Well, there are many entertaining tales of Miraden the Mad and Sharn Longfist, two unlikely cohorts in early 2E Forgotton Realms.
Miraden was an elf fighter/mage, played by my friend Brian, who is very much like the Brian of KODT fame. And I played your humble Sharn “Longfist” Stoneshoulder, a dwarven fighter/thief – ahem, that’s bounty hunter to you.
There are SO MANY tales, I don’t know where to start. Miraden and Sharn adventured together from 1st level, in Daggerford, up and down the Sword Coast and across the Northern Frontier to Ascore, where they foiled a conspiracy between the Zhentarim and the Cult of Dragons to loose a Dracolich upon the Heartlands. Before retiring in Waterdeep, Sharn and Miraden had gained at least 40 levels between them. Sometimes they were accompanied by other PCs, other times just the two of them walked alone.
There was one scene, in the dead of winter, Sharn and Miraden find a cave in which to camp for the evening. They had not only themselves, but a dozen horses to shelter, so the cave seemed ideal. It was warmed by geothermal activity, and was unoccupied. It stank a little, but the horses weren’t nervous, so they reasoned it must be a safe campsite.
Sharn had first watch. Miraden needed his beauty sleep, and in Sharn’s opinion could never get enough if he slept a lifetime. The watch went uneventfully until Sharn re-entered the cave to awaken Miraden. But the elf wizard would not wake up. And all of the horses were unconscious, too. At least Miraden was still breathing. Barely.
Realizing that the air in the cave must have been bad, Sharn dragged his companion into the cold air, and began forcing the air out of his chest to clear the vile vapors from his lungs. Eventually, with much coaxing Miraden awoke. But the horses were all dead.
And without the horses, so were the heroes. In the cold, relentless winter of the Northern Frontier, their survival depended on the animals. Sharn digs out his two remaining vials of healing potion, and tries feeding one to his mount.
Nothing happens. The potion dribbles out of the other side of the steed’s mouth and into the snow.
Miraden unpacks his jar of magical healing unguent, a preparation that while only mildly effective, has saved both heroes’ lives in the past when they were rendered unconscious and a kobold’s whisker from death. Uncertain of where to put it, Miraden applies it to the chest of the same horse.
Nothing happens. Sharn and Miraden look at each other hopelessly.
Just then, a twinkle appears in Sharn’s eyes. Sharn had seen another mage bring a companion to life, one felled by system shock with no apparent injury, by applying shocking hands to either side of the victim’s stilled heart.
So, Sharn asks, “Miraden, do you know how to cast shocking hands?”
And Miraden, possessed of near superelven intelligence, understands the reference immediately, having been around the stacks himself a few times at the mage college. “No, that spell is not in my repertoire. But I can hurl a lightning bolt,” says the warrior mage.
“Yes, I know.” Sharn is intimately familiar with Miraden’s lightning bolts, having shield rushed many a foe only to have his “Artillery Wizard” companion let loose with a stream of plasma, striking both friend and foe. Not to mention the fireball incidents. In fact, if it were not for his superdwarven constitution and capacity to absorb unusual amounts of damage, Sharn would not have survived his first adventure with Miraden. And indeed, he did not survive them all. But those are stories for another time.
“Help me line up the horses. And quickly!” Miraden and Sharn drag the lifeless horses out of the cave and onto the snow, lining them up so that their ribcages are all in a row. “Stand back,” warns Miraden, as he surveys the line of horses and sidesteps in the snow once to his left. And once again. “With Mystra’s grace…” Miraden whispers.
Oh, now I get a warning, Sharn thinks. At this point in their career together, the eerie, resonant chant of Miraden’s spellcasting is all the crusty dwarf needs. In fact, Sharn is beginning to learn the difference in the sounds and the cadence between the nearly silent firey death and–
Flash! CRACK! Rumbbbble… An indigo beam 10 feet wide leaps from Miraden’s outstretched hand and leaves a persistent yellow streak across Sharn’s vision. In the cold, dry air, the stroke of thunder sounds like a giant bullwhip. And as if whipped, all twelve horses convulse once. Violently. In the distance, the sound of the spell echoes, but the horses do not respond to it.
The smell of burnt horsehair and seared horsemeat makes Sharn’s stomach turn, and then growl. Eleven of the horses are badly scorched, clearly dead and fit only for the scavenging wolverines. One horse, however, convulses again, and then again, and then leaps to its feet and runs towards the trees… only to falter and stumble halfway. Panting, it collapses on the ground, huge gouts of vapor gushing from its nostrils with each labored breath.
One mount. One horse, against all odds, revived by a lightning bolt instead of slain by one. Singed heavily, and wild eyed with fear, the horse is clearly not rideable. Yet.
Miraden is elated with his miracle, and lets out an uncharacteristic unelflike whoop. Sharn grumbles and wades through the snow to the poor beast, pulling the last healing vial from his belt…
So they just leave me like that. But I was not the least bit upset, I just smiled at them and waited.