"Who be the beauty, I wonder?" Delkin said.
Inri looked sharply at him, then turned wary eyes back on the stranger. Alin said nothing. He just sat there, stunned.
The silence lasted only a moment before the woman spoke. Her voice was powerful, almost husky, and easily caught the attention of all who heard.
"I understand you've a dragon about," she said.
"Aye? What of it?" a one-eyed patron scoffed.
"I'm looking for a few brave souls who'll help me dispose of the beast," the woman replied. "I need a tracker and a mage, if possible."
"Help ye?" another man asked. Alin recognized him as a snide caravanner. "Some lass in ridiculous…"
He trailed off when a sliver of metal appeared at his throat. A gasp ran through the common room. No one had seen the woman so much as move, much less draw her blade. The man trembled, his mouth hanging open.
"Ryla Dragonclaw," she said from between clenched teeth. "Remember it."
The man quivered in fear under the intensity of her gaze.
"The Dragonslayer!" Alin blurted. His voice sounded blasphemously loud in the awed stillness.
Ryla's eyes flicked to him and she sheathed her sword with a flourish. Leaving a relieved caravanner behind her, Ryla walked toward the Moor Runners, her step smooth and confident.
"You know me," she said to Alin, her words meant only for him.
He tried to stammer out a response, but no words would come. Her direct speech and her burning gaze thrilled and stunned him. Struck dumb, the bard could only look at that vision of loveliness, her hair painting a crimson corona around her sensuous face.
"Well met, Lady Dragonclaw," Delkin started.
"Just Ryla," the dragonslayer said. "I am no lady, nor a knight."
The priest shrugged and went on, "Ryla, then. I be Delkin Snowdawn, captain o' the Moor Runners. This is Alin Catalan-"
"Cateln," Alin breathed.
"Right," Delkin said. "Alin Catalan of Tilverton-" he gestured to Inri and Thard-"and these be-"
"Ah, adventurers," she interrupted the priest, continuing to speak to the bard.
The two other Moor Runners narrowed their eyes. Ryla looked directly at Alin and mouthed his name, as though turning it over on her tongue. A shiver of thrill passed down his spine.
"Just what I need," the strange woman added.
Inri looked at Ryla, then at Delkin, but it was Alin who spoke. "To slay your dragon?" he asked with unmasked excitement.
"Tharas'kalagram," Ryla replied. "Yes. A red wyrm I've followed this far. I know where he's headed, and I need some brave and…" She looked Alin up and down. Her eyes were burning. "Hearty adventurers to help me kill him."
As she stared at Alin, she licked her lips ever so slightly, so only he could notice.
"My apologies, dragonslayer," Delkin said, taking the prompt from Inri. "We're a bit occupied at the moment replacing our bard, and we can't be bothered to-"
"We'll do it!" Alin said.
The other Moor Runners looked at him with expressions ranging from the shock on Delkin's face, to the surprise registering through Thard's features, and the horrified disdain in Inri's eyes.
Ryla's ruby lips curled up in the vestiges of a smile.
"Rest well, then, brave sir bard," she said. "We leave at dawn, for the Forest of Wyrms."
"Who gave you the right to speak for us?" Inri asked as soon as Alin came out of the inn, rubbing his eyes in the bright sunlight.
"What?" asked Alin as he finished securing the cuffs of his tunic. "I thought…"
The Moor Runners were all saddled and ready before Alin, who was unused to rising at first light. Atop a giant black stallion, Thard was a giant in furs and boiled leather. On a white mare next to him, Inri rode sidesaddle, clad in green and silver silks. In scale mail and a white tabard with the sunrise of Lathander, the priest Delkin looked nervous on his dun. With a whistle from her rider, Delkin's steed stepped in front of Inri's mare and the priest spoke to calm the sorceress.
"Alkin, I'm all for dragon slaying, but can we really trust this heroine o' yers?"
Alin didn't get a chance to correct him as Inri spoke up. "She wears a magical ring-and that is all. Would a dragonslayer really be so naked of magic?'
Thard nodded. Even though the Uthgardt people didn't make extensive use of magic, he had to agree. "Something seems wrong."
"Maybe she's just… amazing," the bard argued. He patted Neb, his strong Cormyrean steed. He was pleased the horse had survived the dragon's attack. "Thayan armor is renowned, and a katana-a Kara-Turan blade-is the finest sword ever made. Mayhap she doesn't need magic."
The Moor Runners were all about to protest, but something silenced them. Alin felt a presence behind him.
"Mayhap I don't," offered Ryla's sultry voice.
Striding up to them, the dragonslayer was radiant. The dark armor made a striking contrast with her milky skin and her hair seemed afire in the sunrise. Her eyes were fixed on Alin. He lost himself again in those smoldering eyes.
After a moment, Delkin cleared his throat. "You have no horse, Lady?" he asked.
"I've always preferred to carry myself," Ryla said without breaking the gaze she shared with the bard. She paused, but only for a breath before adding, "On my own two feet."
Delkin grinned, but saw-from a look at his companions- that lightening the mood was a lost cause.
"We shall outpace you for certain," Inri said. "Unless you run as fast as you draw steel."
Ryla looked away and fixed her deadly gaze on the elf maid, who met it, but soon shrank back, seeming to grow smaller on her steed. Thard fingered his axe, and a slight smile crossed Ryla's face.
"You can ride with me," Alin offered, startling all. They all looked at him-Inri in disbelief, Ryla with a slightly bemused smile. "As you wish," Inri said.
She turned to the north, muttering something under her breath in Elvish, and urged her steed into a trot. The mount gave a snort but started walking, and Thard's steed followed. Delkin shrugged and turned as well.
Ryla looked up at Alin with thanks written on her pale features and offered a playfully dainty hand. He pulled her up, and was startled at her grip-it was more powerful than that of Captain Agatan, the strongest soldier he had ever known. She mounted behind him and wrapped her arms gently around his waist. His face flushed, but he would not turn and let her see.
"Hold tight," he murmured.
"Always," replied Ryla. Her whisper, so close in his ear, startled and excited him.
The journey to the Forest of Wyrms took most of the day, with short breaks for meals and walking the horses. During the entire ride, Ryla had pressed her body close against Alin, and when they had walked the horses, she'd stayed close to him. It didn't seem she was doing it intentionally-indeed, Ryla hardly seemed aware of either her proximity or her effect on the bard-but Alin hardly cared. He could feel the soft swell of her slim stomach juxtaposed against the cool steel of her armor. The odd duality was thrilling.
"What is it you've got there?" the bard asked Delkin, trying to get his mind off the beautiful dragonslayer. He had wondered about Delkin's saddlebags all morning.
"Oh, ye mean these?" the cleric asked, unbuckling and lifting one of the flaps. Contained in the saddlebags were thick, heavy pots and pans, spoons, ladles, and other cooking utensils. "There ain't nothing beats a good meal on the road, I always say."
"You're a cook?" Alin asked, eyeing Delkin's ample belly.
The sturdy priest laughed. "No, no," said Delkin. "I'm more an eater than a cooker. But Thard's a cook to rival the finest in Waterdeep. He'll be cookin' dinner this e'en… ye'll see what I be meaning."
They broke for a highsun meal among a stand of boulders. Delkin broke out the trail rations and began dividing them, but Ryla declined the hardtack and dried fruit, saying she was not hungry. None of the Moor Runners protested. They fell to their meal while she went around one of the boulders.