Thomas Reid - The Gossamer Plain

Tauran met her stare evenly, without flinching. His eyes didn't even roam down her figure.

"It's nothing but a mask," he said. Then he turned away. "I'll wait outside while you get ready. It's time to go to the Court of Temperance. The tribunal is prepared to render judgment and sentencing."

The half-orc that had been a hellish canine only moments earlier approached the trio and came to a stop a few paces from them. He folded his arms across his chest and studied them, as through appraising them. "You came ill prepared," he stated, a brief smirk crossing his face. "Your magic may protect you now, but it will not help when creatures attack. You will still burn."

"We've found that out already," Vhok replied wryly. "We'll keep it in mind for next time," he added.

"You are Kurkle?" Zasian asked, stepping forward. "Our guide? I am Zasian, the one who contacted you and hired you. You received the first payment, I trust."

The half-orc barked a laugh. "I am," he said. "But I did not know three fools had hired me. You cannot travel this place as you are, unprotected. You must go back to your own plane."

Vhok narrowed his eyes. "We hired you to guide us to the City of Brass. You've been paid, so guide. We'll keep our own counsel, otherwise."

Kurkle let out a low growl, deep in his throat, and his fiery red eyes gleamed in anger. Then he shrugged. "So be it. If the fires consume you, Kurkle will get your treasure."

The foursome set out then, the half-orc guide in the lead. As before, Vhok strode behind Zasian, with Myshik in the rear. As they hiked, the cambion made a point of keeping a watch, hoping to prevent any nasty surprises from sneaking up on them. He found the constant crackle and hiss of the ever-present conflagrations disconcerting. The noises made it difficult to listen for sounds of pursuit, especially since he suspected that most things living there would also blaze and crackle as they moved.

From time to time, Kurkle would drop to all fours and transform into a hound, then go loping off into the hazy distance, running in wide arcs ahead of the other three. He would disappear for some time, while the three visitors continued along the path he had set for them.

At the first occurrence, Vhok grew concerned that their guide was abandoning them, but Zasian shook his head. "I think he's scouting," the priest commented. "His senses are keen. He is renowned for his skills, and his reputation is equally well known. He will not betray us."

Vhok grumbled his acceptance, but he did not like being so dependent on anyone or anything he could not control.

Eventually, Kurkle returned and transformed into his humanoid shape again before resuming the lead. He said nothing, but corrected their course according to landmarks only he seemed aware of. To Vhok, the landscape was an endless stretch of smoldering embers and blowing ash broken only by the incessant jets of fire.

On Kurkle's third such scouting foray, Myshik posed a question. "What is Kurkle?" Vhok assumed that he was speaking to Zasian, since the priest had been the one to arrange for the creature's services.

"Canomorph," the human replied. "The hell hound is his natural form, but some of his kind have learned how to shapeshift into humanoids. He's feral and instinctual, but he will get us there."

After a time, the land flattened, and Vhok turned to look back in the direction they had come. He could barely make out the ridge of flaming, scorched mountains from which they had descended. The peaks were low and smooth, and their flanks were ribboned with streams of molten fire, magma flowing down their sides like water.

The land did not remain flat for very long. Soon enough, Kurkle led them into what Vhok would have considered badlands on Toril: steep-sided hills, plateaus, and pinnacles separated by scree-filled gullies, trenches, and washes. The terrain popped, flamed, and glowed all around them. Noxious gases wafted everywhere, stinging Vhok's eyes and making sight difficult.

As the day's journey wore on, Vhok had to concentrate to keep from grumbling. They seemed to be moving at a slug's pace, and the half-fiend was not accustomed to traveling on foot for such long distances. He sorely missed the creature comforts of riding in his military palanquin, and he grew more and more irritable.

The cambion even suggested that they employ some form of magic to convey themselves, but Kurkle warned against it, claiming it was harder for predators to spot them if they remained low, using the winding defiles to improve their concealment. Even if they had wanted to ignore that precaution, Myshik and Kurkle were both at a disadvantage, for they had no magic to draw upon to aid their passage. Resigned to traveling like a common merchant, Vhok's mood grew more foul as the journey progressed.

To make matters worse, they attracted the attention of bandits. Vhok caught a glimpse of them when the foursome was forced to cross some stretches of open ground. Perhaps half a dozen riders shimmered in the distance, their outlines distorted by the wavering heat of the terrain. Though Kurkle steered his charges away from the threat, the bandits pursued them. They seemed persistent, and Vhok wondered why.

The sojourn became even less pleasant when thick black clouds of smoke roiled over the group. As before, the caustic murk stung eyes and lungs and made for treacherously poor visibility. Kurkle took advantage of the cloaking vapors to change their direction, cutting back and to the right and following a narrow canyon for a long distance. The cambion questioned the wisdom of losing ground, but the canomorph insisted that it was a far better inconvenience than being ambushed by their pursuers.

When the smoke cleared, the expedition seemed to have lost the bandits, and Vhok thought they had seen the last of them. But soon enough, Kurkle reported signs that the enemies were close again, deepening Vhok's gloomy mood. Determined to avoid them if they could, the foursome continued on.

Any time Kurkle feared that they might be discovered, he sent the trio scrambling for cover while he prowled around, sniffing the acrid air, scrambling up the sides of gullies to peer into the distance. Sometimes he disappeared entirely for long stretches of time.

After one of the canomorph's scouting runs, Kurkle came loping back in hound form. "They are close at hand," he said, motioning for a sudden halt. All three travelers knew the routine by then. They went to ground, seeking available cover, as their guide darted off to observe the bandits. They found plenty of places to hide in the gulley they followed. Vhok ducked behind a large outcropping of glowing rock. The superheated stone sizzled and crackled loudly in the cambion's ears as he crouched, waiting for Kurkle to return.

Vhok watched his sweat vaporize in tiny curling puffs of steam as he waited, his mood truly black.

Something large stepped upon the outcropping right above Vhok, and the cambion was aware of it a heartbeat before it knew of him. He jerked back and stared as the creature, which he first thought was a rider upon a basalt black horse, peered in his direction. Vhok realized his mistake immediately. It was not a mounted rider, but a single creature, and he recognized it as a centaur. But unlike the horse-men of Toril, the creature looming over Vhok had skin the color of onyx, its hair, eyes, and hooves seemed to be made of flame, and it exhaled gouts of smoke. The bandit clutched a long spear in one hand, and Vhok could see a bow slung over one shoulder.

Upon spotting the cambion, the fiery centaur reared on its back legs and snarled in glee as it raised its spear high in an overhand grip. The tip of the weapon glowed orange, while the haft seemed to be chiseled of black stone. Vhok deepened his crouch and reached for his long sword, but his foe had both reach and a height advantage. When the spear came jabbing down at the cambion, Vhok darted beneath the outcropping and gave a shrill whistle of warning. The spear slammed into the ground where Vhok had stood, releasing a shower of embers and sparks.