If it wasn't for Bad Luck . . .

[oldgrayrogue]

Rook wanted to get the hell out of the City as fast as he could. The fight with the Oozes had been brutal. Everyone was left demoralized and licking their wounds. A cloud hung over the Safehaven and he wanted no part of it. His trek to Daggerford the week prior had been much more enjoyable than he expected. The long hike through the woods reminded him of more innocent days, when his father would come to visit and take him out of the City to teach him how to track and hunt. As soon as Angus had given him his share of the loot from the Stone House raid, he was determined to be out of the City and back in the open air. So much for "Splendors Forever!" As he walked through the Docks towards the South Gate he began to wonder just what was so great about his City after all. As he passed through the gates he smiled as the sun warmed his face and the breeze through the trees brought much more welcome scents than he was leaving behind him.

About half way to Daggerford he saw the first wolf prints. He had thought about taking the caravan but quickly dismissed the idea. He was enjoying the outdoors too much. Thoughts of his parents, especially his father, invaded his mind. He remembered the first time he had him hold a bow. How he taught him how to dress a deer and skin a pelt. He thought of his mother as well as he walked: her deft fingers working quickly as she laced up her leathers before one of her ventures. He remembered how she could spin a coin on the tip of her finger. "Trust tha Lady Rook" she would say. Yer life be like this spinnin coin and yer fortune can spin good or bad just as quick. One day, everybody's luck runs out. So live it up while ya can boyo." He thought of her ever present smile, remembering the last time he saw it after she kissed him and looked back as they made their way to the Yawning Portal. Rook sighed. "Now I'm bein morbid like bloody Zylai'a." It was too beautiful of a day. He would not let sad thoughts crowd out the happy memories of his parents. He shook off the feeling and walked on, a new spring in his step and smile on his face as the wind began to kick up and the sky darkened a bit.

Rook heard a low growl to his right in the trees just before he spotted the wolf coming at him. He smirked and brought up his bow and let fly all in a single motion. With a yelp the beast dropped dead. Just as quickly two others were upon him, snapping and snarling. Rook tossed aside his bow and drew his blades. With a quick stab and two swipes one wolf was down and dying. The other leapt growling for his throat. With a laugh Rook ducked under the leap and brought his dagger up under the wolf's own chin, driving it deep. A quick slash of his sword finished it, while its pack mate breathed its last on the grass. Rook grinned. "Me luck's turned a'right. That cutter Jaques pay me good coin fer these pelts fer sure. Barely a cut on em!" He set about to skinning the wolves, remembering how his father had shown him when he was just a boy. "Ain't so different from a coney" he said aloud, though no one was there, or so he thought.

Not far up the road Rook found the rest of the pack. Three more wolves fell without so much as a scratch on him. He was positively gleeful as he skinned the last of them, bundling the furs together. The six furs were heavy, and slowed his pace, but he didn't mind. The longer he stayed out in the field, the better. He walked on, even whistling now in his delight, and feeling as carefree as ever he had before.

It was then he saw something, like a flash out of the corner of his eye through the trees, and then he heard it: an arrow whistling just over his head. He turned quickly in the direction of the shot. There stood a man, longbow trained on him for another shot. One of those Dragon Cultists they had fought on the road a few days prior. Rook sneered leveling his own bow, and just as he let fly the cultist's shaft took him hard in the ribs. "Fecker!" He growled. Ya gonna pay fer dat!" Rook let loose and caught the cultists a glancing shot. Then "THWACK!" another arrow took him hard in the shoulder. "Shite" he cursed as he fumbled for a healing potion, drank, then shot himself and missed. "THWIP" , another arrow whistled by, "THUNK!" the next one buried itself deep in his belly. "Arghhh!!" he cried in pain as he quickly quaffed two more potions. He turned then and ran for the trees. The cultist was clearly a better bowman than he. He loosed two shafts for every one Rook shot. He drank another potion in the trees breathing heavy, blood soaking his leathers. He thought of his friends: Jack, Kalo and Arryn. Of Mari and Keryn and the others. He fumbled for another potion, hands shaking. There was so much blood. Then the cultist was upon him.

The man fought with two blades like Rook, but instead of a shortsword and dagger he used a longsword and short blade in the off hand. He had the reach on him, and the skill, and Rook quickly knew it was only a matter of time. He thought of running, but the heavy wolf pelts strapped to his back made him slow and off balance, and he had lost a lot of blood. He had more potions, but the man's attack was relentless. He was bigger than Rook, stronger, and beating back his defense with every swing. Then Rook felt his blade slash the man's cheek. A line of red burst from behind the face mask he wore. Rook saw an opening and thrust with his dagger for the man's gut. His eyes were locked on his opponent's and he thought he saw something in them then that seemed like glee. Then he felt it. The pain was so intense he thought his head had been cut clean off. Blood spurted from the side of his neck like a fountain, and he suddenly felt very cold. He feebly reached for a potion -- the strongest one he had -- but it never made it to his lips. The man reversed his blade and slashed his sword arm near in half. Rook fell, crumpling to the ground onto his side. He rolled onto his back looking up as the cultist grasped his blade in both hands, point down for the killing thrust. "Guess me luck's run out" Rook groaned, and then he saw . . . . . . Light?

Green grass and sunshine. A brook babbled lazily nearby. Big puffy white clouds hung overhead and birds chirped all around. And he wasn't bleeding. His neck, his arm, all his wounds were healed! In fact, he had never felt healthier! It was a miracle! There was no sign of the cultist. Strangely all of his gear and kit and the wolf skins were gone too. "What tha feck?" Rook mused. It must be true. He had nine lives, just like a bloody cat. Blessed by the Lady he was, she'd saved him again, somehow. Then from over a hill he saw two people approaching. They walked hand in hand and were cloaked and hooded in white. Their movements seemed strangely familiar but he could not place them and he stood and waited until they stood right before him. The woman pulled down her hood and mask and a familiar smile shown on him. Her hand came up from under her cloak then, a gold coin spinning on its tip, as if by magic. "Boyo, this be yer Lucky Day." She said with a grin.

[joshmad75]

Wow! What a nice write-up! Sorry to hear of the Rook's passing.

[Mick]

Sorry to hear of this. Very nice accounting. Always appreciate how you take such events in stride!

Look forward to your next incarnation.

[Senor T]

I really liked this write-up. I liked Rook too, but if he had to go out, at least I had some way to see a little deeper into his character when he did. Well done!

[Arianna]

[valn99]

Loved the story, but hate the result!

[Cleasor]

In a stupor at the Safehaven, Jack lifts another shot. "To me mate, Rook!"

[Akivaria]

Perhaps the best thing about being a useless bard is that i have zero temptation to do anything risky.

[ImStrokerAce]

Noooo! My scouting buddy!