~*-{/=I=\}-*~

The shadow that old stronghold had cast didn't have much of a reach, after all; it didn't hang over them for long. And once Sajantha was free of it, she perked right up.

"I can see much of Gorion's manner in you," Khalid told her, and you couldn't find a better compliment for that girl; maybe that's what did it. The man seemed to know just how to draw her out, too; by the first evening he got her to bring her harp out and everything. You couldn't make Sajantha play what wasn't on her mind—her heart—whatever she was feeling would just spill right out in the air, like the notes were pieces of her soul.

And when the song finished, she'd call them back. So you'd be floating right along with her—she pulled you along; you didn't have a choice—but who could mind? Flying and crashing with those soaring crescendos, but the music had to stop sometime, and it left you reeling.

This song played out different, though. Even sadder than anything for Miirym, which was saying something, as gloomy as those two could get. For Gorion, then, it must have been; it started out all soft and gentle, then strung right up high, a wavering note—like you were teetering on the edge with her—then plunging straight down. Sajantha called it back slowly, plucking those strings one by one til she built it back up.

Sajantha stayed still, head bent over her harp, like she always did in the hush, after—maybe waiting til the last vibrations stopped, til she and the strings both stopped shivering.

"Does it have words?"

Sajantha's head snapped up. "What?"

"Words," Jaheira repeated. "Have you any words to accompany it?"

Sajantha's mouth moved like she was searching for some words right now. "I didn't think it needed any," she finally said, and drew her harp back as the other woman stepped closer.

"It is only... this song reminded me of something, and I think it may be fitting."

Imoen couldn't see Jaheira's face, but Sajantha's grip loosened as she tilted her head. "Oh?"

The older half-elf knelt down, squatting in the dirt beside her, and Sajantha shifted to make room.

"Iire cormamin lindua, elen sila lumenn ten'lle.
Niire lanta, nan' ahnvae lanta, vithel.
Amrum au'alet, ar' i'anar lumenna tirinin."

"Elvish," Sajantha whispered. She propped her chin in her hands. "What does it mean?"

Across the campfire, Imoen sighed, kicking her heels out to turn around, to lean against a tree and face the other way. "Now, why didn't I think of that?" Really, she should have.

Beside her, Khalid cocked his head.

Imoen gestured. "Toss some new knowledge at her, a book or what-have-you, she'll dig right in and digest it for days." Sajantha'd have that Elvish memorized in minutes, figure out how to work it into her song by the end of the night. "I shoulda thought of that, to get her mind off things." Buried in a book better than buried in her misery.

"I'd say st-staying alive was a far greater concern."

Or she could have been buried in the ground, right. "Could be worse, I guess."

Khalid glanced up at her. "Do you—do you know the words Jaheira spoke?"

"Elvish? Nah, I don't know a lick of it. Oh! 'Naug spanga,' though; someone told me that, once. Is that a good one?"

He shook his head. "A small insult. 'Llie n'vanima ar' lle atara lanneina' is b-better, though." His voice didn't stumble at all over the words; they flowed right off his tongue. Elvish, such a pretty language, just as pretty as them fair folk.

"Still sounds nice, don't it? Guess you can wrap up all kinds of nasty things in a pretty package." She shook her head. "But just how am I supposed to remember that! Got a shorter one?"

"N'uma." Khalid had managed a straight face this whole time, but now his eyes twinkled like a grin ready to peek out.

"I like it! What's that one mean?"

"No."

Imoen laughed. Took in Khalid's pleased face, and kept laughing. "So, you two grow up with the elves, then?"

Khalid's smile faltered, and Imoen distance dropped between them like he had scooted right away. Half-elves usually had a story, and from what Imoen had heard, most weren't the happy kind. "Don't worry about it," she said. "Or we can compare messed-up childhoods, if you want. I never even had no parents."

His smile faded out to faint, polite. His hand reached up to cover it. "It is—it is Jaheira's story, not mine. She was... v-very young. Her mother..." He shook his head. "We both picked up m-most of the language later on."

"So, um. That song, then. Just what did it mean; what was she saying?"

Khalid took a breath, and pressed his lips together as his pointed ears flamed red. "S'okay," Imoen hurried. "You don't want to..."

