Hello! For those of you just stumbling on this, I've loved Sand for a long time and have finally been inspired to write a Sand romance that will likely be a bit silly, a bit dramatic, sappy in places, and hopefully quite funny. I know that NWN2 is an older game, so not as many people may find this, but for those of you who do, welcome, and thank you for reading.
If you followed me here after reading my Dragon Age 2 story, Why Can't I Meet a Sane Mage, first of all, thank you! Secondly, I think you'll like this, too. It's much of the same, with a new crew. Yes, I do have a thing for elven mages 3. Sand isn't nearly as kind and cuddly as Orsino, but he's a delightful mix of a fair helping of Varric's ego and humour, a soupçcon of Isabella's biting sarcasm, and a liberal seasoning of Fenris' dry wit. I'm not sure I'll do him justice, but I will certainly try. Don't worry if you don't know the story, I'll fill in more, probably, than I did in A Sane Mage. As for the setting, it's basic D&D fantasy ~ nothing too alien.
As always, I very much welcome any and all feedback ~ I can't learn if I don't get critique, and it's always nice to know if people like it.
Without further ado, I hope you enjoy A Tale of Sand and Sun.
Ch. 1 - A Chance Meeting - introducing our Hero and Heroine - of a sort.
"Hmm. Wolfsbane – check. Beetle glands – check. Fire oil – check. Athelas – check. Cat – no, wait a minute-" Sand stopped, glaring at his familiar, who hopped out of the box of supplies and wandered off to the edge of the counter in the wizard's small shop. Spotted tail waving, Jaral sniffed the corner, rubbing his face against it with his nose in the air as if it had been his only goal all along.
The elf sighed, shook his head, and went back to cataloguing his newest shipment of supplies. He'd just pulled the stack of tempered glass vials out of their protective casings when a rough packet of dried herbs fell away from the side of the box.
"Well, well – what do we have here?" He picked up the packet with a satisfied look. "They said they were behind in stock, but it looks like they did have some. I'll be able to make some more of that ale purgative after all." He stood, ignoring his protesting knee; he was an elf, yes, but after two-and-a-half centuries his knee would act up on occasion – such as when he'd hit it on the stair railing that morning trying to avoid Jaral as the cat wound around his ankles.
Going to his ledger, he made a note to provide the requisite payment for the herbs next time he sent an order in – he hadn't requested them this time, after all – and set the packet aside. Work first, play later. The only place he enjoyed spending time more than his alchemy lab was his library, and that was likely because he could take the books to bed. Beakers of hydrochloric acid didn't mix well with his sheets.
The next hour saw his shipment settled and after balancing the books, the dark-haired elf sat the quill down with a happy sigh and picked up the carton of vials and the packet of herbs. Moving Jaral out of the way purposefully with a booted toe, he carried his prizes to the back room where his lab was located. The small adjustable flame was no sooner lit than Sand found himself blissfully lost in his work. It was late morning, so he was unlikely to have business for several hours; the dockworkers came by early, the corner ladies wouldn't be by until evening, and he'd hopefully have the purgative finished by the afternoon, when those who were likely to need it would be finally waking up from their drunken stupors.
An hour passed, then two, and by the time he was finished there were several rows of neatly labelled, filled vials on the windowsill, all glowing a faint blue-green or violet in the noon sun as it shone in through the open back door – Sand might not be a 'nature' person but he enjoyed fresh air, especially in the autumn. He surveyed his morning's work with satisfaction and went to the small sink to wash off his hands.
Touching the tap – which drew water from the pump outside – he chuckled again at how many people thought his shop 'small' or 'quaint' and wondered why he hadn't set up in the Merchant's District. It was true that at one time he'd had a store there, and it was true that his relocation to the docks hadn't been completely his own choice – damn that Nevalle. It was, however, very unlikely that he'd be able to recreate the hidden luxuries he now had back in the bustle of the marketplace. And Sand was very fond of his luxuries.
