Chapter 1: Meetings

Author's Note: This story is set in the 'Forgotten Realms' game setting, or at least one that is fairly similar to it. I tweaked the setting fairly severely but kept most of the names and characters the same. They are used without permission. Secondly, this work is an experiment in style (that of a quasi-Victorian 1st person memoir) and was never really meant for publication. I shamelessly stole from all over the place and if you see something that seems familiar, it probably is. Also, this features two characters from another work of mine 'Silence is Golden' and is set in the same continuum but is not a sequel to that work. Finally, just to warn you in advance, this work is incomplete and will remain that way. I give my reasons at the tale end of this, if anyone is interested in them. Thanks for reading my work and enjoy.

I have always dreamed of being known in song and story, yet it has not been until this last year that anything I have done could be considered even the slightest bit heroic. I cannot help but laugh at the idea: me, heroic. I am ... well I do not know what I am but I know that I am not what I have always desired to be: a swashbuckler and rogue.

I heard the same tales we all did as children: Aladdin the thief, Sinbad the Pirate, Robin Hood the dashing outlaw and like all children I dreamed of taking part in those adventures. Unlike most young ones, however, my dreams never died. I never put them aside as age and responsibility were forced upon me. Instead, I threw those things aside and ran off to find the life of adventure I craved. I was twelve years old, and a fool.

You would think that you would know the next chapter of this story: a too pretty young girl alone in the big, terrifying city, but you would be wrong. While never physically imposing, I have always been possessed of great nimbleness, daring and guile, and alone in Arabel I made good use of those talents avoiding the usual traps and woes that would befall young girls like myself.

Yet, though I became a thief and daring scamp I remained a fool. Yes, I fabricated a dashing name: Belladonna the Red. Some of the local guards and other thieves knew of me, but I was stealing silvers from pockets and food from market stalls. It was hardly the stuff of stories and legend.

It was then that I met Quinlan Truesilver the knight and Anarion his squire; the two men who would change my life forever. Yes, it was that Quinlan, better known as Quinlan the Fearless or the Mercy Knight. Stories and tales of knightly honour and heroics had never been to my taste, but I still knew of the man and his legend, even if I did not believe it to be true. I have since discovered that if anything, his legend falls short of the mark.

Contrary to what you might hear, not every city in Faerûn is secretly ruled by a shadowy guild of thieves and assassins. There are some places where that myth holds true (I can, and will tell you of them if time permits) but in Arabel it did not. Too many kings and thrones in Cormyr's long history have fallen prey to the machinations of secret organizations for the crown to permit them to exist. Instead thieves in her cities can only gather in small, insignificant gangs with no real power. They are insects small enough to scuttle away from the mighty hammer of the Purple Dragon, and for me it was just as well. I do not do well in groups and hate being told what to do; I always have, even as a child.

Since I was a thief and could not tolerate being subordinate, my only alternative was to lead a group of my own. Even as far as thieves went we were harmless. We stole enough coppers and food to live on, but were considered dangerous by no one. I have always had a soft heart for strays and enjoyed having an audience for my daring, and so it was that I led an army of the pathetic and unwanted.

We were not totally helpless and if backed into a corner we could and did fight, but it was not for combat and the defence of our turf that we lived. For us, it was fun and revelry. Who could climb to the top of the flagpole the fastest, or lead the watch on the merriest chase? We lived for taunting and tormenting our rivals, pelting them with fruit, sand or dung before disappearing into the cracks like the insects we were.

I was the fastest, most nimble and daring of us, and my gum-toothed army followed me, but there was little love between us. I ensured that the others never starved or froze and they followed me because I was the most entertaining, but I could not consider them my friends. We rats in a cellar during winter, huddling to share warmth.

At the time this narrative begins, while it may have been cold within my heart, it was far from so in the world around me. I was nineteen years old, answered to no master and it was an idyllic day, for Midsummer festival was upon us and my followers and I basked in the warm sun. I was content even if I was not happy and it was then that I first saw the handsome, blonde squire whose life would soon completely change mine.

Second in my gang was Alex. He was older, larger and stronger than I but slower and with less wit. He had bounced from gang to gang throughout the city until only mine would not turn him down. He did not like me and chafed under my leadership, but I was too canny and swift for him to depose and so he tolerated me. Perhaps he was more cunning than I believed him to be for it was he who pointed out the squire to me on that fateful day and intimated that I would not be able to steal his sword. My audience began chanting my name, and my pride forced me to accept the challenge. In truth I needed little encouragement.

I snaked down the wall that we were perching upon and, bolstered by the taunts and cheers of my fellows, crept towards my unsuspecting quarry. He was tall, broad shouldered and handsome, if you go for that sort of thing, but he was no match for me. One simple knife cut and his belt in my hands. I was five paces away before he even knew he had been robbed and as I ran and he pursued he came no closer.

As I said before, I am nimble, swift and daring and I knew this neighbourhood as intimately as anything on this world. The squire had no chance of catching me, and so for me it became sport. Six times could I have lost him, but at each opportunity I would stop and catch his attention or let him close before vanishing once more into the crowd or down an alley.

I will give the squire his due; he was not without courage or wit. He followed me with a dogged persistence far beyond what anyone else would have given. I was confident and quite enjoying the chase, and perhaps that is why I was captured.

No, I do Quinlan a disservice. As I said before, his legend does not adequately describe him, so I can say with confidence that there is nothing I could have done to elude him once his will was set upon me. He was not the feeble pursuer whom I had eluded for the seventh and final time, of course, but rather that man's master and as I travelled unsuspecting hands huge and strong clamped down upon my shoulders like the claws of a dragon and I found myself immobilized.

My captor was an imposing man, as large and broad as I was slender but though he towered over me I did not feel over threatened. He was not classically handsome, but striking nonetheless with long brown hair lined with grey and a full, flowing beard. He looked as you would expect a kindly uncle to, if that uncle wore a broadsword thicker than your wrist and imprisoned you with huge, spade-like hands.

I possess no few tricks in the art of evasion, but against that man they were useless. My attempts to strike him (as well as a mouse could hope to strike a dragon) resulted only in my being disarmed and held even tighter. I tried to wriggle free but his hands were adamantine and I knew I was going nowhere. I possess other talents—as I said I am rich with guile—but even as I looked to his face I knew that words would not avail me. I tried nonetheless—a watchman's axe awaited my hand if I could not wrest myself free—and I had my reputation among my fellows to think of as well, but my words were overridden easily.

"You're situation is dire enough, girl. Do not make it worse with lies."

Oh, his voice! No other person have I met that could achieve so much just by speaking. It was deep, soothing, and sonorous, and so much more was communicated than those few words. He radiated strength, warmth, humour and finally, disapproval when he spoke and that last part especially affected me the most deeply. I felt more shame for my actions under his stern gaze than I had in all of my life.

Against his voice, more than his grip, I was powerless. I had but one weapon left in my arsenal, but I knew instinctively that a man such as he would not succumb to my questionable charms. I could only stand there, silent, shaking in fear and shame as I heard the squire I had stolen from come running up behind me.

"Master, I—" he began breathlessly, but my captor overrode him.

"Anarion, I believe this is yours." Eyes still locked with mine, he passed the sword and scabbard to the man behind me. "What do you have to say for yourself, girl?"

Somehow I found my voice. "Belladonna," I muttered.

He merely raised an eyebrow.

I straightened my shoulders as much as I could and did my best to look imposing. "I am known as Belladonna, the Red."