Entitlement and class

the thrill of the chase

Running with a caravan is always an interesting decision on my part. You meet the most interesting people. And by interesting I mean judgemental.

Gandalf is a bit classist. And by classist I mean a terrible person. He’s a blood hungry and narrowminded stick up his armor magician. Listening to Gandalf ask Spark about his upbringing was absolutely enraging. Spark may have half blood human and elf in him but that doesn’t give Gandalf the right to judge him for “centuries of elf enslavement by humans”, a fault mind you, not of his own making. He then turns to me and has the audacity to ask me about my family, information I’d like nothing more to give freely to a bookworm such as he, and to ask whence I come. A tiefling has no land. And for a wanderer as myself i will admit it did give me a slight pang of sorrow to be reminded of that fact. For a scholar who constantly reads he certainly is uneducated. And I am deeply offended he chooses to inflict his ignorance on me. And they say those of us who choose to wander are the barbarians! Tactless. The wagon is getting a bit too stuffy for my liking and well met is the commotion at the back of the caravan. I am itching to put my anger to some use.

The wagons are driving into a field that is misted and drab and sparse. The rain is hailing down and Gandalf issues a warning that he hears the baying of wolves. Wolves? Hellfire and Horns, I hate dogs. He’s jumped up on the wagon to try to see thru the rain and shouts he sees NOTHING, yet he fires magic in the direction of the commotion with no regard for the danger he is about to unfurl!

From the top of the wagon he’s shouting to brace ourselves as 5 of these hairy mongrels come barreling out of the dark. Swifter than I have seen these are not your average dogs. I swing my hammer with a ferocity I haven’t felt in a long time and smash the ever loving guts and glory out of the fleabag and into the ground. Rain isn’t the only thing falling down as lightning and singed fur is hailing from the top of the caravan so I’m assuming Gandalf is doing alright where he is. Spark however cannot handle himself to take on the three that have beelined for him and as i make my way to the other side of the wagon I swing my hammer and break the closest dog’s face to death. The rest of the battle blurs by but Spark takes a hit and doesn’t seem like he’s going to get up and the last one manages to get away. The most unsettling thing about this is that it squarely looked at both me and Gandalf and growls with what is clearly and shockingly understandable. “Not today…” before running off. Good riddance. These were not your average mutts.

Amid the mess of bone and fur I hoist Spark’s limp body into the wagon and he utters a groan. Maybe he will make it. The damn fool of a healer. When will the weak learn it is the strongest who survive? Gandalf with his disgusting habit of collecting blood, discovers that these monsters are DEVOID of it. What in all that is unholy is going on. Talking fleabags devoid of blood? There is still chaos within the wagon train and Achrany meets us drenched in blood. His 6th sense is telling us that we must kill the one fleabag that got away. I can only assume this will not end well.

Gandalf tries his hand at swaying Spark into staying with the wagon but a healer may come in handy with the trouble i assume we are about to unravel. We head east to follow the tracks and suddenly the hunters have become the prey as we are met with a horde of beasts thundering toward us from behind. Running is the only solution at this point because Spark is not in the best of health, and fighting them off outnumbered isn’t my first choice.

We keep our best to stay on the trail of the devil dog but the rain is torrential and the terrain is difficult. I cannot tell who slips in the mud but there’s no time to turn around because they are hot on our tail. Snapping at our heels, their breath is disgustingly hot in their bloodthirsty chase. I hope to their gods that Spark and Gandalf can keep up. We have too many close calls, and the “wise” magician fool Gandalf decides to cast a spell that knocks the closest wolves down but also knocks me to my knees and Spark takes a tumble into the slippery mud. He’s out cold. That pompous ass Gandalf wants to leave him to the dogs. I hurl Spark over my shoulder and start to run. He weighs almost nothing. And we keep running. Running until there is no more ground beneath us. We arrive to the edge of a cliff and not really having thought things through, Gandalf turns to me and blurts out we jump. I’d rather face the odds of surviving the jump than to face the innumerable snarling fangs that we would encounter. And with Spark holding me down I don’t have much choice in the matter. But I take the leap into the icy depths and I lose him in the wash.


It was Gandalf or Spark. The Blood mage chose himself. What did you expect?
Entitlement and class

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