Max Rinnen stopped in the small stand of trees, his breath frosting the air as he searched the landscape behind him. Two weeks out from the crumbling keep known as Killraven Hold, he hadn't stopped for more than a few scant hours at a time, fearful that his pursuers would fall upon him. If he could just make it to Waterdeep, he could lose himself in the crowds, and a skillful merc like him, it'd be no time at all and he'd have a network of contacts for money, shelter and food.
Employed for the last four years by a powerful necromancer known only as The Magister, Max was one of the few living servants that had accepted the mage's coin. With the Gods' Fall, he felt now was the time to strike out on his own. Well, that and he had a nagging suspision that his time was soon to end. The Magister was making more and more undead, and sending out some of these servants to find others of the undead persuasion. Rinnen had finally gathered up his courage, and stole a scroll that would provide some protection against the spellcaster's minions. However, there was only one of the scrolls, and only one of him. He'd served in enough small armies to know, no matter how skilled an enemy is, superior numbers usually prevail.
Still peering out of the copse of winter-dead trees, he could make out the specks of trackers still following him. Max turned and looked in the direction he was going, north-by-northwest. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the dark line of Waterdeep's southern walls. A day? A day and a half? He then looked up at the cloud strewn sky, the weak winter sun peeking out between the fast moving greys. About... four hours of daylight. Max sighed wearily, leaned against a bole of a tree and then pushed himself upright.
With a glance over his shoulder at his pursuers, he forced himself into a light, distance devouring jog to civilisation, and safety.
The man leaned back in his chair, away from the scrying bowl, and nodded to himself in satisfaction. He ran a hand through his unruly mane of coal black hair and then thumbed his bottom lip. Was he right in letting the mercenary go? Waterdeep was a meeting ground of powers, beings like Lord Darkness had been seen traveling in and around there. The Magister himself stayed away, knowing that even in the turmoil of these troubling times, he'd be targeted by many of the city's do-gooders. Yes, the mercenary was the right choice. The mage could follow him, and, if need be, assume command of the man to draw potential allies to his fold.