The Hesitant Blade of Amn: Chapter 1

“My adventures in
Faerun have been all but pleasant, and since the destruction of my homeland, I
have been in a great turmoil with not only the strange and unsettling beings I
have encountered here, but with myself, probably my greatest enemy. The
hesitation to do wrong and the drive to perform virtuous feats are, what I have
come to realize, as actions to cover up the self-reproach that I am dealing
with. When the mysterious mage that identified himself as Sorin cast the meteor
upon my world, I came to realize later that I had to power to stop him. It all
lied in a small stone within my pouch. “-Hector’s Monologue, Kythorn of 1479 DR
Hector’s breath enters and leaves
his body in heavy gasps and branches and small twigs snap underneath his feet
as he runs through the moderately open terrain. His pursuers are on his tail,
but they are unable to gain any ground on him. Hector is a sailor and the years
on the open sea has given him many opportunities to swim, probably the best
form of endurance training. His body is in peak shape, and the hostiles that
follow behind him consist of two goblins, a kobold, and a chained Maztecian
slave, all of which are not known for their endurance, or, in the case of the
slave, are only as fast as their weakest link. 
However, the barrier of mountains
and volcanos is what stops Hector. The Small Teeth mountain range stretches as
far as the eye can see and Hector may have been able to outrun his pursuers in
open terrain, but he knowns that he can’t out climb them. He stops and turns to
his foes. 
The hunting party stops and bends
over to catch their breath; one of the goblins looks as if they are ready to
collapse. After a few short moments, the kobold, whom is wrapped in a dark
cloak with poorly concealed daggers underneath, speaks. “You have nowhere left
to run. Heading into Muranndin is as good as a death sentence!"
Hector paces a few steps to the
right and unsheathes a slightly curved blade. He twirls it in his hand and
feels how perfectly balanced the sword is in his palm. Before he entered
Faerun, his weapon of choice was the rapier, but once he discovered the
scimitar, he has rarely ever used another weapon. It is as light as a
shortsword, but as precise as a rapier, and he is able to make fluid slashing
movements, a type of fighting style which her prefers. Almost on instinct,
Hector is already searching every enemy for its vitals; he notes where their
chest rises and falls from their heavy breathing and the location that their
heart beats. His training with his recent instructors has revealed to him not
only the locations that kill swiftly but the areas that hurt tremendously. 
Although Hector knows the answer he
still asks “What do you want with me? I want nothing to do with you.” The
longer Hector can stall, the longer he gets to develop his strategy. 
The slave bangs his spear on the
ground and mutters a string of his native language, to what sounds like
gibberish to Hector. 
Hector redirects his direction and
takes a few paces to the left. “Now you're using your slaves for your dirty
work. It disgusts me really,” he says absently still analyzing his foes. 
The lizardfolk lets out a slight
chuckle. “Possessions are meant to be used; it is no different than that blade
you wield.”
Hector returns the laugh. “If this
blade was sentient then I would let it do as it wishes, however I believe it
would enjoy slaying those like yourself.”
“This man can barely think for
himself, he can't even get his name right, something a practitioner of magic
can teach their dogs!”
“Then why don't you test the
loyalty of your slaves, “countered Hector. 
“Possessions don’t have loyalty you
fool!”
This last remark greatly irritates
Hector. He raises his scimitar eye level with the lizardfolk. “Stop blabbing
and get on with what you came here for!”
“As you wish!” The kobold looks to
his goblin companions and orders “Kill him and bring him back to the master!”
The two goblins advance on Hector
who waits for the perfect moment to strike. When the goblins are within five
feet, he takes a quick step forward and slashes the throat of the first, and,
in a blur, he is already on top of the other one, piercing it through the
torso, through the vital spot he has been observing the entire time. 
The kobold roars in anger and hides
behind his slave. “Kill him you mangy bastard!” he tells the slave.  
Hector makes eye contact with the
Maztecian, and gives a slight nod, but the slave only cocks his head in
confusion. The kobold yanks his chain, signaling for the slave to attack. On
command, the Maztecian raises his spear and hurls it with deadly precision, but
the swashbuckler easily sidesteps the attack. 
Hector reaches into his pack and
pulls out a weapon of his own. He doesn’t want to kill the slave, for he doesn’t
deserve it. Besides, killing these slaves is why he left his refuge in Athkatla
anyway. He brings forth a jar of sand, bought from the markets of Calimshan.
The sand is multicolored and has a scent that could put the most robust beasts
to sleep; in Calimshan, it is called slumber sand. 
Behind Hector, a thunderous reverberation
pervades the air as a great plume of smoke rises from the Small Teeth mountains.
 Hector looks behind him nervously, but
instantly redirects his attention back to his aggressors. 
The kobold lets out a shrill laugh.
“Did you forget how to fight or are you afraid of my slave? Does even he
outclass you?”
Hector smirks and tosses the sand a
couple inches from his palm and lets it fall back into his hand. “Oh, I’m not
even trying, “with this remark, he pitches the jar of sand at the slave who
fails to dodge it, not because he is unreactive, but because the enormous chain
around his neck hinders his movement. The jar shatters across his skull, and
the scent of the slumber sand puts him soundly to sleep. 
The kobold looks at his slave in
astonishment and indignantly throws down the chain. “I will take him myself
then,” the kobold draws a dagger from under his cloak. 
This time, Hector takes the
initiative. He sprints at the kobold, and takes an unsuspected tumble to the
right of the creature, slashing with his scimitar at a surprising angle.
However, the kobold’s small size gets the best of Hector, for he weaves around
the scimitar, not with ease, but with luck. Hector rolls to his feet with his
back turned to the kobold, and the little dragonkin, seeing this as an
opportunity, attempts to backstab Hector, but the swashbuckler whirls around
the dagger and its wielder and ends up behind the kobold, where he smacks him
with his pommel. 
The earth rocks violently and distracts
both combatants from their fight as a large fiery hunk of rock slams into the
earth not twenty meters away. Both Hector and the kobold stare at it in awe.
“This fight is over. If we stay
here, we will both die,” says Hector to the kobold who nods his head in
agreement. 
They turn around to see another
object fall from the sky, not a rock, but a winged elf. The injured creature is
barely able to stand, but he is able to spit out the words “Dragon. Destroyed
my city. The army of Muranndin is upon us!”
“Muranndin? They wouldn't dare
venture into your lands and break their treaty!” shouts the kobold. 
But, before the kobold can utter
another sentence, a fiery boulder crushes him, drawing from him the life Hector
was going to spare. 
Hector hears a roar from behind
him, and he looks over his shoulder to see an army of giants and goblinoids
making their way to him. He picks up the Myztechian slave and makes his retreat
back into the heart of Amn with the winged elf right on his heels.