“Gods but the Southerners are buffoons,” Camden thought as he watched Sultan Asaf yn Oron yn Yael yi Habhala, Brir, and Discord leaving their meeting with Castellan Escobert the Red. Camden’s scowl was quickly replaced by an ingratiating smile and a lowering of his head. The Harper scout did appreciate his assignment to pose as a servant in the estate of Governor Nighthill, the organization as a whole was concerned about the whereabouts of Leosin Erlanthar and he could have had to have been out ranging. Even a servant’s pallet was better than a bedroll. Agents of the Harpers had been placed in the houses of anyone of any level of significance in the area, just in case some hapless guardsmen stumbled upon Leosin and reported it up to his backwater lord not knowing what they had fouond.
With Leosin returned, Camden awaited his release from this assignment with a mix of sadness and relief. The Harper scout had met with the monk upon his return. Leosin had filled him on his so called “rescue” attempt by the Southerners, as well as their anemic efforts to scout the Cult of the Dragon’s camp.
The recounting made Camden sneer, as the gross display of incompetency reminded him of the self-proclaimed sultan, all puff and bluster, crumpling like sackcloth under the might of the cultist, Langdedrosa Cyanwrat‘s blows. Duel indeed. It was a wonder the Southerners’ efforts had managed to save any lives at all during the looting and sacking of Greenest.
“What was that?” The half-fiend said suddenly, bitingly, halting in front of the Harper in disguise.
For a moment Camden’s blood ran cold. Could this hells-spawned pactomancer read his thoughts?
Daring to look up, Camden saw that half-fiend, Discord by name, was looking sharply off into a corner of the hall that contained nothing save deep flitting shadows from the torch light. Her eyes narrowing in suspicion before Discord gave a quick dip of her chin and catching up with her companions who had not broken stride. The rest of her clownish troupe either didn’t notice, or didn’t respond to, the sudden outburst directed at nothing.
Sometime later that evening, Camden had learned that the Governor was sending some troops, along with the Southerners, to strike at the Cult’s camp where Leosin had feigned captivity. Camden felt genuine concern for some the Greenest guards he had come to know since taking on this assignment. They would need Tymora’s own luck to return home safely. Camden could only hope that Leosin or Governor Nighthill had the sense to not let the Southerners lead.
When the Camden returned to his quarters he saw that the loose floorboard in which he stowed his gear benath had been recently displaced. Making sure none of the other servants were able to see, Camden popped the plank up and looked within. He breathed in relief as he saw all of his gear was accounted for. A rolled up piece of parchment now rested atop it, gleaming white in contrast to the dirty under-floor.
Camden unrolled the missive and read the cleanly scrawled words within:
“Leosin is found. Extract yourself tonight. We have witnesses to attest to you having run off with a local girl. Meet at the last place you saw the crow hop.”
“Farewell Greenest,” Camden thought as he hastily packed his ruck sack. “I hope you can survive your so-called saviors.”