A Dark Dungeon and Muddled Thoughts (by Camp 17)

Drip, drip, drip… the infernal sound was driving Quarian mad. “What in creation was a wild elf doing in this dismal dwarven lair”, thought Quarian. He longed for the hills and forests of home. A price on his parties head. A surgeon grafting dragon parts to humans. Spiders. Traps. His mood was growing dark, yet a small flicker of light was trying to break free… she did comment about a warrior and his ability to handle a long sword.

Pahh nonsense, he had more urgent matters to attend to. He hoped the Ward spell would hold. Quarian knew a smattering of magic and his mentor Tilo was unconscious. The poor little guy didn’t stand a chance against that hulking stone beast. Yes they had gotten themselves into a fine soup. His fool of a brother Grugash thinking he could take on the beast and nearly getting himself killed in the process. Quarian had done as much as he could to alleviate the rash elf’s suffering. His shoulders still ached from having to run while carrying Aschere to safety. He could not leave a fellow elf behind at a time of need.

Ardyth was fast asleep… damn humans and their need for sleep!!! Wren was busy tending to his wounds. Speaking of Wren… she has not been herself as of late; all this talk of Tiamat and dealings with these vile dragonfolk. And that story about Bronwyn and the pendant and witches and poems… it was starting to worry Quarian a tad too much… gooseflesh rose up on the otherwise unflappable elf’s neck. Not a soul to talk to… that’s OK thought Quarian. Since the night his world was torn asunder he had become accustomed to the loneliness. Accustomed yes… but as of late it was starting to grate on his nerves.

He was watching Wren as she was fussing over Ardyth. Suddenly he was all too painfully aware of how utterly alone he was in the world. This rag tag bunch of travelers (they called themselves the Heros of Guadd Hill… wherever that might be) were all that he had and he almost lost them in this Dwarvish hell hole… Damnation to the entire race of sawed off little rock chopping bastards.

There was that flicker of light in the back of his mind again…. "But I'm really only interested in warriors who really know how to wield their longswords". Was he imagining that perhaps she was hinting at her feelings… nah she was too hardened, jaded, distrustful of men. Still he had seen a brief flicker of softness when she said that to the party the other night. Seems that they may have the need for companionship in common. Gods know that she has had an equally difficult life as he has had. That conversation the other night totally changed Quarian’s perception of Issa. He had only thought of her as another strumpet with particularly seductive eyes. Another human trollop. Yet after her tale was told his heart went out to her and he was smitten. These feelings stunned him as surely as Aschere and Tilo were stunned by the dwarven stone giant’s hammer. He had believed that he had long ago buried all possibility of affection and contact with another’s soul. His mind was made up. If they got out of this dwarven cesspool alive he would go to her and tell her his feelings. But how?? He was a warrior not a lover. He had no concept of how to talk to a woman let alone romance her. Perhaps a gift, a token of his heart? Well there was the task at hand to worry about first… get out alive. Then he had to figure out how to hide all the oyster shells in the land.