He shook his head, and cleared his throat:

"When my heart sings, a star shall shine for you.
Tears fall, but night falls, too.
Morning comes again, and the sun shines brightest."

The blush had crept across the rest of his face, almost as red as his hair in the firelight.

"Beautiful," Imoen assured him. And it was.

And Sajantha over there thought the same thing, too; the words floated right along on the wind, soaring up and down to match her music. "Amrum au'alet..."

Imoen glanced over at Khalid. "Llie n'vanima," she told him. "Ar' lle atara lanneina," His smile peeked back.

***((I managed to lose my original notes, but 'naug spanga' as I recall involves some comparison to a dwarf, and the second one involves something along the lines of, 'you are ugly and your mother dresses you funny.'))

"Two assassins," Jaheira mused. "Neither Candlekeep nor the Friendly Arm are without defenses. And to overcome Gorion... This is as serious as we had feared."

"Three, actually," Imoen pointed out. "Was another one in the keep, but the Watchers got at him, first."

Jaheira shook her head. "Then we can hope our own vigilance allows us to remain so fortunate. You've made it this far, yes? Sajantha is lucky to have a friend like you."

"Well, I didn't... I mean, I didn't really do nothing, did I? The first one, Sajantha took care of him herself, and at the Friendly Arm? That was all those Zhents."

Tarnesh. That was his name, the assassin at the inn. Imoen had asked the waitress about him, after. Nice guy, she'd said. Good tipper, too. Just sweet as you please. Where'd he run off to? Pity he'd left without saying anything; must've met up with whoever he was waiting for. Yeah, he sure had.

" 'Nothing?' " Jaheira repeated. All tilted brow and squinting eye. "You are too hard on yourself. I think we would be waiting at the inn a long while yet, had you not been with her."

Imoen snorted. "Yeah, she'd sure get lost pretty easy, on her own."

Jaheira didn't reply. Didn't smile. And Imoen realized with a gulp what she'd meant. How long would Sajantha have hid under that bush, if no one'd ever come to drag her out? And just who would have, gibberlings?

Or wolves. Or assassins, or spikey monster-men, or Zhentarim. Hobgoblins. Wasn't no end of dangers. Imoen rubbed her forehead. "Was getting to be a lot of work, keeping her out of trouble." Her hand slid down to cup her chin, so she spoke through her fingers. "I'm—I'm awful glad you're here, now. You know? I don't..." She took in a breath. "I don't know how much longer I could have kept it up, all myself."

Jaheira stared at her a moment, then stood up and touched Imoen's shoulder, and all her tension flew free—like the wind knocked out of her—but a different kind of breathless. Boneless, exhausted. She slumped without meaning to.

"Relax," the woman said. "It's alright. You may rest, now. You may sleep."

And Imoen realized what that spell was, because she was yawning, already—like one of her potions had worn off, but not with the same numb crash, just gone. De-spelled.

And for a single frantic moment she knew that Jaheira could hurt her—she'd be free to go after Sajantha, now that Imoen was out of the way—a surge of adrenaline nearly carried her head away in a dizzying fright. She jerked up, heavy limbs half-cooperating.

"You've done more than any could ask of you," Jaheira murmured. "And it's time you rested."

Imoen struggled, blinking through the heavy fog of sleep resting like a blanket over her. "But, but I—"

"Hush. Gorion rests easier knowing you are at her side."

"But he didn't," Imoen mumbled. "He didn't know."

"No? He wrote us of you, as well."

"He... he did?"

"Aye," came the answer, and Imoen couldn't tell if Jaheira whispered it, or if it faded as she drifted off, letting that warm blanket cover her at last.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"Hey—hey! What are you doing?" Sajantha demanded. It was clear, though, what Jaheira was up to: rifling through her friend's packs while Imoen slept, oblivious. The action was clear—but the motive?

Jaheira stopped, only to give Sajantha a look as if it were she being unreasonable. At least when Imoen dug through people's bags, she knew enough to be subtle. Mayhap Jaheira had noticed something gone missing. In any case, "You can't just—"

But the woman forestalled her, held up a small white bottle—then another one. "Do you know what these are?"

Sajantha didn't. She took a step closer, took them in her hand. "They're empty."

"Aye. Your friend's been drinking them. Diluted enough, and their effects can go unnoticed. But quite dangerous, for long-term use; they weaken the heart and eventually accelerate the aging process."