He dusted off his immaculately-clean robes – Sand was very particular about cleanliness, yet another reason why he was willing to trade 'location' for 'creature comforts'. Plus, he couldn't complain too badly (even though he did anyway) – the docks were very good for business. Not that the higher-and-middle-class districts didn't see their share of overindulgence, illicit affairs, and simpering duels – all of which called for potions or magical spells of one sort or another – but the docks had knife-fights, drinking, whoring, and drugging to an even greater extent. Not that Sand approved – no, he was actually very terse whenever he found out that one of his clients was doing something illegal, and would generally put a bug in their ear about it; unfortunately, Sand's wit was lost on the lower classes, and most of them just shrugged and went back to their daily routine. Still, a life without business is no life at all. Jaral, who'd been helping him make potions, chirrupped in agreement at this thought and jumped off the counter to wind around the moon-elf's legs.
"Indeed," he said, dryly. "All this thought of overindulgence reminds me – I might as well take another week's worth of ale purgative to Duncan. He is the one who got panicked when I told him I might not get a shipment in for several weeks or more." He shook his head. "How he manages to stay an innkeeper with what little tolerance for alcohol he has, I haven't the slightest."
He heard his name before his eyes had even adjusted to the dusty gloom in the tavern – Sand had never seen a tavern that had good, clear windows or lighting, but he supposed that was just for better business. No one would eat off those tables if they saw them in daylight.
"He's a sharp-eared viper, with a wit to match – but he generally knows his stuff. He might be able to tell you more about that shard, but don't pay him until after you've gotten your information. In fact-" Sand stepped up, clearing his throat before Duncan could continue to further ravage his character with imaginary slights.
"Duncan, you wouldn't even last two days without my ale purgative and who is it that keeps this place warded against fire and lightning?" He sighed. "But fancy, I heard my name mentioned and in a voice that almost suggested that I could help in some way."
The half-elven innkeeper shot a look at the person with whom he'd been speaking, and for the first time Sand turned to look at them – at her. He blinked, as she was not whom he'd expected Duncan to be giving any kind of advice to, especially not magical. An elf herself – at least, she appeared to be a sun elf, although there was something about her that Sand couldn't place – she stood shorter than even he, which was a surprise in and of itself. She was dressed in green robes and smelled like magic, but he couldn't determine just what her specialities were. Blonde hair pinned up, pale skin – odd, sun elves are usually quite tan – but the oddest thing about her was the tinted spectacles she wore. They were almost like ones he'd seen blind scholars wear, but were not nearly as dark – just enough to obscure the eyes. That must make being in this tavern difficult. It's as dim as its owner. Still, she was odd, but no odder than half of the other citizens of Neverwinter. Everyone had their secrets – even Sand. Especially Sand. He smirked to himself.
Just then, Duncan gestured at her. "This here's kin-"
"I don't really see the resemblance," Sand murmured.
Duncan just gave him a look. "-and I'd be obliged if you could help her out with some questions she has. But don't you dare try to cheat her! I've told her all about you."
Sand pursed his lips. "Mmm, I'm sure." He resented Duncan's constant implications that he was a cheat – he wasn't, his prices were actually quite fair, but as with most common folk, the innkeeper didn't understand that magic wasn't instant, wasn't infallible, and wasn't always going to give people the answers they wanted. Magic couldn't do everything, no matter what people wanted to believe.
However, his palms had been tingling ever since Duncan had said the elf was kin. Kin – so she might be staying locally - and an arcanist of some sort – she wasn't a cleric, as she didn't smell like sanctified dust, and she wasn't a druid, as she didn't smell of tree sap. That meant she'd be using his store for things other than his two-copper potions and salves. He wasn't expecting stellar magical discussion – very few people could understand the sorts of erudite conversation that Sand enjoyed, after all – but at least he'd be selling magical supplies and not just glorified bandages and timesavers.
He turned to her with a smile and a bow. "Please ignore Duncan, who hasn't a magical bone in his body." Mystra, but those glasses make her difficult to read. I wonder why she wears them, anyhow? She followed conversation well enough, looking from person to person, and when Duncan gestured he'd seen her gaze briefly in the direction of his hand, as anyone in such a conversation would subconsciously do. She's not blind, but perhaps she has weak vision. It would explain things, although a mage with weak vision is asking for trouble. Meanwhile, she'd taken a silk-wrapped bundle out of her pocket and was holding it as if it was very dear to her, and found himself more and more intrigued.
She chuckled at his sally against Duncan. "My uncle is merely being protective and I thank him for the concern," she said quietly, in a voice that was rather mellifluous – but she was an elf, so it really didn't surprise him. Musical voices, perfect hair, gorgeous skin, incredible lifespans – no wonder the other races envied them. She might be a bard, but I don't know many bards who wear robes. They tend to prefer awful garish costumes or leathers.
