Gisborne's Return - Prologue

by ~lordoffiling

Gisborne’s Return
Prologue

"Just.... just get back," Arland Gisborne growled at Neeshka.  "You're no help at all."  

"You're wasting your time," Neeshka said, watching as Arland wrestled with a simple lock she'd found for him.  "You were never very good at this."

"I won't get any better if you keep putting your hands on my shoulders," he shot back, but this time with a smirk back at her.  

It seemed like years since Arland had retrieved his soul from the Wall of the Faithless, though it had been in reality only two months.  It was incredible, how that time wherein he had been under the guiding hand of fate had slipped away once he'd begun living as he wished.  His life, since the fateful night in West Harbor when his father had sent him away, was once again his.  

Kelemvor had told him he could go anywhere he liked, do anything he wished, so long as he did not trouble him or his damned Wall any further.  This had torn him.  He wanted that thing down, wanted all of those souls freed, not just his.  However, his good sense had prevailed in the end.  What could he have done?  Hacked at it with the Sword of Gith for the rest of eternity?  That would benefit no one, save the few souls he did manage to free before he himself perished.  In the slip of reality that existed within the confines of his own mind, he had seen briefly all of his friends, many of whom bore uncertain fates.  So when Kelemvor had told him he could go anywhere, do anything, he had decided--for the time being, at least--that he owed certain loyalties to his old fraternity.  

He had returned home, and went about the business of finding everyone.  So far he had been successful in locating two.  Casavir was a prisoner of Luskan, that much was certain.  They had retrieved his body and restored life to it, to hold him accountable for the death of Sydney Natale.  Bishop, however, had been impossible to revive.  That made sense.  Arland had only spoken to him in the Wall, and though the conversation had been brief, he had gotten the distinct impression that he hadn't wanted to return.  He had surrendered to the Wall, had given over to oblivion.

He wasn't done with that ranger, because he wasn't done with the Wall.  Once he'd discovered a way to tear it down, he and Bishop would have words, no matter how many priests and wizards he had to hire to raise him.

They were in his workroom, a space he'd set up for himself in Crossroad Keep once he'd gotten back.  When he had been in Rasheman, he'd discovered just how abysmal his practical skills were.  In his adventure against the King of Shadows, there had always been someone nearby to pick a lock, trip a trap, build a fire, sing a song, or cook a meal.  He himself was woeful at all of those things, and now that he was home he was resolved to improve.

He would have to change the way he fought, as well.  Until now he had been a paladin of Tyr, just like Casavir.  However, for some reason, when he had awoken in Rasheman and discovered his cursed nature and the shard missing from the hole in his chest, he had also come to find the strength he had once drawn from his god was gone as well.  Tyr had taken it back for some reason, and no matter what prayer he uttered or how he pleaded, silence from the upper planes was all he received in return.

"But they're such nice shoulders," Neeshka purred.  "I always thought so."  To make her point, she put her hands on them and massaged, working her fingers against the battle-toned muscle of his bare back.  For a bit of extra emphasis this time, she snaked her tail around his waist.  

Arland had never been able to resist that.  He let the lock and the tools he'd been working with clatter to the wooden table's surface and leaned back against her.  He lived it again, the moment she'd set eyes on him for the first time since he'd reappeared on the Sword Coast.  She'd come running and bodily tackled him, had covered his face with kisses.  They hadn't been more than a room apart since.  Where he went, she went, and vice versa.  If he had his way, it would continue for the rest of their lives.

She wrapped her arms loosely about his neck, hugging him from behind.  "It is so good to have you home."

"Good to *be* home," he muttered, eyes shut, soaking up the warmth of the tiefling's skin against his.

"Message came," she said, freeing one hand long enough to retrieve said message from her pocket.  "Want me to read it?  It’s from Edmund."  She left it unsaid that Khelgar had wanted to deliver the message personally, leaving her no choice but to lift it off of him while he wasn't looking.

"Would you?  My eyes are tired."  He rubbed them with this thumb and forefinger.

Neeshka cracked the seal on the parchment, unrolled it, and with a very passing imitation of the sarcastic knight's voice, began to read.  "Knight Captain, one of your companions possibly located in Lantan.  Rumors of gnome wearing blade golem like a suit of armor.  Will investigate further and correspond. - Edmund"

"Sounds like it might be Grobnar," Arland admitted.  "How many gnomes go about with Ilefarn blade golems, do you think?"

"If there are any more than one, I'm getting on the next boat leaving Faerun and never coming back."

He barked a laugh.  "Hah!  Indeed.  So we're agreed then.  I'll even pay our way."  

One advantage to his adventures had been overwhelming wealth; by the time he'd been finished in Rasheman, he had collected a treasure trove of gold, magical trinkets, arms, and armor that would have made a dragon blush. Enlisting Lord Nasher's aid in finding those he had lost had been a simple matter of providing a portion of that to Neverwinter's coffers.  Not a bribe, but after a plague, a war, another war, and a trade crash, that city needed all the help it could get.

Neeshka, of course, had been pleased to see him not only whole and healthy, but also extraordinarily wealthy.  Arland might have been given reason to pause at her declarations of love, considering her nature and the frequency with which gold dazzled her eyes, but even that had worked out; she'd pounced on him *before* she'd found out about it.

She kissed his cheek and gave him a gentle tug with her tail, still around his waist.  “Come to bed.  It’s late, you can fight that lock some more tomorrow if you want.”

“I have way too much to do tomorrow,” he grumbled, but stood anyway and let himself be guided to the stairs.  “Field reports, petitioners, all that.  I know I have an audience with two bickering village elders who insist they had prior claim to a bit of land.  To say nothing of this letter from Edmund.”

“That’s why you’re coming to bed *now* instead of later,” Neeshka replied, putting a hand on his back.  “Someone’s got to take care of you, you know.  Might as well be me.”  She bit her lower lip for a moment, and then added, “You’re really going to do it, huh?  Go find our friends and bring them home?  Even if you have to drag them back from the dead.”

“That’s what I said,” Arland replied truthfully; those were almost his exact words to Lord Nasher when he’d requested aid.

“You would have done it for me?”

“Absolutely.”  He thought, but did not add, that he probably would have come after her *first*, regardless of what he had needed to do or the plight of anyone else.  Perhaps it was for the best that Tyr had forsaken him.  The Maimed God would have never approved of that.

She hugged his side as they walked, turning the corner to his quarters.  “No one else,” she said.  “No one else would have ever done that for me.”

The door closed.  The fire was built up, the lamps were doused, and Neeshka thanked him in her preferred way.  Later, once they’d untangled the sheets, they took to the bed properly and slept.  The next day would be far more eventful than either of them would have imagined.