The related build is here
Brand Swift looked with a bemused smile at the young man who sat across the tavern table from him. The fellow had cautiously identified himself to Brand as a Harper, an organization to which Brand himself belonged. Although the boy had introduced himself by name, Brand thought of him as "Wormfood".
He's probably seen eighteen winters, but I don't give him one chance in fifty of seeing nineteen. Still, I'll do what I can.
"Why d'ya want to hear 'bout me?" Brand asked.
"You're a hero," the young man replied.
"Bah, you want to talk to a hero - go find Hoftasee or Vannevar. I'm just a grayheaded old drunk who's made too many mistakes. If the Harpers hadn't taken me in, I'd prob'ly been dead decades ago. But here's a deal - I'll talk as long as you keep my glass full. Mayhap I'll stumble across something that'll be worth hearin'." Brand drained his glass then began:
"Earliest place I remember is a back alley behind a tavern in Luskan. Nobody never took any care of me, so I learnt to do it myself. When I got as old as you are today, I'd been killin' for coin for three years. An' I could hold my liquor better'n any man twice my age. Only reason I wadn't dead in a gutter is 'cause I could smell a trap."
"Is that so?"" The young man turned toward the bar. "Waitress, another pint for my friend. No, make that two. He looks thirsty. And another any time his glass gets empty."
"That's it boy, keep 'em comin'! Anyway, one of the High Captains I was workin' as a thug for - he saw I was livin' and not dyin' so he had me trained real good as an assassin. I did that for a while, but let me tell you boy - that way of life will get you in a pine box young, no matter how good you think you are."
"I hear you, sir."
Do you? Do you really, Wormfood? I don't think you do. I don't think so at all. Pity.
"Well, I drifted out of Luskan before I caught the sharp end of somebody's dagger. I didn't know it then, but I guess I was already seein' the error of my ways, as they say. I heard the Lord's Alliance was hirin' mercenaries and payin' good and I signed up.
"That's when I met General Bolstad. I guess I got the luck of fallin' in above my head, 'cause for some reason he put me in his personal guard. General Bolstad, he was the first truly good man I ever met. Tough as nails, but fair even to no-accounts like me. One night when we was camped between battles, I was on my way back from drinkin' with some o' the others and I seen the General walkin' toward his tent. Then I seen a shadow dart outta nowhere toward him. 'Cept this shadow had a sword drawn. Another man, I mighta let die. But like I say, I never knowed anyone like General Bolstad before. So I jumped in between 'em and the blade caught me insteada him. The General, he figured out quick what was up and he lopped that fella's head clean off - see, bein' an assassin don't pay - but my left wing was sliced up bad. General Bolstad had his own chief surgeon take care o' me, or else I woulda lost the arm altogether. Even so, it still ain't good for much 'cept keepin' my sleeve from flappin' in the wind."
"Left arm, you say? That's a shame, friend." The young man surveyed the eight empty pint mugs on the table in front of Brand. His own glass was still three-quarters full, and the bar was now empty but for a few stragglers. It was almost time. "Continue, please."
Wormfood, you haven't heard a word. Let's get this over with.
"Gettin' to the point, one of them Harpers heard what I did an' hooked me up with his group. Guess I was what they call reformed or somethin'. He told me they was a secret bunch that kept back evil, no matter what it took. That sounded okay to me. Well, I done a lot of things since then, but I was finally on the right side of the fence, if you will.
"Anyway, I'm retired now. Don't even carry a sword no more. Well, that's the story. Sorry it weren't any better. Guess I ran out o' words before you ran out o' coppers. Good night, and good luck."
Brand stood, turned his back to the table, and began to stagger away. Then with startling speed, he spun and dropped into a crouch. Wormfood's poisoned dagger cut through the air just over his head. Brand fluidly pulled a knife from his boot and thrust it deep into the assassin's chest. Wormfood fell to the floor, his face a mix of pain and surprise. The entire fight had taken less than a second.
"How-" he began, but the question was cut short as he began choking on his own blood.
