy straw hat keeping the sun off his round, cherubic face with a patchy brown beard.

Logan cut the image of the youthful knight-errant well – he was a muscular young man in his early twenties, broad-shouldered and straight as a lance. He wore no helm at the moment, his face visible and clear, revealing sun-bronzed skin and rough-hewn features including a clean-shaven, jutting jaw that was square and solid. His coal-black hair reached his collar, thick and slightly wavy, and while he looked healthy overall, his skin was somewhat stretched over his face, and his cheeks were hollow from undereating.

He was clad in a chainmail hauberk that reached down to his thighs along with a gorget, greaves and gauntlets of steel plate. Over the chain was draped a navy blue surcoat trimmed in white, and a hooded cloak of the same colour hung from his neck and shoulders down to the back of his knees. Both were branded with the same symbol – a griffin, rampant and resplendent in white. A richly ornamented longsword, its hilt studded with sapphires and the quillons of its crossguard shaped like the wings of an angel, hung from his left hip along with a rondel dagger in its own sheath at his right.

What stood out most about him, though, were his eyes. Instead of being any usual colour, his irises were a bright, gleaming shade of burnished gold, shimmering as they gazed out from his face.

At first, those eyes were simply taking in the sights that surrounded the barge – the rolling green hills, the frogs darting their tongues out to catch mayflies, the pale sky slowly beginning to darken as afternoon rolled towards evening. But then, they turned towards the bargeman.

"How much further until we reach this inn, Edwyn?" Logan asked the halfling, not impatiently nor unkindly.

Edwyn Butterbeer flicked his gaze towards Logan, but kept diligently pushing the boat along with his pole. Even on his raised position at the back of the barge, the halfling could only just see over the top of Logan's head.

"Not much further now, m'lord..." he replied. "An hour or maybe two, depending on if anyone else wants to be picked up."

Logan nodded. "No worries," he said before giving the bargeman a smile. "And as I said, it's just 'sir'. I'm not a lord, nor will ever be, if the gods are good."

Logan had run into Edwyn that morning, and the two of them had made an amicable arrangement – Edwyn worked for the nearby Cockatrice Inn, bringing supplies to them of ale and food up from the nearby town of Hlondeth to keep their stocks topped up. He also took passengers to make a little extra coin where he could, and had offered to take Logan to the inn at half his usual price.

Beasts were always prowling the wilderlands of Faerun, and it was plain to see that Logan was not a merchant or an artisan. Edwyn had openly said "I've had some hair-raising experiences with jackals and lions in these parts, m'lord. So I'd rather travel with armed company, if it please ye..."

And so Logan had accepted the boat ride, once again correcting Edwyn that he wasn't a lord. The young knight smiled at the idea of a hot meal and a roof over his head after weeks of sleeping at the roadside, but he had agreed to pay Edwyn his full fee for the journey.

It was only a few extra coppers, and besides, it would not befit a paladin to be a money-grubbing miser.

As he sat waiting, Logan reached to his pack and took stock of his belongings. Unfurling the flaps and feeling around inside, his gloved fingers felt for the objects he was familiar with, accounting for each one. His waterskin and whetstone, a coil of rope, a tinderbox, his scroll of pedigree, his painting supplies, and his trail rations bound up in airtight wrappings. An iron-rimmed heater shield, its face depicting a white griffin on a field of navy, hung from the one side of the pack while his bedroll was strapped to the other.

A soothing sensation passed through Logan as he found them all where they should be. It always horrified him whenever he got the notion he had left something behind, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest only to calm for the umpteenth time since he had left home.

A true knight could forget to eat, to drink, to sleep... but he would never forget his effects and belongings. Least of all his weapons and armour.

The sun followed its usual arc through the sky, dipping closer to the western horizon with each passing minute, each movement so slow and slight as to barely be noticeable. Logan continued to sit and wait, taking in his and Edwyn's peaceful surroundings while also keeping watch for anything lurking below the water's edge, occasionally turning his attention to the savannah grasses whenever the barged moved a little too close to the bank, lest a lion or a hyena be stalking there.

Thankfully, there was naught to be seen save for the occasional swallow darting through the air... until Edwyn turned the next corner.

There, walking down the dirt track which ran to the left of the river, was another person. He had his back to the young knight as he trudged along the makeshift roadway, but his long, pointed ears perked up as he heard the rippling of the water displaced by Edwyn's pole, and spun around to look at them, his eyes wide as if in fear as his breathing hitched before he slowly seemed to calm.

