Baldur's gate II_ throne of Bhaal - Drew Karpyshyn [69]
"Hush, child," Melissan cautioned. "Beyond these walls Balthazar and his monks live a sparse, barren existence. These walls are for protection, not for show."
Imoen blushed and turned her eyes to the ground. She admired Melissan. The tall woman was beautiful, strong, and wise. Men and women alike looked up to her. Imoen felt herself drawn to this mysterious woman who had become her protector. She felt herself constantly staring at the imposing figure in black, unable to take her eyes from Melissan's powerful, athletic form. Imoen loved the way Melissan dressed. Her dark clothing covering her entire body not only made her more mysterious, it also seemed to reject the stereotypical flashes of flesh most women used to attract the attentions of men.
Imoen had wanted nothing more than to impress Melissan. That was the sole intent of her comments about Amkethran. Instead, she had stupidly embarrassed herself. Thankfully, Melissan had not noticed Imoen's shame-or at least, she had the decency to pretend not to notice.
Imoen tried to save face by explaining her earlier comment. "I just meant, well, did they have to build the monastery right on the eastern edge of the town? It casts a shadow over all of Amkethran. It must take hours before the first light of the morning sun even touches the villagers."
Melissan tossed her head back and laughed, her raven tresses cascading down her back as she did so. "You have the history of Amkethran somewhat backward, dear girl. The monastery has stood here for many generations. It is the town that is new. And it is no accident that those few who choose to live here have built their homes beneath the shadow of the monastery.
"You have spent but one full day beneath the blazing sun of the Empires of the Sands," Melissan continued. "Surely you can appreciate the relief even a few extra hours of shade each day would provide. You should watch what you say in the streets of Amkethran. Balthazar and his monks are held in high esteem by the people of this town."
Chastened by Melissan's words, Imoen could only stammer out a feeble apology. "I… I'm sorry, Melissan. I meant no disrespect."
Melissan reached over to place her elegant hand reassuringly on Imoen's shoulder. The young girl felt a thrill at the noblewoman's touch. "Your concern for the less fortunate is touching, Imoen. In this case it is misplaced, but you must never apologize for your instincts to help others. In my youth, I, too, shared your passions."
Looking up into Melissan's eyes, Imoen saw a genuine and sincere compassion. Imoen wanted to say something else, but she was afraid of ruining the moment, and the moment was gone.
The electric touch of Melissan's hand slipped from her shoulder, and the tall woman spurred her horse forward. "I must go and see that the monks are prepared for our arrival," she called back over her shoulder. "We can speak again inside the safety of the tower."
Imoen watched Melissan gallop off, her eyes drawn to the glorious mane of jet-black hair streaming out behind the woman.
* * * * *
In the comfort of his dragon's den, among the company of his faithful pets, Abazigal fantasized about his future as a pure-blood wyrm. The respect commanded by true dragons, the mere glory of their very existence, would be his once Bhaal had been resurrected. Abazigal, once spurned as a half-breed, would be hailed as a hero by all of dragonkind as he led them to their true destiny as rulers of Faerun.
He had come far since his humble beginnings. Abazigal remembered nothing of his dragon mother. Did she reject him as the abomination he was, or did she protect him and nurture him? It didn't matter. Her existence was nothing but an idealized concept, his link to the glory of dragonkind, and a way to deny the history of his youth.
Abazigal's earliest memories were of his cruel master, the nameless wizard who had sought to unlock