"I told you boy!", Brand hissed. "I told you I could hold my liquor! I told you I could smell a trap! I told you assassins die young! How much plainer did you want it? I've been a Harper half my life. You're no Harper! You thought you had me snookered, me tellin' you all that sob story? Boy, I was tryin' to help you!"
Wormfood's eyes twinkled briefly with understanding and regret, then faded.
"Too little, too late," Brand muttered. He spied Wormfood's mug still sitting on the table. "No sense in wastin' good ale." He downed the mug's contents in a single pull, then began staggering toward the door. He stopped for a moment and looked back at the body lying on the floor.
"I hate killin' kids," Brand said softly, and stumbled out into the night.
Here is roughly how I imagine Brand:
(Image generated by OpenArt.ai with the prompt "Full body portrait of a middle-aged, adult, male, balding, cheerful, drunk, slim, dagger, rogue, D&D, fantasy, handsome, elegant, hopeful, muscular, gothic, futuristic, highly detailed, digital painting, artstation, concept art, artisan, smooth, sharp focus, illustration")
And here's another little story co-starring Cinder:
Cinder Swift found it impossible to read the man in front of her. Her investigation had led to him, but still he remained a mystery, his motives unclear, his part in events difficult to discern. Was he an enemy? An ally? Acting purely in his own interests? Cinder wasn't sure, but she needed to find out. And his impressive poker face wasn't helping.
"And was that before or after the events at the magistrate's office?" she asked.
"Cleverly worded," the man said, "but you assume I know to what events you are referring. I should as well ask you, was that the cause of the commotion at the docks?"
"I'm not sure," Cinder said. "How much harm did that commotion do to your business?"
"And why would you think I have business at the docks?" the man replied, still expressionless.
This was getting nowhere, Cinder thought to herself. But she'd put far too much effort into setting up this meeting to walk away with nothing. This man was a full generation older than her, and from what she could piece together, had put most of those years into accumulating various positions of power, legally dubious as they might be. As good as Cinder usually was at getting people to reveal information, this man wasn't going to give anything away easily. She decided to try a different approach.
"Look, we could talk around each other all day, but neither of us is going to get anything out of this if we don't actually communicate. Let's start with something simple and inconsequential and try to work our way from there. I'm from a tropical port town in the south, where I grew up serving in taverns. Where are you from?"
"A bit of everywhere," the man said, his voice frustratingly without accent. "You introduced yourself as Cinder, yes? Might you have a last name?"
"Swift," Cinder said. "My name is Cinder Swift." That much, at least, she was comfortable revealing. After the events in Neverwinter, it wasn't exactly a secret.
"And might you be related to a 'Brand Swift'?" the man asked. "He was a traveling companion of mine once, many years ago."
Was that a note of nostalgia in his voice? Affection, even? Cinder wasn't sure, but it was all she had to go on, and she decided to take the risk. "Yes," she said. "In fact, I'm his daughter."
At this, the man's granite face broke into a wide smile, and Cinder finally relaxed a bit. At last, the father she'd never met had been of some benefit. While she held no animosity toward Brand Swift, he was simply a name to her, having never known she existed. If she was being completely truthful, though, didn't some part of her wonder why he'd never at least passed back through town? Still, if his name unraveled this particular knot, he'd done her some good. And might this man even reveal a bit of information about Cinder's father? Her mother had died when Cinder was very young, and Brand's name was really all Cinder knew of him. Had he been tall? Short? What sort of person was he? Cinder recalled her mother describing him as a 'charming adventurer', but that wasn't really much to know about your own parent. And here was someone who could tell her more.
"Good," the man said with a warm smile, and then as if sensing Cinder's need, continued to speak. "Very good. Very good indeed. Let me tell you something about your father that you may not know..."
Her guard dropped, intent on the man's next words, Cinder almost didn't catch the subtle nod to the lackey standing behind her. As it was, she realized too late what was about to happen. She had only the briefest moment to berate herself at having been played. Then the club struck her head and everything went dark.
