#this starter too in fact. it's the longest i've written so far i think. IM SORRY.

[vigilant-cleric]

@ownward

_____

The letter was succinct, as ever. A date, a time, a meeting place and a discreet wax seal depicting the insignia of the officer corps of the Flaming Fist. To anyone else, this would have been an exciting prospect, perhaps a secret message, an invite to the creation of a conspiracy. To Ashen, it was far less interesting. A routine meeting, no more, where the Fist's leadership would discuss upcoming decisions, new arrivals, economy matters, and expect their chaplain to bestow Helm's blessing upon their plans.

What could he do but serve, anyway? Like Helm, he was the unsleeping eyes of the Fist, a mouth remaining shut but a guardian of guardians, one of the only reliable members of the mercenary corps who valued his god's blessing above trading files for gold. Newest recruits like high commanders alike spoke to him and him alone on the same foot of equality. He valued their trust, and they valued his.

The location was no surprise to him. The Elfsong Tavern, a place which, since its creation, always remained soldiers' favourite place to gather. It might as well become the Fist's headquarters, and for the span of a meeting, it was about to be.

Or was it? Upon entering the intended meeting place, the creaking door reverberated in a way that was already telling of an empty room. Incredulous, the cleric pulled the folded letter out of his cuirass to double-check. This was the right place, he was even a little late. But there was no sign that anyone had been there at all; dust still settled on the centre table, the chairs were still neatly stored on the sides.

Cancellation without notice, Ashen thought. It was a rare event, but he had already told his higher-ups about his displeasure of such lack of courtesy. He inhaled sharply, grimacing at the prospect of walking back to Wyrm's Crossing. Upon closing the door behind him once again, a better idea seized his mind, a tinge of remembrance from a Baldurian holiday with fellow Hellriders.

As he retraced the steps of his departed companions through the empty rooms of the tavern, he was reminded of the ages-old quarrel between Elturel and Baldur's Gate, and his memories recreated, for a moment, the voices of the young soldiers, suspended in time. "Come on, lads. If they're going to pout at us like that, we might as well bill them our own service fee."

But now the cleric was alone again. The bottles of wine he was stuffing under his arm would not be shared. Upon realising this, he stopped his gesture of reaching out for another mid-way. He sighed, contenting himself with his two ill-gotten goods. Such a small theft would go unnoticed.

What did not go unnoticed, however, was an irregularity in the shelf on which he stored the unwanted bottle. Ashen frowned, probing the anomaly with the tip of his gauntlet.

With a grating noise, an empty barrel to his right opened, revealing an entryway. That was not expected. It looked like his Hellrider friends could have gotten better wine than the one they had gotten away with, after all.

"Who thought the Great Guard would reward me with his vigilance for something he would disapprove of," he muttered under his breath, not entirely unamused.

But perhaps the Great Guard knew something he did not. The thought did not cross his mind, and the chaplain stepped into the newly opened room.