She continued. "I have a silver shard here that I need information on, and my uncle said you might help-?"
Sweet Mystra, not this again. Sand shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mistress-" he paused, a questioning tone.
"My apologies. My name is Gwyndeth."
He nodded. "Gwyndeth, then. I told your uncle when he first brought it to me that the only magic I could sense seemed to be incidental. Anyhow, it's likely useless without the other shard he mentioned, and-"
Gwyndeth held out the silk-wrapped bundle – he now realized that the silk was due to practicality, not sentimentality – and displayed two shards, together only as wide as her palm. She looked puzzled. "I have them both. But why do you say there is no magic? I can sense it, but I cannot place it. It seems rather strong to me."
He blinked at her, beginning to feel a bit affronted. How can she tell me my business if she doesn't even know what she's talking about? Strong indeed. Fine, whatever. They'll get another divination, and if they try to complain that it's not what they want, then I'll just leave. Happy visions of a magically-inclined customer were rapidly fading away, and he sighed.
"All right. Perhaps the years have revealed what my scrying could not; I will try again." Nodding to indicate that she should keep her hand out - palm-up with the shards protected by silk - he held his own over hers and began a quick scrying cantrip. He noticed a flicker of concern cross her face, and for some reason it annoyed him further – he knew his own limits, and she could leave well enough alone.
When the three of them – Duncan had been standing near enough to get caught in the knockback, as well – began to pick themselves up off the floor several minutes later, Sand's ego was no longer feeling quite so superior. He even looked a bit chagrined. "Well, now. There is more magic there – certainly – and it seems to have a peculiar resentment against being scryed." He rubbed the back of his head, and extended a hand to assist Gwyndeth to stand.
Meanwhile, Duncan looked incensed. "Oh no you don't, you charlatan! I'm not paying you for two failed divinations!"
Sand rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Gwyndeth turned to him and completely won his undying gratitude by not saying 'I told you so', or even looking it. She just gave him a thoughtful, level gaze, and slowly said, "Well, why would that be? From all I know, any kinds of wards that produce that sort of kickback don't just… go to sleep and wake back up again. Not unless they're sentient, and these really don't seem self-aware." She held up the shards, more gingerly this time.
He looked at her with new found respect. "Well, I can certainly see where all the brains in your family went, my dear." He deliberately did not look at Duncan, and was gratified to see her smirk, ever so slightly. "And I will be honest with you, and say I don't know. I can think of situations in which this might occur, but they're so specific that I would need to know a great deal more of the shards' history." He looked to Duncan, then back again to her. "Do you know anything else?" When they shook their heads, he sighed, frustrated. "Well, what about that uncle or brother or cousin or whatever – the one who had the other shard?"
Gwyndeth looked ill at ease at the reference, but shook her head. "Daeghun might be closed-mouthed, but I trust that my father has told me all he knows, and it's nothing more than we already had." Sand found this intriguing. Her father, yet she calls him by name and seems uncomfortable if he's mentioned. Oh ho, I sense a story here. He filed it away for later as she continued, sighing. "We know they're from the battle with the King of Shadows, but nothing more. Who would know about that war?"
"For that, you'd want Aldanon, the sage. Unfortunately he lives in Blacklake, so…" he trailed off as Duncan nodded.
"Bad bit of business, that. Heard about it last week. Is it true they had the Cloaktower mages in?"
Sand nodded, then turned to Gwyndeth, who'd been looking at them both in confusion. "The Blacklake district has been closed for a week or more now due to some rather… inconvenient… murders in the area, and they're not letting anyone in. The presence of the Cloaktower suggests that mages or demons had something to do with it. So, sadly, you won't be learning anything about these shards, so really your best bet is to leave them with me and let me study them at my leisure, and-"
Gwyndeth wrapped the shards back up with alacrity, putting them back into her robes before Sand could take them. "And how might I get into Blacklake?"
He blinked at her. Apparently, the shards were of more import to her than he'd guessed. "Well unless you're part of the Watch, you won't be." He paused, considering her, and decided that she wasn't the type who'd be interested in the shadier routes, for which he was glad. There was enough lawlessness in the docks, and it was something he was entirely unhappy about. Even the Watch had its tiers of corruption, though in truth, they did what they could.