-----------
Cinder awoke at once, her mind completely clear and without any pain or disorientation that might indicate a concussion. That was enough to tell her that, after being knocked unconscious, she'd been magically subdued. It wasn't her first experience waking up from a Sleep spell. But it meant she had no idea how long she'd been out, or how far she might have been transported.
She looked at her surroundings in the dim light. It had been just after nightfall when she'd met with the man. The light filtering through the small barred window, and the cool dampness of the air, suggested that it was morning, just after sunrise. She was in a small cell, divided by iron bars from the rest of the room. A solid oak door was the room's only exit. A glance out the window was unhelpful. The only thing visible were trees. So she was still in the forest, at least. But she had no idea where.
Unwilling to let any guards know she was awake, Cinder carefully placed her hands on the bars blocking the windows and pulled, trying to not make any unnecessary noise. Despite her considerable strength, a gift she'd had her entire life, the bars did not budge. She placed a foot on the wall and pulled even harder. Still nothing. She crossed the cell in a step and a half - it was only large enough for her to lay down in one direction - and repeated the experiment on the bars dividing the room, with equally fruitless results.
If she'd still had her sword - the incredible weapon given to her by a man named Kildall - maybe she'd have had more options. But the sword was nowhere to be seen. Whatever happened, she intended to have it back. If not, her abductor would find their next conversation considerably less pleasant. A long metal bar leaned against the wall near the oak door. Cinder was uncertain if it was a remnant of previous repair on the cell, or used for prodding prisoners. If she'd had it, she might have a chance. But it was far beyond reach, and there seemed to be nothing now to do but wait.
A few hours passed, and an unimpressive man with an apparent aversion to bathing entered and set a small dish of food and a cup of water near enough to the bars for her to reach, but far enough that she couldn't reach him. Her attempts to engage him in conversation were met with silence and he quickly left. Inspecting the rations, Cinder saw that they were insufficient to sustain her in the long term, or even fully ease her hunger and thirst. But they were enough to keep her from dying quickly. So, this wasn't going to be over any time soon, and it was likely to get much more uncomfortable before the end. But she wouldn't break easily.
The next two days passed with no change. Once each day, the odorous man delivered the miniscule amount of barely-edible food and the increasingly-tantalizing cup of water. Cinder's hunger and thirst grew, and she wondered what the purpose even was. Her captor had apparently had no particular interest in her until learning of her parentage. If she was being broken for questioning, what would it even be about? She knew nothing of Brand Swift, a fact easily confirmed by casual conversation with anyone from her hometown. Was that it, then? Had the her captor sent emmissaries to verify Cinder's claim? If so, what would happen when they returned with the news that Cinder didn't even know her father? Would she be released? Killed? Cinder tried not to speculate, but that became more and more difficult as time passed.
Each time the man entered, Cinder tried to catch a glimpse of the room beyond, but he opened the door only as far as was necessary and moved through quickly, his body blocking most of the view. Cinder's impression was that it was a room of medium to large size, but she could tell no more.
On the fourth day, her pungent jailer was replaced with an elderly man. His wiry build spoke of decades of physical activity, and his skin was so leathery that it could have been from an old work boot. Initially, his staggering walk suggested to Cinder that he had either sustained an old injury, or was suffering from the debilitating effects of age. But as he drew closer she realized differently. He reeked of rum. He held both plate and cup somewhat awkwardly in his right hand. His left arm, Cinder saw, hung limply at his side. That, she thought, seemed to be an injury of years past.
The old man set the plate and cup down slowly, his physical condition obligating him to do so carefully, lest he drop or spill them. And what if he did? Cinder wondered. If the tipsy old man squandered her precious rations with his clumsiness, would they be replaced? Or would she do without even her small portion for that day? Cinder suspected the latter.
The old man reached the oak door, then turned and looked at Cinder carefully. He looked her up and down, and carefully examined her face. Cinder was no stranger to lewdness, and had been surprised there hadn't been more of it thus far. But that didn't seem to be the man's intent. He seemed honestly curious, interested, but in more of an appraising sort of way than a vulgar one. For just a moment, a hint of a smile played on his face. Then he turned and was gone.