Sajantha stared at the bottles. Haste potions. "She was? Why would she...?"

Jaheira folded her arms. "Their short-term effects are far more beneficial. Alertness, enhanced perceptions, quicker reaction time. And they are often used as a stimulant, to compensate for lack of sleep."

At their feet, Imoen lay curled up in her cloak. She seemed especially pale in the wan moonlight. Sajantha swallowed. "I didn't know."

"Our elvish blood leaves us with less need for sleep," said Jaheira. "We should not forget that all do not share this same advantage." She brushed off her hands, leaving the bottles cold and clinking in Sajantha's palm as she walked off.

Imoen stirred, made a little smacking sound. Sajantha knelt, straightening her own cloak out over them both as she curled up at her friend's side, and Imoen nestled into her, found her shoulder for a pillow. Sajantha stared up at the stars with an ache in her throat.

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Wh-why didn't anyone wake me?" Imoen kicked her cloak out of the way, then found herself still tangled in another one. The sun sitting well and high in the sky laughed down at her. "It's gotta be midmorn already!"

Sajantha appeared, holding out a small bowl. "High morn, actually. Didn't miss highbite, though; you hungry?"

"Starved." Imoen took the bowl, digging right in, eating fast enough she didn't even notice the taste til afterwards. "Mmpf. What is this?"

"Something Jaheira rustled up. I picked out most of the twigs for you." She sat down beside Imoen, hugged her legs. "So... how are you feeling?"

Imoen let out a sigh as she patted her belly, leaning back. "Ugh. Time for a nap, I think."

Sajantha didn't laugh. "You can take one, if you want."

"We done wasted half the day, already!" Imoen scrambled to her feet, ignoring the little wave in her head, in her stomach.

Sajantha stood more slowly. "We're staying around here, today. Jaheira's out gathering more berries or... whatever that is." She paused. "And Khalid said he'd teach us some defense. If you want."

"What, like with swords 'n daggers? Wouldn't you rather be working at that spellbook?"

Sajantha gave a little half-shrug, holding one arm. "I'm sure it's a good idea. You said so, right?"

Imoen rubbed her neck. "Reckon I did, yeah."

"You read so well, better figure out how to read a map, now. We're almost to Beregost!"

"Really?" Sajantha straightened, looking up from her book. "There's a great conjurer that lives nearby. Did you know? And Ulcaster's ruins aren't too much further—just think, a whole lost school of wizards! They say it's haunted, now." She finally closed the book; maybe she'd have some attention to spare for the road.

"I don't know; pretty sure powerful wizards don't much like being bothered. Especially undead ones." Imoen wasn't impressed. "So, what's our great Volo have to say on Beregost?"

"Beregost? Well, there's the mage Thalantyr, as I said..."

"What's in Beregost? No more of your magic stuff; what about the town? This'll be our first time in a real city, aren't you excited?"

That blank stare was enough of an answer. "Gimme that here!" Imoen snatched the book from her, skimming the passages. "Tavern, tavern—aha! The Burning Wizard. 'Traveling minstrels...stay for free.' " That oughta do it; she snapped the guidebook shut. "There you have it: away with the book, out with the harp!"

"What? I—hey! Imoen!"

"C'mon, don't ya wanna play for a real audience? Them suck-up monks ain't nowhere to be seen. It's time to see if you're half as good as they all told you."

"Somehow I don't think playing for a bunch of drunks could be the best measure."

"You chicken!" Imoen laughed, swatting at her with the guidebook. "How are you ever gonna find what you're good at? I'll see you a famous bard if I have to do the legwork myself. I'll be your agent, get you contracts at all the best inns... you'll have your renown across the Sword Coast and beyond!"

"I don't want anything like that," Sajantha protested, eyes stuck on the book as Imoen gestured with it.

"It's not about what you want this time, but what you can do! You got to live up to your abilities; you owe yourself that much. And Gorion." She returned the book to her friend's arms. "He believed in you."

Sajantha bit her lip. "Aye..."

Imoen studied her. "We need to get you a pretty cape, first," she decided. That old cast-off gray one wouldn't do. "Something you can twirl all dramatically; folk love that stuff. What do you think: green, for your eyes? Red, to match your harp?"