Meanwhile, Duncan looked thoughtful. "The Watch – now, that's not a bad idea. Marshal Cormick heads it in this district, and it'd give you an in to the city as well as put some change in your pockets."
Gwyndeth brightened at the name. "Cormick, from Fort Locke? From West Harbour? I met him on the way here. As long as he doesn't mind that I'm a mage, I'd be glad to work with him. It's good to see another Harbourman around."
Not a bard, then. Sand shrugged. "Well, then, it seems you have a course of action. I'll be returning to my shop, then, and if you need anything, I have a full stock of magical and alchemical reagents. And you're also not likely to find anyone else who can string two sensible sentences together around here, so come by if you need more advice." He turned, but then remembered the purgative. "Oh, that reminds me." He tossed the bottle – holding a week's worth, any more would go bad – to Duncan. "Consider it repayment for the failed diviniation." He nodded again to Gwyndeth, turned, and left.
Halfway home, still thinking on the myriad of puzzles that Duncan's niece and her shards presented, he realized that his ankles were remarkably open; usually Jaral would be doing everything he could to trip him in his absent-mindedness. He looked down – nothing. Turning around, he glanced up the path back to the inn – no Jaral. Feeling a bit concerned, he whistled lightly, and then sent out a mental poke – he hadn't sensed anything, so it wasn't like the animal was in trouble, but-
Just then a whirlwind nearly bowled him over and when he finally got his hand on his familiar's collar, he pulled Jaral out of the fray to find another cat – smaller than Jaral, white with a lopsided black splotch on her face, and striking green eyes – howling up at him. She seemed for all the world to be saying "Give him back I wasn't finished teaching him a lesson!" He looked at Jaral, who hung his head.
"All right, what have you been doing?" Jaral looked away. He sighed, placed the cat on his shoulder, and then leaned down to offer the newcomer his hand. She sniffed it gravely, looked up at him, then bumped her head along his fingers. "Hmmm. You're too smart to be a housecat, and I don't recognize you, anyway. You're her familiar, aren't you? Gwyndeth."
At her mistress's name, the little cat prrped, nodding. He saw then that she wore a thin black corded collar to which was attached a small brass tag which read, 'Ayree.'
"Well, Ayree," he started, but just then Jaral shifted on his shoulder and her attention went back to the other cat, her eyes narrowing. Sand could feel a slight level of panic begin to radiate from his familiar, and he chuckled. "Don't worry. I'm not surprised that he's managed to incur your wrath, but I'll see to it that he's properly chastised." Meanwhile, he was already thinking at Jaral, ~You idiot, you know better than to harass other familiars – and if she's anything like her mistress, you're in for it there. Neither seem to be the type to play around.~ He felt a wash of disappointment and got the distinct feeling of Well dammit from Jaral, and he chuckled. "He shouldn't bother you again, milady."
This seemed to satisfy her, so she turned to leave and then stopped, abruptly, looking down the side street – more of an alley, really – they were in. He could feel her confusion, and realized that if she and her mistress had only come to town recently, she was likely lost. He picked Ayree up after a brief, 'may I?' and was about to carry her back to the inn when an errant whim arrested his footsteps. He looked down. "It's a bit of a walk, so might I take you back to my shop – which is closer – and give you some refreshments first? I've got a very important experiment to look in on-" which was true "-and then if your mistress hasn't come by I'll take you back. Would that be amenable?"
She didn't speak, of course. Familiars didn't speak unless they were awakened, and it was rare for a mage to keep an awakened beast as a familiar – it felt too much like slavery or servitude. But wizards and sorcerers – here he wrinkled his nose, being a little less than fond of the latter, especially the ones from the Neverwinter College – could communicate by thought, at least with feelings and concepts, if not words, with their own familiars, and the beasts were intelligent enough to understand spoken words. He'd had enough dealings with others' familiars in his centuries that he knew that they could think at mages who were not their own if they wanted to, but very few deigned to have anything to do with anyone other than their own master or mistress. In this, Ayree – Jaral, too – seemed a cut above the rest, as she seemed to have no problems dealing with Sand, although she gave a wary look at Jaral. She looked up at the elf – as he was still holding her – prrped in agreement, and looked expectantly down the alley in the direction they were originally headed.