The next day, the old man reappeared, still staggering. In his inebriated state, he neglected to close the oak door behind him, giving Cinder a full view of the room beyond. It was indeed a room of medium size, furnished with a desk and several chairs. Two additional doors opened onto it. One stood far enough ajar for Cinder to see that it was a bunkroom. The other appeared to be an exterior door. Five pairs of muddy boots sat by the exterior door, suggesting that their owners were present. Then Cinder was distracted from the room by the old man stumbling as he set down her daily rations, almost falling into the bars as he tried to catch himself. He recovered and exited the room, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible.
On the sixth day, Cinder's hunger and thirst were soaring, and she began to doubt how long she could endure. It seemed an eternity before the old man entered, again carrying her plate and cup. But this time, he carried them directly to her, or as directly as his state of intoxication would allow, and stood near the bars, extending the plate and cup. Cinder took them and quickly consumed the contents.
"You ain't even gonna try, are you?" the old man said, a trace of a slur in his voice. "That makes me wonder. I think you are, but mayhap you ain't."
"What's that?" Cinder said, startled. It was the first time she'd been spoken to in almost a week.
"I can maybe see it, but she mighta been friendly with more'n just me. I ain't bein' all high and mighty, o'course. I was havin' my fun up and down the coast, no reason she shouldn'ta done the same." He still smelled strongly of rum, but his eyes were penetrating.
Cinder forced herself to focus in spite of her deprivations. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Could this be? But how?
"But then you're still in there, and that leaves me wonderin'," the old man said, almost to himself. "I'da been out of that little box and back to the tavern before they was done servin' breakfast."
"Are you..." Cinder began tentatively.
"I'm Brand Swift, of course," the man said, his voice now clear. "Surprised it took you that long."
"And you know who I am?" Cinder asked.
"Of course I do, Miss Cinder," Brand said. "And I know you go by 'Swift', but whether you're really mine or not, I'm still not sure. But ain't nobody who knew her gonna wonder who your momma is. I can see her all over you. Special woman, damn shame she died so young. Lots of times I thought maybe I shoulda stayed with her. Or maybe better, talked her into comin' with me. Weren't an easy life I led, and few coulda handled it. But I think she coulda."
Cinder's mind was swimming. This was the last thing she had expected, and she was in no condition to process it right now. She asked the only thing she could articulate. "How are you here? Aren't they after you?"
"What, you mean Martak?" Brand asked.
"Martak?" Cinder asked, confused.
"The fella what had you locked up in here," Brand said, "but I guess that's not the name you'd know him by. He's Martak, though, and he's a two-bit crook and con artist from way back." Brand paused, then added, "Just like me. And as for how I'm here, I hired on as a jailer. You really think Martak pays any attention to who they're tossing coppers at to bring you this filthy swill? Not even watery booze, is it, just old pond water!"
Cinder's mind was finally catching up with the events of the last few minutes, and she had more questions than she could count. But only one was urgent. "Are you going to let me out of here?"
"Nope," Brand said.
"No?" Cinder asked incredulously.
"Nope," Brand said again. "Either you're not mine, in which case this ain't my problem. Or you are, in which case you don't need me. Get yourself out." He took a step back, drew a flask from his belt, and took a long drink. Then he turned and stumbled toward the door. His feet caught on each other and he almost fell against the wall, catching himself with his one good arm and knocking down the metal bar leaning against the wall with a loud clatter.
"Wait!" Cinder called, but it was too late. Brand Swift was gone, the door closed behind him.
As Cinder stood in disbelief, she heard a loud thump from the other room, as of a body falling. Had Brand passed out in the floor? Was this really the father she'd wondered about all these years? As a child, she'd played with different fantasies, imagining him perhaps as a champion of justice, too distracted by his noble deeds to be aware of his daughter. Or maybe as deceased, fallen while combatting great evil, his last sacrifice the key to victory for his allies. Never had she envisioned a geriatric alcoholic. And even that, she could have accepted, but to leave her imprisoned? Had he found her just to taunt her? What kind of man was this?
