Anthology: Once Around the Realms

Needless to say, Passepout and Stew Bone became quick friends. Volo, on the other hand, made himself indispensable as a storyteller around the campfire, swapping stories with the herders well into the wee hours each night.

The journey proceeded quickly and almost painlessly for all parties concerned, until someone noticed when Passepout dropped the requisite gem at a certain spot along the road.

"Hey, Pudgy!" the rogue called. "If you have enough treasure of your own that you can throw it away, why don't you share it with your trail buddies?"

"That's Passepout, son of…"

Volo intercepted the conversation before Passepout could continue his correction. "My good sir, he is throwing only those gems away that have gone bad."

"What do you mean, gone bad?" demanded the rogue whom the others called Elam Jack. The others had already warned Volo of his dubious character and rumored stint for thievery in the dungeons of Suzail.

"Well," started Volo, "surely a man of such breeding as yourself knows quality in all things and obviously has no desire to partake of ale that has gone sour or an apple that has gone rancid or a jewel that has gone bad. Passepout is carrying home to his widowed mother up in Shadowdale…"

"Idle, the actress," Passepout interjected.

"That's right, Idle the actress," Volo conceded, "a sack of garden jewels. No real value for anyone except a farmer, really. You see, they only look like jewels. In reality, they are seeds for planting. That's why they are green. The red ones have turned and must be discarded before they spoil the rest in the sack. It's as simple as that."

Elam scratched his chin, and tried to consider the explanation for a moment, but then quickly dismissed it, saying, "I don't believe you, and even if you are telling the truth, I don't care. Why don't you just hand over to me the so-called rancid jewels?"

Passepout clutched the sack, fearing the inevitable.

Volo quickly jumped in once again. "He can't do that, you see, he is a… a druid. Yes, that's right, he is a druid, and is bound by his faith to return to the soil the remnants of its bounty even when it has already passed from green to red."

"What in the name of Bane is the reason for that? I ain't never heard of such a thing before. Religion or no religion, I want you to…"

Just then an unfamiliar voice lent itself to the discussion, saying, "I want you to drop it. A man's religion is sacred to him, no matter how crazy it might seem to everyone else."

A hush came over the traveling band. The silent caravan master with no name had spoken.

He continued to speak.

"Master Volo, you were told that we were only going as far as the Storm Horn peaks. Well, by my recollection, we should be there about right now. Now, I've enjoyed your stories, and all, but I'm afraid it's time for folks to go their separate ways, if you know what I mean."

"Yes," Volo assented, "we knew that there would be a limit on the amount of time that we would be able to bask in your hospitality."

"And a man must know his own limitations," the previously silent leader added.

"Indeed," Volo agreed. "Passepout, leave us be on our way."

Passepout gathered up his pack and hastened to Volo's side. The caravan master walked with them until they had reached the end of the camp.

"Tomorrow, me and my boys will set the herd up grazing. Where are you fellas heading?"

"North," Volo replied.

"Well, take care of yourselves and watch out for brigands. Elam isn't the only one of his kind around here. I know a lot like him. Grew up with many like him in the woods east of here. There but for the grace of Eo go I. Perhaps that's why I'm kinda close-mouthed. People jump to conclusions when they hear my accent, and expect some thug, sort of like him."

"I'd like to know the name of an honest man such as yourself, given the scarcity of your kind," asked Volo delicately.

"You can just call me Malpasso"

"Thank you, Malpasso."

"Now git. I don't want to leave my gang of wranglers for too long, especially Elam. He's a badun."

And with that, the caravan master rejoined his crew at the campfire.

"Nice guy, but kinda quiet," said Passepout.

"Men of few words are rarer than the words they speak."

"Now what?"

Volo put his arm around the thespian's shoulders and assured, "Worry not. We'll make our own camp over yonder, and tomorrow we head north."

Passepout fell in step with his master, paused for a moment, and inquired, "Still north? Where are we going?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Volo replied. "To a great city I know."

"What great city? I thought we were going to take a shortcut."

"We are."

"So what city is this, that is also a shortcut?"

"It's called Myth Drannor."

Passepout was awakened from his sound sleep by the cold metal of a knife blade held against his neck, and a whiskey voice that demanded that he hand over all of his jewels… even the rancid ones.

During the night, Elam had tracked his way to their campsite and had already made plans to retire from trail riding on Passepout's pouch of jewels.

Passepout clutched the pouch closer to his bosom, as if his life depended on them… because it did.

Elam, now that he had abandoned the goat wranglers for good, was not about to take no for an answer, and reached across Passepout's rotund body, snatching the pouch from the thespian's hands, and in doing so, spilling its contents on the ground, forming a colorful pile of gems that reflected green in the campfire light, with a tiny glimmer of red on top.

"I should slit your throat just for the heck of it," the brigand snarled.

"I wouldn't do that," said Volo, who had awakened at the commotion.

"What are you going to do about it?" snarled Elam. the blade of his knife digging deeper into Passepout's double chin.

This," Volo said, waving his hands in the air.

"Hah," said the brigand when nothing happened-only to slump to the ground, dropping the knife safely into Passepout's lap.

Malpasso emerged from the shadows behind Elam, a bloodstained club in hand.

"He shouldn't give you any more trouble. I'll tie him behind my horse and drag him back to the camp. That should teach him a lesson."

And with that, the trail boss hoisted the rogue over his shoulder, and returned to the shadows.

Passepout cried in gratitude, "Oh, thank you, Master Volo. You were wonderful, distracting that brigand while Malpasso gave him the whomp."

"Uh, yes," Volo replied with a touch of uncertainty in his voice. He quickly changed the subject. "Well, another gem has turned so it's time to move on. I suggest we leave by the dawn's early light and put more space between ourselves and Elam. I'm not too sure even a good two-mile draggin' will show him the error of his ways."

"On to Myth Drannor?" asked the bond servant, anxious to further separate himself from the disturber of his dreams.

"Yes," Volo replied. "To Myth Drannor, City of Gates and Shortcuts."

"Whatever you say, wonderful Master Volo." The two lofted their packs and continued their journey on foot, as rosy-fingered dawn made her appearance on the horizon. Passepout continued his praise for Volo's help in saving his life, while Volo was noticeably silent, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that he had only recently realized existed.

MYTH DRANNOR or When All Things Magical Don't Always Work

"Between Storm Horn peaks and Hillsfar lies a vast unbroken forest older than all mankind. There lie the legendary ruins of Myth Drannor. Also called the City of Crowns, Myth Drannor rises out of the Elvenwood like the forester's ax-head that its shape resembles: flaring blade to the west, narrow back running to the southeast. Its western edge is composed of lush, rolling meadows known rather obviously as the Westfields, the east is more forested and parklike, and to the north is a small glade that comprises the Burial Glen, a cemetery."