Reflections....

[Delmair Aamoren]

Battered and bloody, wounds still healing from a long day spent bloodying
the barbazu of the bronze citadel, Delmair rode eastward. The memory
of the wave of fire sent forth from the massive blade of Bel still fresh in
his mind, he mistakenly rode past his destination, a small tent near the
Turning Point. Looking up from his daydream he realized his mistake. But,
instead of turing around and going back, he instead rode onward. Onward
along a familiar hilly trail, and down a familiar gravel-covered path. Being
careful not to ride into the land owned by the grumpy hermit who lived
nearby, he rode northward down the path.

Coming to a stop just outside a small dwelling carved into the rocky
terrain. The once familiar billows of smoke, however, did not pour out
of the small, makeshift home. Nor could he hear any movement from
inside. Delmair dismounted, and slowly drew his weapon.

Upon entering the smithy's residence, to his surprise, Delmair saw no
sign of the kobold smithy he once knew. Not that it should have come as
much of a surprise to him, as the smithy's captors had been defeated
some time before. Still, not seeing the familiar scaly-faced smith
saddened him to some degree. As if a chapter in his life had closed
and he didn't have a chance to say goodbye.

Who knows where that smith is these days, could be halfway across
Toril by now. Or, regretably, he could be dead. Delmair thought about
the last part for a bit. Then remembering the ferocity with which that
particular kobold once fought, he knew the latter couldn't be true.

He slowly sheathed his sword, and strode solemnly out to his awaiting
mount. Deftly throwing his leg over one side of the mount, and climbing
into the saddle, he turned around to head to his original destination. Still
thinking of the many hours he had spent talking with the smith, he once
again overshot his original destination, and found himself back at the
gates of Waterdeep. "Perhaps i will have some ale" he mumbled to
himself. His mount, the nightmare "Celer" reared his head slightly
as if agreeing with him. With a pat of recognition and comfot, he
acknowledged his steed, and continued into the city.

The inn of the dead orc was nearly empty. It was a quiet night. The
hard-earned sleep was deep, and restful.