Angry, Cinder slammed herself futilely into the bars of her cell, the only result a loud rattle and a sore shoulder. Then she saw the metal bar that Brand had clumsily knocked over during his exit. It was still far away, but could she reach it?
Cinder crouched and stretched one arm though the bars of her cell, but the metal bar was just beyond her fingertips. She lay on the floor, extending her arm to its fullest, but managed only to brush it. No! This would not be! She turned, planted both her feet on the far wall of the cell, and pushed with all her might. Feeling a tiny bit of movement in the cell bars, she grasped the holy symbol around her neck with her free hand, prayed for strength, and redoubled her efforts. The cell bars dug into her neck and shoulder, but she ignored the pain, ignored whatever damage she might be doing to her own body. Feeling more movement, she screamed, pushed even harder, and was rewarded as the tips of her fingers touched the metal bar. She closed them on it, squeezing and dragging. The bar slid a precious handsbreadth towards her. Victoriously, she reached again, closed her hand on it, and claimed it as if it were a scepter granting the throne of a kingdom.
Panting and bleeding, Cinder stood and placed the metal bar against the cell's door, prying against the lock. She released another guttural scream, and the lock yielded, the cell door flying open with a clang. She readied the metal bar in her hands like a staff and raced across the room. The noise was certain to have alerted the guards in the far room, but there had better be more than five of them if they planned to contend with her. Dirty hair flying, skin filthy from her days of imprisonment, her hunger and thirst forgotten, ready to do battle, Cinder yanked open the oak door, looking every bit the barbarian warrior that she now felt.
Brand Swift sat at the desk, chair leaned back almost to the tipping point, feet resting on the desk's edge, whistling an old drinking song. Five bodies lay on the floor around him. Kildall's sword - Cinder's sword - lay on the desk, its blade covered in blood.
"Took you long enough," he said, and drained the remainder of his flask. "Started to wonder if you were comin'."
Cinder looked at him in disbelief, unable to speak. After several seconds, she realized she was still holding the metal bar at the ready and lowered it.
"Now, I ain't much of a daddy, the last twenty years musta taught you that," Brand said. "But I do know a thing or two about getting outta jail cells, so let me learn you something that might help next time. That bar I tossed to you-"
"Tossed to me? You did that on purpose?" Cinder demanded, at once both outraged and impressed.
"Yes, tossed to you," Brand said. "Shouldn'ta had to, though. The mortar on the second window bar from the left is weak, anybody can see that. No way you're gonna yank the bar out, I'm sure you tried. But all you need is a pebble off the floor to scratch at it, and in about three days you'da had it loose. And if there hadn't been any pebbles, you could'a used a tooth."
"Tooth?" Cinder said dubiously.
"Yeah, tooth, that's what I said." Brand smiled, and Cinder noticed several gaps. "Now that weren't the only way, though. Nobody never cleans a cell like that any way 'cept tossing a bucket of water at it, and the bottom door hinges are usually rustin' out. That one weren't so bad that you could bang your way through it by muscle, but the second flagstone from the left in the back corner of the cell is loose, saw that as soon as I walked in. You coulda pulled it up, knocked through the hinge in three good hits, and been ready to beat in some heads with the stone by the time guards made it in. Don't tell me you didn't notice the stone!"
"I-" Cinder began, but Brand cut her off with a wave of his right hand.
"Easiest way, though, is those sorta locks tend to have a catch in them. I know they was ignorin' you, but you piss off the jailer enough and he's gonna bring in his buddies to rough you up. Sure you'll take a few lumps, but as they start to leave, you just roll against the door and make 'em push it closed hard against you. Wait 'till they're gone, don't release the pressure, slide up the door, and you can reach around and pop the latch without the locks innards ever engagin' all the way closed. Smooth as silk, and they won't know you're out until you're on top of 'em."
Cinder looked at Brand, still unsure how to feel. "Thank you," she finally said. "I won't forget."
"One more thing," Brand said, his voice now more serious. "Twice I put myself in reach of you on purpose, where you coulda grabbed me, choked me out, and searched me for keys. You get a chance like that, you take it, you hear me?"
