Author's note: So I think some of the background for this comes from the sheer irritation of never finding out who the KC's father was. Yes, I know there's absolutely no way that Obsidian could plan for every possible player race, but it always felt like a plot thread left hanging. So why not one of the companions? Obviously Bishop and Casavir wouldn't work, Grobnar... is a terrifying thought. Ammon Jerro was a possibility, but giving him another descendant would completely tear the heart and sense out of Shandra's fate. So... Sand. I thought that would make for an interesting story, too.

And because I love him to bits – I was very disappointed I couldn't romance him – Esmerelle is ever-so-slightly a self-insertion.

Another week of brewing and selling potions lumbered past, and Sand stepped out of his shop with the fullest intention of interrogating Duncan thoroughly. There was one particular potion he'd brewed especially for that purpose; it had taken a little more time than he'd remembered. A useful piece of alchemy - let no one say that he hadn't picked up some very interesting things in the Hosttower – combination of truth serum, sleeping potion and an amnesia draught... and shouldn't be too hard to slip into Duncan's drink.

He sniffed delicately – and nearly choked on burning wood and thatch. He spluttered, coughed, and so missed the sight of an angry Duncan chasing a red-headed human girl out of the Flagon, and said girl being cornered by a couple of enraged students from the Academy. His poor, abused nasal passages even failed to register the waft of jasmine. In short, he was entirely unprepared to look up and see Angharad, sporting the distinctive cape of the City Watch and accompanied by her motley group, calmly laying down the law to all of them. His first reaction was to hide the powder in his sleeve.

"I don't care who did what to whom, but if you keep doing it outside my uncle's tavern, you will regret it. You see, first I'll let my demon-spawn friend steal your purses and valuables – assuming you haven't already, Neeshka," the tiefling smiled, revealing slightly-pointed teeth. "Then the blood-thirsty dwarf will hack you off at the knees –" the dwarf grinned, his axe shining in a rather pointed manner, " while the druid roots you to the spot," the skinny elf looked a little less pleased than the other two. "And then I will arrest whatever's left."

Sand wasn't sure whether he admired or was appalled at his d- no, hypothesis unproven, the girl's handling of the situation. Either way, it was effective. The Academy students looked at each other, looked at Angharad and her followers, and left without a word. The red-head pushed her hair off her forehead, and sneered at them.

"I didn't need your help. Those wizards had it coming."

Well, if it wasn't a snotty little sorceress. Angharad clearly felt something similar, judging from the way she wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't helping you," she pointed out. "I was ensuring you didn't burn my uncle's tavern down. Now, why don't you toddle back to the Academy?"

"I'm not a part of the Academy any more – I quit. Sort of. After burning down their stable. I don't need to study there anyway – I already know how to do magic. I can summon more power from my thumb than those noble-born mages can with a day's worth of concentration." Even overhearing the arrogant speech was making Sand's fingers itch to cast Disintegrate. Unfortunately it wasn't showing any signs of abating. "They're always staring into books and tomes, trying to categorize magic. What a waste of time. You either understand it or you don't. I do, they don't. You're a sorceress yourself, you understand that."

Sand had rather assumed that the half-elf was a wizard. He felt the headache he'd chased off yesterday trying to return, particularly when the girl didn't deny it.

"It's not about all power," Angharad said wearily. "Concentration, finesse – there really are more effective ways to skin a cat than setting it alight. You don't have to be a wizard to understand that."

"You sound just like those cantrip-casting Academy milksops," the human girl spat.

"Then maybe you should have listened to them. Go away."

"Oh, no, lass," Duncan interjected. "She'll be paying me for damaging my inn, tarnishing my reputation," – the little of it still tarnishable, thought Sand – "my lost business, and for putting me and my kin in danger like that."

"No," the red-head very nearly stamped her foot. "I don't have any money, and I'm not working for either of you. Ever."

"Look, Uncle, I don't want to see her face ever again. I'm making good wages with the Watch, I can help you repair the Flagon –"

Duncan's face set like stone. "No, lass. She owes us, and I'm not afraid to collect. If you don't want to take her along with you, that's fine. I don't blame you." He handed the sorceress a greasy dishcloth. "Get inside, girl, and start wiping tables."

