Bard's Tale II:
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Aaron squinted, trying to see through the heat waves rippling off the scorched dunes. He lay in the strips of shade provided by a tattered awning attached to an ancient pavilion. Far out on the desert a party of people was approaching, their wavy images alternately crowning the dunes then disappearing out of sight. There was little doubt concerning their destination. Aaron and his Master inhabited the sole tiny patch of green in the midst of the Tangramayne desert. The nearest city, of the same name, was thirty leagues to the north. When his Master was plagued by company, the visitors were usually parched husks of humankind, always overjoyed to discover that the oasis they had stumbled upon had substance, and remained within their desperate grasp instead of dancing upon the rippling heat just beyond their reach. There was one other kind of visitor, and Aaron was convinced that this was the type that now approached.
Customers.
He ducked under the sagging, stiff canvas, and stood for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was stuffy in the pavilion, prodigious snoring having propelled his Master's stale breath into every hidden corner. Aaron decided that he would make his stay brief. But before he spoke, he was struck as always by his Master's face, so very different in the repose of sleep than when his Master was awake. Asleep, his Master's face appeared to be that of a man who had not seen more than thirty winters. True, the cultivated grime made it difficult to really be sure, but Aaron was puzzled. When awake, his Master would walk hunched as if carrying the burden of many years. His hands would shake in counterpoint to the trembling of his voice. But the hands were strong, and his Master's words were often sharp enough to pierce sun-hardened camel hide, after having passed the whetstone of his Master's wit. Aaron grimaced, and softly spoke.
"Master. Master."
The man opened one sleep-crusty eyelid, and peered at the young man. "This had better be of catastrophic importance, boy."
Aaron swallowed. "Customers."
The wizard suddenly sat upright. "Paying customers?" he queried. Aaron shrugged. "That qualifies," the wizard said and made a grand sweeping gesture with his right hand. "I suppose I'll let you live. Now, depart!"
Aaron didn't need to be told twice. The Master smiled fondly at his assistant's rapidly retreating back, and as the flap fell closed he murmured, "A good lad. One more good haul and I'll be ready to pass this little business along to him." He threaded his fingers through matted hair and scratched his head contentedly. "I hope these ignorant ruffians have brought plenty of gold!"
Aaron eyed the visitors suspiciously. There were six of them, and the leader was boisterous, rude, and overconfident. His name was Meric, a warrior, outfitted with helm, sword and little else. He introduced the rest of the party. Selinar. a hunter, was in every way nearly identical to Meric. This was explained by shared experiences: violence, harsh living and a common grandfather. Bresian was a hard, a gaunt, leather-skinned man whose permanent smile lines were criss-crossed by myriad blade scars. Aaron kept a particularly watchful eye on Arku, a hobbit rogue (Rogue, Aaron thought. Cal1 it what you wi11, a thief is a thief) clothed in black robes and a peculiar close fitting mask that covered his entire head, with small holes for ears and eyes. There was a threadbare Conjurer named S'imr-li, and a Magician named Gethsah, in even worse condition, whose face remained hidden beneath a grease-stained gray hood. Putting on airs, Aaron sniffed silently to himself, and them having mere apprentice standing. They held themselves aloof, staring haughtily into the desert. Envious of my Master's special ability, that's what they are. Aaron thought. The group needed help in deciding which of two quests to take on, searching for a sheep's skin made of gold, or the rescue and re-forging of something called the "