Cinder nodded. She also noticed that Brand, shifting his body slightly to emphasize his point, was now effortlessly balancing on the back two legs of the chair, his own feet floating a few inches above the desk. "What would you have done, though, if I had tried to kill you?"
"I'da moved!" Brand said confidently, allowing his feet to rest on the desk again. "I'm faster'n I look. If I coulda been killed that easy, I'da never made it to twelve summers, much less ... well, however many I'm up to now."
Cinder gestured at the five dead guards. "You ... you did all this?"
Brand shook his head dismissively, but couldn't suppress a look of satisfaction. "Weren't nothin'," he said. He gestured toward the magnificent sword lying on the desk. "That thing did the real work. Never held one better. Why don't you wipe it down, grab some real food from the bunkroom, then let's get outta here. I wanna go have a serious talk with Martak. If he thinks he can do this to my girl, he's forgotten who I really am."
Cinder took the sword, cleaned it on the shirt of one of the dead guards, sheathed it at her belt, and turned to find Brand already standing by the exit. She'd never heard him move. She quickly collected supplies from the adjoining bunkroom, took a long, greedy drink from one of the waterpouches, then returned to Brand. He opened the door and they walked outside.
As they stepped into the forest, Cinder already chewing on a hunk of dried meat, a thought occurred to her. "If I hadn't proven to you that I was yours by escaping from the cell, would you have really left me there?"
Brand grinned, and for a moment Cinder glimpsed the dashing rogue who had romanced her mother. "Guards was all already dead before you got out, weren't they? No, I wouldn'ta left your momma's daughter in that cell, no matter who her daddy was. But you're mine, no doubt about that. There's one thing you got wrong there, though."
"What's that?" Cinder said.
"You didn't have to prove nothin' to me. For one, I was already pretty sure who you were. And for two, it weren't about that. You needed to know that you could get your ownself outta there. You needed to prove it to you, not to me. 'Cause with bein' the Hero of Neverwinter and all-"
"You know about that?" Cinder interrupted.
"Sure I do," Brand said. "I stay drunk most of the time, not all of the time."
Brand stopped and looked directly at Cinder, his bloodshot eyes now focused and intense. "Here's the thing: when you do your heroin' all out in front of everybody like that, you paint yourself to be a target. More'll be comin' for you after Martak, ain't nothin' for that. You gotta know that you're stronger than you think, you gotta be ready to dig deeper than you thought you could dig. Ain't no fight over 'till its over. When somebody's tryin' to kill you, there ain't no rules, and you don't hold nothin' back, you hear me? You do anything, anything at all you gotta do to stay alive. You think I started life with one bum arm?"
Cinder held her father's gaze for a long moment, then nodded sincerely.
"Dunno why you gotta do that stuff all public-like anyway," he muttered, almost to himself, as he began walking down the path again. "I mighta done a few good things here and there, but I never did 'em in fronta nobody if I could help it. Just askin' for trouble."
Cinder started to follow, but then Brand stopped again. "Y'know. I should prob'ly tell you about your brother..."
And one more. There's always more to Brand than meets the eye...
"Do you have it?" the wizard demanded. The hood of his ornate robe was pulled over his head, but the beckoning hand extending from the sleeve was unmistakably Dark Elven. Drow. Again, the hand gestured, urging, impatient.
"Mayhap I do," said the object of the wizard's attention. He was an elderly man, clothed in filthy leather armor that seemed almost as old as he. A closer inspection would have revealed its quality, its fine suppleness, and perhaps even hinted at the many enchantments that it bore. But the wizard, if he was inclined to notice such things, was currently in no mood for examination.
"Then give it to me," said the wizard.
"You're forgettin' one part," the old man said. He took two unsteady steps forward. An observer might have wondered if he was in need of a cane. But his eyes were focused and narrow. "You ain't paid me yet."
"Perhaps I have reconsidered your price," the wizard said. "Your weight in gold should be more than sufficient to purchase elsewhere that which you seek."
