Journal of a Mercenary

The wind was oddly chill for this time of year, as it blew south from the Sword Mountains, or perhaps my memories are growing foggy with the passage of years. My knee began to ache, and the place on my shoulder where I was once stabbed by an orc blade felt sore when I rolled out of my tent this morning. I figured it was only a day more before the caravan reached Waterdeep.

Something odd about last night, at first I thought I was dreaming, but I thought I saw the caravan master leave the campfire, and then go off into the shadows to speak with some dark figure. I scarcely heard a word of their conversation, but when I awoke this morning I found that one of my fellow mercenaries had disappeared in the early hours. While it is not unheard of, the coin we were promised is more than enough for wenching and ale when we arrive in town. Theran also did not seem the type to desert in the middle of a trek, and some of his gear was left behind.

I look forward to sitting by the fire, with warm flesh in one hand, and a frothy mug in the other.

- The Journal of Harek Stragerson, Fifteenth day of Eleint, 1372