The stranger appeared shorter than Logan but taller than Edwyn – though Logan admitted that wasn't exactly saying much - thin as a rail and slender to the point of gauntness. His skin on his tapering face and his bony fingers was a light grey, while his hair, tied in a bun behind his ears, was white as chalk. Garbed in a turquoise tunic and high boots of grey-green leather, he wore an olive cloak over his narrow shoulders along with a deep brown satchel, and supporting every step he took was a gnarled wooden staff that looked like a branch torn from an ancient tree, leaves and all.

Like Logan, however, his eyes were what stood out about him. Against the pallid cast of his face, with its high brow, gentle features and slightly receding chin, gazed irises of the same grey colour as his skin, full of sadness and shifty as if anxious or paranoid.

'An elf,' Logan noted to himself, stating it as a fact in his head.

The elf approached the water's edge, the long grasses on the bank rustling with each step he took. Before he even raised a hand, Edwyn was already pulling in, and they began to converse.

"Afternoon, sir" the halfling said, tipping his wide-brimmed hat.

The elf looked back at him and softly said "Oh, um... hi." He then glanced at Logan sitting at the bargeman's feet and asked "You wouldn't happen to take passengers, would you?"

"Indeed I do, sir," the bargeman replied. "It's only a few hours to the Cockatrice Inn, but if you'd like to spare your feet the journey, I'd be happy to take you there."

"I'd appreciate that" the elf replied. He and Edwyn then discussed the price, and after coin exchanged hands with a satisfying clink, the tall and lanky figure moved to the edge of the edge of the riverbank.

But as he reached out tentatively with his left foot towards the mid of the boat, the current dragged at the bow and caused the wooden tub to shift away from the shore. Adrenaline surged through everyone just then, but the elf just barely managed to stagger backwards onto dry land, standing with his hands flailing as he tried to keep his balance.

It was better than staggering forwards and plunging into the water, at least. But still, Logan could see his soon-to-be fellow passenger was struggling.

So as Edwyn re-oriented the barge for a second go, Logan shunted towards the front end and leaned across a crate of wine bottles to reach out with his hands; one grabbed the prow, while the other closed its fingers tightly around one of the branches of a small riverside sapling that was protruding out from the bank towards the boat. There, he held firm, only letting go when the elf was fully on-board.

As Edwyn pushed the boat back out into the centre of the river, Logan returned to his seat at the halfling's foot, the new passenger opposite him. The elf looked into his eyes, smiled nervously and said "Thanks for holding the boat, by the way."

Logan chuckled slightly. "No worries. The water looks clear, but I still wouldn't want to go swimming in it..." he replied.

The elf gave the water a wary glance before sighing "True, but given my kind are supposed to be graceful and all, I don't think I made the best first impression..." His tone was sad, as though that impression meant a lot to him, and that tugged at Logan's heartstrings a little.

Meeting expectations meant a lot to many people - himself included.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm not one to judge..." Logan said, giving him a comforting look as he sat forward a little. He might have said 'judge failure', but that would be incredibly rude of him.

A true knight was always courteous. And besides, he had no right to brand others as failures.

Extending his arm, Logan held out his gauntleted hand and introduced himself with a slight smile to his fellow passenger. "Sir Logan Galehaut."

The elf's hesitance faded as his grey eyes met Logan's gold ones, and he gently took Logan's hand. "Ren Revanorin."

They shook, and as Edwyn began to steer the barge further upriver, Logan tried to strike up a conversation.

"So, Ren, where are you headed to?"
The elf replied. "Oh, well... I'm just kind of heading wherever the road takes me really..." he said as he rubbed the back of his neck. "You?"
"Much the same." Logan replied. "At the moment, I'm here with Edwyn in case anything tries to harm him, but after that, I'll be continuing on my way."
Ren glanced up at the halfling, who was too focused on steering the barge to be paying any mind to what they were saying. "Well, it's good of you to offer to defend others like that... most wouldn't be so willing."

Logan looked him in the eyes, though not with any hint of anger. "It is nothing less than my duty. I swore an oath, and I intend to keep to it." As he spoke, he unconsciously placed a hand beside him on his seat, the edge of his palm pressed against his shield.

Ren's gaze fell upon the griffin sigil, studying it closely before he then mumbled "'Sir' Logan... you're a knight?"
"That and more." Logan replied quickly, his throat contracting as he reached up to his gorget. "I'm a paladin."

It was then that he pulled out a symbol on a thick metal chain that hung from about his neck, between his chainmail and the padding underneath. That way, the symbol, wrought from platinum and carved into the shape of a dragon's head in profile, lifted proudly to the sky with azure eyes gleaming, rested just over his heart wherever he travelled.