"I made a deal with you," the old man said, "and I'm gonna get paid by you. Or you don't get it."
"And what would the Harpers say if they knew you were dealing with me?"
"The Harpers would love to know where you're hidin' out at. You don't want them involved no more than I do, so don't make dumb threats. You're smarter'n that, an' you know I am too."
"And if I were to simply take it from you?" said the wizard, dropping his hood. The face beneath was sharp, the eyes cold. His youth now behind him, faint lines were beginning to show. His age was difficult to guess, but Drow lives were measured in centuries.
"You could try," the old man replied, his face hard. His left arm dangled loosely, perhaps from an old injury, but his right hand hovered over the sword at his belt, fingers twitching.
"Do you think I fear the sword of a one-armed man? You realize, do you not, that none other speaks to me as you do? That my command of the arcane arts is beyond the comprehension of all but a few? That men far greater than you tremble in my presence? That I have warded my sanctum against any attack? That common scrap of iron you carry could do no more than scratch me."
"I realize that if you think you coulda took it from me so easy, you'da already done it." The two locked eyes for a long moment, then the old man broke into a grin. "We both know you ain't gonna try it, so let's get this done."
The wizard held the man's gaze for moment longer, calculating the odds, then sighed. "Very well. You know that every time I do this, I age ten years for every year I subtract from you?"
"I know you got plenty o' years to give," the old man replied. "Now, like before. Don't change the outside, just the inside."
The wizard nodded and proceeded with a long and complicated arcane ritual. When the process was finally complete, the wizard leaned against his staff, exhausted and breathing heavily. After some time passed and he was again able to summon sufficient concentration, he chanted an incantation and his strength returned, but the lines on his face seemed deeper. The old man pulled a pouch from inside his armor and tossed it to the wizard.
"Done's done," he said, stumbling a bit as he turned to leave.
"One question," the wizard said. "How old are you, really?"
"I'll be keepin' that to myself," the old man said bluntly.
"But why do you retain the illusion of age? I know enough of your past to be aware that you were once quite fond of the ladies, and they of you. If you appeared closer to your effective age, you might increase your success in that area."
"What I do ain't none of your-"
But the wizard interrupted. "Unless ... could it be that someone has made an honest man of you? Has some fool woman made you her husband? Or perhaps an unfortunate child to whom you have some misguided desire to appear as a father figure?" The old man could not completely conceal a reaction.
"Oh, this is a happy surprise," said the wizard. "It turns out there IS something you care about. I will find out who they are soon enough. Now, after all this time, I finally have leverage on Brand Swif-"
Brand's right hand dropped to the sword at his side, drawing and swinging it almost more quickly than the eye could follow. But the wizard responded equally quickly. He muttered a magical chant that increased his reaction speed beyond even Brand's and moved his now-glowing staff to block the incoming blow. With an almost unnatural smoothness, Brand's left hand slid a hidden dagger from beneath his armor. The hilt was jeweled, the blade covered in ancient runes from a forgotten tongue. It somehow both absorbed all light from the room, and simultaneously shone with a penetrating, overpowering blackness. With the elegant grace of a dancer, Brand pivoted and struck, his speed that of striking serpent. The mystic dagger sliced the wizard's neck to the bone. Focused on the sword in Brand's right hand, the wizard had never even seen the left move. The Drow collapsed, his eyes glazing over before he hit the floor.
"Didn't have no ward against that, did ya?" Brand said contemptfully. "Been savin' that little trick up for thirty years." He looked about the room, now empty except for himself and the Drow's corpse. "And since there weren't nobody saw it, I guess I can use it again sometime. If you'da just stuck to the deal and left me and mine alone, you'd still be breathin'. Young people."
Brand started to leave, then turned back to the wizard's body and retrieved the pouch. "Might as well keep this for me then."
He started again to turn away, then snatched the staff lying on the floor. "And this oughta buy a few rounds for the house at whatever passes for a tavern 'round here."
Brand jogged across the room to the door, then walked out slowly, staggering slightly, his left arm hanging limply at his side.