This was deleted in the thread purge, and I've resumed work on it, so reposting.
Trollbane
The Tale of Lord Gaheris Trollbane of the Church of Tyr
Despite what some may think, justice is in a way universal. It chooses its agents; they very rarely choose it. Oh, in the end they make the choice to allow themselves to be vessels of justice, its bringers and executors. But before they ever get to make that choice, justice makes the way, finds the path, and fates them to be where it can make use of them. One can strive for a lifetime to bring justice to a particular villain and simply never receive the chance, while another might bring about a just end completely by accident. And it isn’t particular about whom it chooses, either. Justice might be brought by sorcerer’s spell or rogue’s dagger as easily as by the righteous blow of the mightiest of warrior-paladins. And many of those paladins are from the most unlikely backgrounds. They, or we as I should say, are called. No one chooses to be a paladin; we are one and all chosen by the Triad, or the Morninglord, or even Sune on occasion. I myself was a foundling; were it not for the Tyrrans in Selgaunt, I know not what I would have become, and even they did not make me a paladin. The souls of all who take up that calling are forged pure, with an inborn desire and hunger to serve and bring justice. Even while lost, or even while denying their calling, they are notably different in deed from others.
This is the tale of one such unlikely champion of justice, Gaheris of Westgate, called Trollbane, my sometime ward. May this account ever serve as an inspiration to all those who would bring justice to the face of Toril.
Randal Whytstone, Captain of the Chapel of Resounding Justice
Chapter One
The Night of Knives
Myrkeer’s Dry Goods, Westgate, 9th of Ches, 1362 DR
The latch on the delivery hatch finally clicked as Gaheris’ pick found the last pin and turned. The young street urchin allowed himself a brief smile before slowly pushing the heavy wooden doorway inward. The top-mounted hinges groaned just a little bit, causing him to freeze. Propping a dagger into the hatch to keep it from slamming back down, he pulled a small bottle of grease from his belt, which he quickly applied to the hinges, snaking his arm through the propped up hatch to reach them. The hinges silenced, he slid through the hatch, elevated three feet above the alley level, consciously keeping his breathing shallow as he slid into the dark storeroom.
He landed lightly on a crate below the hatch and quickly swung his feet around to the left, lowering the door slowly as he descended into a crouch in the shadow of that day’s deliveries. He scanned the back room. No one around, just boxed foodstuffs, clothing, tools, and the like. Shalush Myrkeer was known to sell anything and everything legal, and some things that weren’t, after all. Gaheris wasn’t interested in the trade goods, though; they were too easily traced, and now that the Night Masks had won out in the decade-long shadow war to dominate Westgate’s underworld, they were squeezing the fences to only work for them.
Accordingly, Gaheris stole into the front of the store and made for the lockbox built into the wall behind the counter. Crouching down before the safe, he withdrew his picks from his belt pouch once again and examined the steel door’s workings.
An extra catch at the bottom caught his eye. It wasn’t part of the lock, and indeed seemed designed to simply move outward when the door opened. Trap trigger, then. Probably an alarm to the owner, sleeping in his room above the shop.
‘Can’t have that,’ thought Gaheris to himself as he set down his picks and removed a fine-toothed saw from his case of tools. The safe opened outward, so placing pressure on the trigger inward shouldn’t…
He froze at the sound of the lock on the front door clicking open. The young rogue slid his hand down toward the long dagger at his belt as the shop’s front door slowly swung open. Muffled footsteps entered the shop. Two men, it sounded like, doing their best to remain unheard.
Gaheris slid the short sword out of its well-oiled sheath and turned to face the entrance, still crouched behind the counter. They didn’t seen to see or hear him, and oddly enough weren’t even making for the safe.
Instead, they padded past the counter towards the stairs leading to the upstairs apartment. Then one spoke in a low voice.
“So how are we going to do this, then?”
“How do you think,” whispered his comrade with a slight chuckle. “We have our orders from the Faceless. Just follow my lead.”
A feeling of dread rising in his chest, Gaheris began to move out behind the two. “Wait,” the second man said. The street urchin froze. “Trap on the stairs. Don’t take another step,” he continued.
Gaheris relaxed a little as the man knelt and gingerly tugged upward on the second stair, which oddly enough came upwards a few inches. Reaching in, the Night Mask (for that is what he was, if he was taking orders from the Faceless) reached in and fiddled with the workings of the pressure plate. After a moment, he lowered the stair back into place. “Safe.”
The two men continued upward. After a moment’s hesitation, Gaheris followed, despite his every instinct screaming at him to turn around and get back out the delivery hatch before anyone ever knew he was there.
They didn’t pause at the top of the stairs. The Night Masks proceeded directly to the second door on the left as Gaheris watched, down on all fours peeking over the last stair.
They weren’t concerned about stealth anymore. After rapidly checking the door the second man motioned, and the first one simply kicked it in with a loud bang and they rushed in, drawing weapons as they went.
A scream issued from inside. “Oh, so do you wish you’d made your protection payments now,” came the mocking voice of the second Night Mask, accompanied by a menacing chuckle from the first.
Myrkeer seemed to recover a bit after the initial shock, or so it sounded like. “And what right have you to demand them, thief,” he spat at the intruders. Gaheris heard a rush of feet followed by a great clatter of steel as a short sword came flying out the door.
“Now now Myrkeer, we’ll be having none of that,” chuckled the second man. “Lashan here is well versed in parting blades from their owners, so I wouldn’t try that again.”
Gaheris could wait no longer. He got to his feet and padded forward, pausing to pick up the discarded short sword in his left hand, which had clattered down the hallway after being thrown out the door, and slid a dagger out of his wrist sheath into his right.
Surprise would be essential. Stepping around the doorframe, he cocked back his right arm and hurled the dagger, planting it into Lashan’s back as he stood over the shopkeeper’s cowering form. As the Night Mask fell, Gaheris tossed the sword from his left hand to his right and lunged at the second man as he turned in surprise.
Gaheris didn’t hesitate. Hesitation was a sucker’s game; fighting fair an invitation to death. Unfortunately, the Night Mask knew that too. He leapt and rolled to the right as Gaheris brought the sword up in a low sweeping motion, grazing the Night Mask’s armor but failing to bite.
The other man swept out his rapier, but from the clumsy and panicked swipe he made, the man was clearly not accustomed to fighting hand to hand. He had planted the dagger in the right back, then. Good.
Their blades crossed as Gaheris took a low swing at his opponent, going for the knees. Foiled, Gaheris slid his blade up the Night Mask’s rapier, catching at the hilt and forcing him into a high guard. Unused to crossing blades or not, the man was older and larger than he was, with a reach advantage with his weapon to boot. This had to end quickly, or it would end badly. While their blades were still locked high, Gaheris went to one knee and rolled toward the Night Mask, pulling a dagger out of his boot as he moved. As his sword released the rapier, the guild thief smirked in triumph and moved the point of his weapon to bring it down... and then screamed as a foot of cold steel slid into his right kidney.
Gaheris stood as the other man went down. The gambit had worked. Now to shut him up before the noise attracted neighbors, or worse the Watch. Myrkeer’s short sword went into the back of the whimpering man’s neck, emerging through his trachea. He issued a short, gurgling gasp and then fell silent.
Gaheris turned to the terrified Shalush Myrkeer, who was cowering on his bed, hands over his mouth at the spectacle. “You’ll want to call the Watch, sir,” he said in as kind a tone as he could muster. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. Farewell.” With that, he bolted out of the room and down the stairs, making for the delivery hatch.