"Excellent," was his only response, and the three of them – Jaral keeping very still – made their way back to his shop. He set Ayree down just inside the door, allowing her to investigate at her own pace – knowing that, as she was a familiar, his things were absolutely safe – and went to the larder to fetch some cold scraps and cream. Setting them out he gave Jaral a look that said don't you dare – the cat usually ate with Sand, and ate well – and then went into the back to check on his experiment.
What on earth am I doing, catnapping another mage's familiar? He sighed. Not catnapping, she came willingly, I did have an experiment to see to, and is it really so much to want to have an intelligent conversation with someone without an alcoholic – no, a failure of an alcoholic, a traitor to barkeeps everywhere – standing there raising a ruckus about payments? He shrugged. It's not like there's anyone else in this district to converse intelligently with, and even if Nevalle would allow me to talk to the Cloaktower mages, I wouldn't want to. And those fools at the college – Sand shuddered, remembering the last time a few of them had gotten loose in the docks; one of them, a fire-fond sorceress who was always getting into trouble in the seedier parts of town – had managed to destroy a dinghy as well as the dock it was attached to. Damn sorcerers. No control.
As he stood in his alchemical lab, Jaral sitting on one corner of the table, helping him, and Ayree sitting on the opposite corner, watching with great interest, Sand found himself keeping an eye on the window which overlooked the alley. He sighed. Well, if she hasn't the sense to come here for her familiar, maybe it's not such a lost conversation after all. I'll just take Ayree back after I'm done with this experiment.
"-and then I caught that cat of his sneaking around the storehouse and I swear the next time I looked the rats in there were ten times the size! I had to pay him for double the poison I usually get! And then there was the time that-"
Gwyndeth sighed. "Uncle, the cost of the materials to cast such a spell would be three or four times over what you would pay for all but the costliest poisons, and there's no way a familiar could cast it, anyhow. I can tell you don't like Sand, but he didn't seem too terrible to me. Egotistical, that's for certain, and I'm sure he probably charges a fair bit for cheap trinkets and potions, but that's not really shady – it's barely even unethical, considering that I'll bet ninety percent of his customers are merely looking for ways to indulge their vices." She smiled shrewdly. "And doesn't he already have a fairly steady business from you with that ale purgative?"
Duncan winced and she knew then that she had the rights of it; her uncle felt guilty enough about needing such a potion, and it didn't help that Sand's personality was, at best – pardon the pun – abrasive. Not the kind of person to let such a thing slip under the notice of his ridicule. She shook her head. "I'm not saying he's a paragon of shining justice, but he seemed pretty decent to me, if a bit of an ass." She looked around, absentmindedly. "Mystra knows I can be enough of one in my own rights sometime."
Khelgar, who'd wandered up, snorted. "Come now, lass. Call me an ass, or Neeshka-"
The tiefling in the corner looked up. "Hey!"
He chuckled "- but I wouldn't say it's a trait you or the tree hugger over there possess." She grinned, Elanee pretended to ignore the 'tree hugger' comment, and he looked around, following her gaze. "What're you lookin' for, anyway? You've been starin' around as if you lost something."
She sighed. "As a matter of fact, I may have. Has anyone seen Ayree in the last hour?"
Her uncle looked up. "Last I saw of her was when Sand was here." He began to get upset. "I'll bet he took her and is planning some sort of crazy experiment, and-"
Gwyndeth waved her hand at him. "Uncle, please. Whatever traits he may possess, Sand isn't the type of wizard who would steal someone else's familiar. She probably wandered out – we all know that she's got a cat's own curiosity, and it's worse because she's so smart. I can tell she's not upset or in trouble, I just can't tell where she is, because she's far enough away. I'll go down to his shop and ask whether he's seen her."
Duncan shook his head. "All right, lass, it's your pet. But don't go wandering around alone – it's getting close to dark and who knows what kinds of thugs are lurking in the alleys. Sand wasn't half wrong when he mentioned the shadier elements down here in the docks, more's the pity."
She sighed – she'd wanted to get away for a bit, because as much as she loved her new friends, there were times she needed some alone time – but she wasn't an idiot, either. This wasn't the sort of place to take a moonlit walk to clear one's head. "All right. Khelgar?"
"Was hopin' you'd ask, lass. There's always a thug or two in places like this spoilin' for a fight."
He grinned, and she sighed again. "Just no more wanton destruction of property, please?"
As always, all characters belong to Bioware, except for Gwyndeth Farlong, who belongs to me.