Duncan's measly intelligence had always come off second-best to his stubbornness, Sand reflected. Taking the pyromaniac sorceress who'd made a good attempt to burn down his inn and turning her into a tavern wench could not possibly end well – except for Sand, who could possibly extort a lot of gold from Duncan in exchange for setting up a Vanteen's Siphon spell on the inn. Worth a thought.

On the other hand, he could hardly spike Duncan's tankard and pump him for information on his 'niece' and Esmerelle if the 'niece' in question was hanging about the tavern.

And he was starting to feel rather absurd, lurking about in the street.

"Coming in, lass?" Duncan asked, and Angharad shook her head.

"Got another four hours on duty, I'm afraid," she said, and surprised Duncan with a quick, hard hug. "But I'll drop by after that."

Sand eased the potion out of his sleeve as the girl and her entourage disappeared around the corner. Duncan caught sight of him.

"Sand, you charlatan! How long have you been standing there? Why weren't you helping?"

"Your kin seemed to have it all well in hand," he replied. "I would not presume to interfere with the workings of the City Watch."

Duncan just snorted and turned into the Flagon, no doubt to drown whatever mediocre sorrows he currently imagined himself to be suffering.

Sand could help him with that.

The wizard stood a moment in the doorway, letting his sinuses adjust to the characteristic reek of the Sunken Flagon (and the charred timber and thatch), picking up the less-powerful and transient scents.

Male, human, old grease, stale beer. Sal.

Female, human, ashes and burnt hair. The sorceress.

Male, human, unwashed skin and mangy wolf. That scruffy ranger who seemed to spend all his time here.

Male, half-elf, vinegar, faint sweat. Not quite as much ale as usual. Duncan. Already sitting at a table in the corner, already nursing a tankard. How he managed to drink the foul stuff was beyond Sand; even the smell was distasteful. He sat down opposite Duncan anyway.

"Oh, would you look at that?"Sand drawled, pointing over Duncan's shoulder. "I think your little sorceress is about to set fire to Sal." He couldn't have asked for a better diversion; Duncan half-twisted out of his seat to catch sight of Sal backing away from a chanting Qara, and opened his mouth to bellow at her - Sand leant forward, and emptied the vial into Duncan's tankard – Sal tipped a pitcher of water over Qara's head – something about all this caught the attention of the scruffy ranger by the fireplace, who shifted his weight and let the front legs of his chair hit the ground with a bang – and Sand sat back, exuding nonchalance. It was a skill he'd worked hard to perfect over the centuries. Qara spluttered, Sal shrugged, Duncan turned back to his drink, and the ranger... watched from his corner.

The flurry of drama over, Duncan practically poured the drugged ale down his throat – a sight Sand considered of little amusement value, apart from the slight satisfaction afforded by knowing that the innkeeper was now under his power. He asked a couple of test questions, to confirm that the potion had taken effect. Although the innkeeper expressed mild surprise at the questions, he nevertheless confirmed that his name was Duncan Farlong, his hair was brown, and that this inn was called the Sunken Flagon. And then Sand began the questioning.

"How do you know Esmerelle?"

"She and my half-brother Daeghun were part of the same adventuring company," Duncan said, and looked surprised as the words came freely from his mouth. "I travelled with them once or twice. And when Daeghun married and settled in West Harbour, I visited him every now and then. Sometimes I ran into Esmerelle there."

That was clear enough. A strange coincidence, that Sand had set up shop near a man who knew Esmerelle, and the name had never cropped up between them. Well, not so odd, really; when she had left, he had hardly gone about howling her name to the moon like a mad dog. And he'd gone out of his way not to listen to any of Duncan's ale-soaked reminiscences of his younger days... wait. Duncan had kept talking. "Repeat that last bit," he ordered the half-elf.

"Saw a lot more of her when she returned from one of her adventures pregnant and settled down with Daeghun and Shayla."

"When was this?"

Duncan named an approximate date.

"And when was the child – Angharad – born?" Well, that was merely his conclusion, but as Duncan didn't protest it...

The innkeeper scratched his head, before dredging up an answer.

Well. That about settled it, then. The gestation periods of half-elves were a little strange, as it varied depending on which race the mother was and how strongly the child took after either race, but unless Esmerelle had been with someone else during their time together – and even if that had been likely, he would have scented another man on her skin – then Angharad –

Then he –

Oh, gods.

What, by all the Nine Hells, was he supposed to do about that?