The clearing behind the Nashkel Inn had quietly become my morning battlefield.
Not a battlefield in the heroic sense.
No clashing armies. No dramatic stakes.
Just a patch of grass behind a roadside inn and a monk determined to make me slightly less incompetent.
Morning light filtered through the sparse branches overhead, scattering broken patches of gold across the grass. The town had already begun to stir behind us—distant voices drifting between buildings, the creak of carts rolling along the road, the occasional bark of a dog somewhere down the lane.
Rasaad stood opposite me with the same calm patience he had shown every morning for the past several days.
He gave a small nod.
"Again."
This time I didn't hesitate.
I stepped forward, shifting my weight the way he had shown me. My arm came up faster than it had the day before. The strike landed cleaner.
For a brief moment I thought I might actually connect.
Rasaad caught my wrist effortlessly.
But he nodded as he did it.
"Better," he said.
I exhaled, shaking out my arm as he released it.
"Better isn't exactly a high bar."
"Progress rarely begins with excellence," he replied calmly.
Imoen sat nearby on a fallen log, watching the exchange with open amusement. She tossed a small pebble into the grass.
"You didn't fall over that time," she said helpfully.
"Encouraging," I muttered.
Rasaad folded his hands behind his back.
"Confidence grows through repetition. Continue."
We ran through the sequence again.
And again.
By the time the morning sun had climbed high enough to burn away the last of the lingering cool air, sweat clung to my collar and my shoulders protested every movement.
But I wasn't falling anymore.
That alone felt like an achievement.
Rasaad seemed satisfied.
When the session finally ended, he gave a small approving nod.
"You improve."
"I improve slowly."
"Slow improvement still leads somewhere."
I hoped he was right.
--
Evenings had developed a routine as well.
The rented room upstairs had become a quiet sanctuary after sunset. The small oil lamp cast a soft amber glow across the table where Volothamp Geddarm's book lay open.
The Beginner's Guide to Lute Playing.
Volothamp had written the instructions with his usual enthusiastic confidence.
According to him, any diligent student could achieve basic musical competence within weeks.
Volothamp had clearly never heard me play.
The lute rested awkwardly against my knee as I attempted another chord progression. My fingers stumbled through the movement with all the grace of someone attempting to assemble furniture while wearing oven mitts.
The resulting sound could generously be described as experimental.
A knock came from the doorway.
Imoen leaned inside.
She listened for a moment.
Then she winced.
"Wow."
"That bad?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully.
"Let's just say if you keep practicing, the hobgoblins in the region might surrender out of mercy."
I lowered the instrument.
"Encouraging."
"You're getting better though," she added quickly.
"That sounded almost like music."
"Almost."
She grinned and disappeared down the hall.
The lute practice continued.
Improvement came slowly there too.
But improvement was improvement.
If I was going to be stuck in this world for a while, competence felt like a worthwhile investment.
--
Days passed.
The town settled into a quiet rhythm.
And our group… lingered.
Rasaad seemed perfectly content with the arrangement. Training occupied his mornings, meditation his evenings. Purpose, for him, appeared to come easily.
Xan spent most afternoons seated near the hearth downstairs with a book open and a cup of something considerably stronger than tea within reach.
He read extensively on enchantment magic.
And drank extensively to support the effort.
Branwen, by contrast, had begun to show signs of impatience.
Her tolerance for inactivity was limited.
"Idleness invites decay," she muttered one afternoon while sharpening her mace.
Imoen had taken to wandering the town out of sheer boredom. Each evening she returned with new rumors, half-heard gossip, and increasingly dramatic complaints about "dying of inactivity."
I had my own reasons for staying.
Some of them were practical.
Zeke and his mercenaries had vanished from sight, but that hardly meant they had vanished from the world.
Keeping a low profile felt wise.
Jaheira and Khalid had also promised to send word.
Waiting for that message provided a convenient justification for remaining where we were.
But if I was being honest with myself…
It also meant not having to decide what came next.
Direction had a way of demanding commitment.
And commitment implied consequences.
Staying still postponed both.
--
The rumor arrived the way most rumors did.
Loudly.
And attached to a man who had clearly finished at least two ales too many.
The inn smelled faintly of spilled ale and roasted meat, the hearth snapping quietly as someone fed another log to the fire.
"I'm telling you," the man insisted, leaning across the table toward anyone willing to listen. "Thing's taken over the place."
Someone nearby snorted.
"What thing?"
"Ogre."
The room quieted slightly.
The man gestured emphatically with his mug.
"Old flooded house south of Beregost. Whole place half sunk in the marsh. And there's an ogre living there now."
A merchant raised an eyebrow.
"Ogres live lots of places."
"This one's different."
"How?"
The man hesitated.
Then said it with complete seriousness.
"It wants belts."
A pause followed.
"Belts?" someone repeated.
"Belts," the man confirmed. "Won't let anyone pass the road without one."
A few people laughed.
I frowned slightly.
"Did he say belts?"
Imoen froze mid-sip.
Her eyes widened slowly.
"Oh no."
"What?"
She leaned closer.
"Remember that guy we ran into on the Coast Way?" she whispered. "The one running down the road yelling about an ogre stealing belts?"
The memory surfaced immediately.
A terrified traveler sprinting past us.
Ranting about a belt-obsessed ogre.
At the time it had seemed like little more than roadside absurdity.
"You think it's the same one?" I asked quietly.
Imoen shrugged.
"I mean… how many belt-stealing ogres can there be?"
Fair point.
Across the table, Branwen had been listening as well.
She stood.
"If travelers are being harassed along the road, the matter deserves investigation."
Rasaad nodded calmly.
"A dangerous creature left unattended will inevitably cause harm."
Xan sighed.
A long, theatrical sigh.
"I had hoped today might remain uneventful."
Imoen stood immediately.
"Oh come on. Belt ogre."
"That is not reassuring."
"We should at least see what's going on."
Branwen had already begun gathering her gear.
Rasaad followed suit.
Xan reluctantly closed his book.
"I suppose reading about disaster is less educational than witnessing it firsthand."
The group began preparing to leave.
I remained seated.
The inn suddenly felt very quiet.
Five minutes passed.
The room grew emptier as the others stepped outside.
I stared at the empty cup in front of me.
Staying meant safety.
Leaving meant uncertainty.
Unfortunately, staying also meant being alone in a world where monsters were a routine inconvenience.
I stood.
Grabbed my cloak.
And followed them out the door.
Imoen looked back as I caught up.
"Took you long enough."
"I was considering the advantages of solitude."
"And?"
"Turns out I prefer not dying alone."
She grinned.
"Good call."
Ahead of us, the road curved north toward Beregost.
Somewhere beyond it, apparently, an ogre had developed a strong interest in leather accessories.
Imoen glanced sideways at me.
"You know… if it is the same ogre, that means we technically ignored his problem the first time."
"That wasn't our problem."
"Maybe it is now."
I considered that.
In the original game, that ogre had been little more than roadside experience points.
A quick fight.
A forgettable encounter.
Apparently he had not agreed with that assessment.
The road stretched ahead.
And somewhere beyond the hills, a belt collector waited.