"Forgive me, sir, but I've never seen a griffin head shaped like that..." Ren said, almost smiling as he made a joke but seemed hesitant in case he had offended.

Logan chuckled. "It's a dragon," he replied, his easy smile showing Ren there was nothing to fear. "The Platinum Dragon, to be exact. Bahamut. The griffin is the sigil of my family – House Galehaut of Frostpeak."

Bahamut was the god of justice and honour, and the father of metallic dragons. He was Logan's chosen deity, the one he had sworn his oath of devotion to, as many Galehauts had done long before him.

Ren's eyes widened, and at last, he seemed to relax even slightly. "A member of a famous noble family and a paladin!" he remarked. "Edwyn is a very lucky man!"

Logan smiled, feeling a little flattered. "As are you, Ren. I'm sworn to protect all who are in need..."

The elf's grey cheeks darkened as he seemed to blush a little. Meeting Logan's gaze, he had an almost coy smile, though it quickly vanished when Logan addressed him and said:

"Tell me about yourself, Ren."

At those words, the elf began rambling again. "Well, I wish I was as interesting as you, Sir. I'm just trying to make my way where I can."
Logan sat back and lifted a hand to scratch his square jaw. "Do you have a trade? Or are you a vagabond and adventurer like myself?"
Ren paused before answering "Probably more in the latter."

Logan arched an eyebrow and said, "Go on," – a reply which made Ren freeze and go pale while his fingers moved to cover the satchel that was still hanging at his side.

This action made Logan feel a little wary, his golden eyes also fixing on Ren's satchel. It looked like any normal bag, but the elf seemed unusually protective of it... which was understandable, unless he was trying to hide something harmful.

Logan's nose twitched – the thick, foul stink of dark magic wasn't radiating from the bag, but his paladin ability to sense the divine and other such energies could feel that something was. It was like a faint light, little more than a candleflame, was seeping out of the satchel, along with a gentle force tingling against his skin and gently pushing at him, so slight as to be nearly imperceptible.

Unsure of what was going on, Logan lifted his eyes and looked back at Ren, analysing his expressions closely. Ren was as afraid and jumpy as he was when he had first seen Edwyn's boat, but while there was fear in his eyes, there was no ill intent. He wasn't hiding anything he would harm anyone to protect, and what he was hiding wasn't dangerous... at least, not innately.

Logan responded by meeting Ren's violet gaze and simply saying "You have nothing to fear from me," in a calm and level tone. "Follower of a god of justice, remember?"

That seemed to soothe Ren, and with a sigh, he turned and undid the top of his satchel, unbuckling the cover before reaching inside and pulling out a massive book over ten centimetres thick with a black leather cover. The clasps at the corners were silver, and now it was out in the open, Logan could more clearly sense what was radiating from the tome.

Arcane magic. And that could only mean one thing...

"You're a wizard?" Logan asked Ren.

The elf nodded. "I am. Illusion magic is my speciality, to be precise..."
Edwyn took an interest then, while Logan almost laughed in relief, sitting back in his seat. "Why didn't you just say so?" he asked.

Ren blushed again. "Well, it's just that... in some places, I've been accosted for being a magic user. Threatened with arrest... or worse."

Logan nodded, knowing that some places in Faerun feared magic users. "Well, as I said, Ren... you've got nothing to fear from me," he told the elf with a smile.

Even though Logan had told him this already, that second time seemed to make Ren put down a wall that stood between the two of them. Though he set his book back in its satchel, he no longer gave Logan any looks full of terror through the rest of the journey as they sat and talked in the barge.

However, unbeknownst to either Logan or Ren... they were being watched.

Atop a nearby knoll, thick with golden savannah grass, a lone figure stood. It was wrapped in scraps of a thousand dull colours, stitched together haphazardly with thick, sinuous thread into a rag-tag garment that reached from the head to the legs, closing around the body like the folded wings of some great, monstrous bat. The clothing also hooded its head, with a shroud draped down over its face like a veil, made from the same fabric as the rest and with two holes cut for eyes.

The fabric seemed like fabric at a distance, but when seen up close, it did not seem so. It was too thick and dry, twisting and squirming in the wind as though in agony, parts of it contracting and tensing as though it were alive.

As though it were flesh and skin.

Inside the eye-holes, two terrible black pits were all that could be seen, facing northwards as the barge grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

"You cannot hide from me, illusionist..." came a voice straight out of a nightmare as all around him, hunched shapes could be seen creeping through the grass, surging forward from behind the cloaked figure, bone-chilling cackles filling the air as the hunters homed in on their target...