Sajantha was quiet a moment. "My father, he had that silk cloak, with the embroidery? I think it was elvish. For special occasions." She glanced up.

"I remember. Blue, it is." They'd need a bit more of a disguise for her, though, what with that bounty notice flying about.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"You look a bit silly with that hat in your face."

"And I'd feel a bit sillier with a sword in my gut!" Her curls caused her no end of trouble; mayhap she'd be better off cutting them free. Sajantha tugged the wide-brimmed hat further down, and brushed off a loose feather. She'd owned the thing less than an hour, and it was already molting.

"There's spells for disguises," Imoen said. "I shouldn't have to tell you that! Illusions. And something less conspicuous than a bird on your head."

Sajantha didn't know any of those spells. "I kind of like it."

"Sure you do. But it gets attention enough all its own—don't pretend you don't notice. Only thing weirder 'round here is that fellow making eyes at you across the bar."

Sajantha gripped the edges of the table to keep from spinning around to look. "Has he got any weapons? Does he look ready to use them?" Someone else after her bounty. That stupid hat was useless, twenty silver gone!

Imoen rolled her eyes and tipped back a drink before Sajantha could properly glare at her, before she could turn around to see for herself.

"If you two be as kind as you are lovely, perchance you might lend me your ears for a moment? I was filled with troubled sorrows, but now, to gaze upon the face of such loveliness, I have forgotten all else!"

Imoen's eyebrows shot up, her cup hiding what was no doubt a disbelieving grin.

For this was what they spoke of, naming young fools 'star-eyed': this young man standing before him, with shining eyes open wide enough to wonder at some vacancy within. For while he spoke, hand on breast, he gazed off as if posturing upon a stage visible only to himself.

"Which one of us you think he's talking to?" Imoen muttered in an aside, a stage whisper the fellow could not fail to notice, had he cared to.

In answer, he slipped down on the seat across them, reaching across the table to grasp Sajantha's hand. She drew back, startled, a feather from her hat bouncing between them. "Prithee, my lady—might I know a name to ascribe to such loveliness, that I may pen praises to your pure heart, perform poems for your pleasure?"

It was hard not to glare at Imoen. The other girl had grace enough to keep her laughter muted—or perhaps she was laughing so hard she could not breathe—but Sajantha couldn't dare look at her, lest the laughter take her, too. Her face was surely turning red from the effort of holding it in; a warmth crept up her cheeks.

"My name is Sajantha," she said, retrieving her hand, "but it doesn't really rhyme with anything; I've tried."

"Sajantha," the man repeated, enraptured.

And then: "Sajantha?" a voice echoed from behind, this one gruff and grim, and altogether lacking the lilting affectations of a minstrel.

A schick of metal, now, a stomp of boot, and Sajantha turned in time to see a blade swinging towards her face. She screamed.

It stopped; everything stopped. The sound hung in the air. The sword hung in the air.

And Sajantha peeked out beneath arms risen up to protect herself—futile—from the blade that waited motionless in the air. No—it moved—but barely.

The rest of the room hovered just shy of frozen; its occupants seemed so sluggish that she could take nine breaths for their one—but the blade would still finish its inexorable arc. The realization jolted enough to jerk her into motion. Sajantha threw herself aside, knocking first into one chair, and then another one, her clumsiness inconsequential with no one near enough—nor quick enough—to take advantage.

Another table between them, now, and she turned to look at her attacker, at this red-haired dwarf whose eyes were slowly widening, so slowly, trying to track her movement, and his mouth opened—

She heard his animal roar, then, and she heard a hundred things: the clatter of tableware as Imoen jumped up, shouting, chairs knocked aside as patrons scrambled for cover, screaming, a blur as time caught up—

And the blade bit down into the back of the chair she had been seated in. Across the table, Sajantha met the man's enraged eyes. His sword tore free of the wood with a grinding crunch, spitting splinters.

That could have been her. Winded, now, and her head hurt like the world still blurred around her, limbs too heavy to lift—like her arms and legs were made of lead—no, iron—decaying. She'd used up whatever advantage her haste spell might have left her. And there was nothing slow about him, now.

"Fear not, my lady!" The melody that followed the bard's cry set some spell upon the air, lent her a burst of confidence, of strength—or at least the illusion of it. Perhaps it was the same thing.

Sajantha faced her attacker. