My troubles all began -well, my current crop of troubles, that is, the ones related to this telling- in the Temple of the Nameless Seer when that blasted Bard came back from the dead when he had no right to do that. This is the Bard that our gnomish Monk Battosai the Bardslayer supposedly slew for pilfering the Silver Effigy Spoon that our party had come to acquire for our Patrons, and then running off when accosted for it -though he always denies the deed, the wanker.

Turns out at the time the Bard had only been “Mostly Dead”, not “Completely Dead”, not that such fine distinction helps me out, now or back then. I mean, interest due can be back dated due to an error on the Lender’s part when the interest rate retroactively changes, but rewards and benefits due are not? Where’s the fairness in that, I ask you?

So, this bard, presumed dead, comes back to life right when I walk into the room.  

He was apparently sent -or brought back, depending on who you ask-  by his god to finish some divinely appointed Bardic task related to that stupid Silver Effigy Spoon, right there in the Antechamber of the Nameless Well at the same time that I was sweeping off those massive cobwebs the Temple was famous for, and which I had passed through in taking the long way to the Antechamber. Though, from the looks of the rest of my party I missed all the fun the short, narrow, windy route had supplied. It’s a pity because I shine in short, narrow, and winding passages and would have totally led us to victory and kept that Bard from nabbing the Spoon, and from dying, and thus me from suffering this cruel fate.

Look, I’m a Ranger. An Urban Ranger, which just means I’m more at home with walls and alleys and twisty passageways than with wooded tracks with all that green stuff that we had to cross to get here, and I much prefer rooftops to treetop canopies.

Oh, and I have a thing for rats. I can see your faces, don’t do that. Rats make ideal companions. They are very good at scenting danger and food. Not so good with treasure but everything has its tradeoffs. And they don’t talk back. Mostly. As I said, I’m an Urban Ranger, and most definitely not a Rogue.

Like I said, I apparently got saddled with the route less traveled because That Monk distinctly said “to the left”, not “to the right” and I was the only one who listened. And look where that got me: two rat companions fewer, no treasures to speak of, and a mouth full of cobwebs. And now this.

Ok, rats are also good at finding traps, but not so good at cleanly disabling them, thus the loss of my two companions.

This, as you can tell by now and from the way I’m talking around it, was Trouble, with a Capital ‘T’, that rhymes with ‘B’ that sounds like D, that stands for Death, which brings to us the N word. That’s right, for my troubles I get labeled a Necromancer.  Where’s the justice in that, I ask you? 

So, trouble, right here in Nameless Temple, because of course the Seer in the Nameless Well (whom by all accounts has been silent for many a century) chose this moment to break its long silence by proclaiming with chain rattling gravitas “Behold, a new Dark Lord ariseth. Behold him coming with Death in his train. Let the East tremble and the West quake. Let the South stumble and the North falter, for the Dark Lord removeth Death and maketh her his servant.”

Yes, the same moment the Bard woke up, with me standing… okay, more like kneeling over him, with my hand gripping his right arm in an attempt to see if he really was dead so I could rescue from the corpse what needed rescuing, or if I would have to give him a healing potion which I had automatically popped out of my bandolier, in what possibly could have been considered (and subsequently was considered by Sir Dunderhead) a ritualistic posture designed to call forth a soul and reanimate the dead.

It was at this point in the narrative that two other things occurred, one of which made me the nervous wreck of a being that you hear before you. The other was just plain wrong. The first: The bard sat up in what was obviously a pool of his own blood, and thus very pale looking, with his left hand locked onto that blasted never-in-tune lyre of his, which now had a new paint job, courtesy of the aforementioned blood.  

He then proceeded to give me The Look.

Yeah, that was the wrong part. He should have stayed dead. I’m not sure I can stress that bit enough.

The second was that the Knight of our party came back from …well, somewhere, a faint green phosphorescent shimmer about his armor indicating magic at work.

Not my magic of course, since as an Urban Ranger I eschew that sort of thing, or any kind of magic. Hey, it's personal, don’t magic-shame me here.

His eyes also had a feverish glow about them. Yeah, I know, that should have been a warning sign. To say nothing of the heavy panting he was doing or the sheen of perspiration or other fluids that danced along every bit of exposed skin he had, which being clad in leather padded axewood paneling was not much apart from his ominously bare head.  A Knight without his helm is never a good sign. That means that he cracked it against…something or used it as an improvised weapon in its own right. Both scenarios meant he somehow became detached from it. And I don't want to meet what merited the detaching.

Yea, I know I’ve said he came back to life three times already at least, but that point is important enough to stress so that you understand I have nothing to do with it, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If I had realized he was still holding on, I would have kicked him to make sure he lost his battle with life.

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The Knight had apparently been fighting with the Bard, whether with or against I didn’t bother to find out, then or now; and at some point he went back out to fight someone or something. Not my business to know. At least I thought so at the time. If I had bothered to ask, then maybe what happened afterwards could have been avoided.

Here I should pause to let you know that, as an Urban Ranger, I have no magic. One could almost say I have an allergy to magic, since it never works right when I’m around. Even magical healing potions leave my skin green with pink polka-dots for days afterwards.

Well, the Knight turned his feverish glare onto me, which sent goosebumps racing down my arms because he had not so much as glanced in my direction for pretty much the entire duration of our party’s existence. Admittedly that was a short time, less than two weeks…ok, more like  four days. But still, it’s the principle that holds here.

Both men evidently considered me to be the cause of the Seer’s keening, and of the Bard’s return to life. Neither response was one I craved or wanted. Yes, I said earlier that it was the Bard’s god that returned him from death. That was because, before he opened his eyes and saw me, I distinctly heard him whispering a prayer to his god thanking him for his benediction and vowing to complete the task appointed him this time  -this time? I thought to myself- which made his response to me puzzling to say the least.

The Bard, forgetting about his god upon opening his eyes (never a good thing to do) began swearing eternal servitude to me for preserving his life. I know it was not a good thing to do, because right then the pendant bearing the image of his troubadour god or goddess broke in half, and the fool simply caught it and cast it away from him as it fell.

“..ood Master, you have saved me. I am your servant till beyond death,” were the first words out of his mouth. I was pretty sure that he wasn’t all there yet, and that he was babbling a verse from one of his soporific epics that the man liked to subject us to at night. At least I hoped that was the case.

I didn’t have time to tell him his praise should go to his god, not me, because it was at this moment that the Knight  -one Sir Johan Calley von Higgenboson of the Scalenian Higgenbottle Electors of the Middle Palatinate, second cousins once removed to the Castellian of the Palace of the Holy Argavn Empire (he made it a point to remind us of his pedigree at least twice a day since our party’s impromptu incorporation)- having apparently seen a dead man come back to life, while another man kneels over him waving a bottle around. -Hey, I have a tendency to flap when I’m nervous, or excited- made the (to him) obvious though incorrect conclusion and blamed me for this return from the dead.

Oh, not just because he didn’t like the Bard -and none of our party with the exception of the Monk had liked the Bard (another strike against him, the diminutive cur), or Bards in general. I mean, who does like Bards, great big aggrandizing gasbags who only exist to toll their own exploits or those who pay them to extol their exploits instead? But Guild rules required a “bardic diplomat” for a party like ours, so we were stuck with him-

But because he immediately drew the conclusion from the fact that a live bard who was a dead bard was now suddenly a live bard again, that necromancy was at work, hence he spat the word “Necromancer!!” in my general direction.

For good measure, he yelled it out again before the echoes of the first one had died off, which made for really creepy vibes, as if the very walls were condemning me for something that I wasn’t, and took a step backwards into the hall from which he had just come, before shaking his head as if throwing off a warded spell. He charged back into the Antechamber gripping his spike-hilted half-bastard sword in a murderous mood.

“Necromancer!” he yelled again, as if the first two times were not enough, “You will not gain this soul, or my companions for your unholy purposes! You die by my hand!”

Now, all I had was a one-handed sword-breaker, because well… reasons. Not a match for the Half-Bastard sword wielded by a right full on bastard.

“Sir Carl, wait. There’s been a mistake! I’m not a…”

The moment the words left my mouth I knew they were a waste of good air, because they were immediately drowned out by a cacophony of the Knight’s curses, the Bard’s full-throated approbations of me, and yes, the Seer of the Well, who took the opportunity to praise the nameless Dark Lord (who was anyone but me) and his arising again as if it were a good thing. Not helping there, Seer. The only good thing to come out of this was that the Bard’s lyre strings snapped.  All of them. In a perfect cascade. I didn’t think that could happen to enchanted bronze grade instruments, but it did, which made the Bard finally shut up.

If he hadn’t, I would have missed the whistle of wind that accompanied Sir Conan’s sword swipe, and our story would have ended right here because I would not have avoided it.

“Beast! Foul Tainter!” Die where you stand and rake no more innocent lives!” he yelled as the back-swing carried around at me. (Why yes, he was always that melodramatic, why do you think we needed a bardic diplomat?)

Now, just what part of “innocent” the Bard was qualified to meet I didn’t know or want to know. What I did know was that I wasn’t going to stand still to be willingly slaughtered for being something that I was not and am not. No magic, remember?  And Necromancy -here I spit upon the word- uses dark magic. Which is magic. Which I don't have. Can I be any clearer?

Speaking of magic, neither our green fringe, blue robed spell caster -never knew what her class was, just her name, Zerana d’Bells- nor our blue fringe green robed cleric, Minor Acolyte of a God With The Unpronounceable Name -to me at least, no one else seems to have a problem with it- of  healing and snakes, whose name was Belana d’Bells, was around. (Whether sisters, cousins, in-laws or other family connections I never had the time to find out). Which, combined with the Feels about Sir Carl Calley Higgsbossom I was getting from Namba, Wamba, and Zamba, my three remaining rat companions, was not a good thing. (No, I do not respect his name, why should I? He doesn’t respect my right to my life. I don’t respect his right to his name. Fair is fair.)

With them out of the picture, the Bard obviously in giddy worship land, and the Monk ran away with the Spoon (no wonder his temple kicked him out, always running when you need him that we were sent to retrieve), there was no one to stand up for me. Story of my life.

I rapidly ran down my available skills for dealing with overly-zealous non-Paladin fighter Knights, which comes down to one: Evade. With extreme prejudice. Sounds good to me. Then and now. So, when faced with certain death and dismemberment from a member of your own party, there is only one thing a self-respecting, life-loving, honor-and-riches-be-damned Urban Ranger can do.

I turned tails and ran. Only then remembering that I had not activated my recording and reporting crystal. Again. The Guild was going to kill me if the Knight didn’t.

What, you thought I was human?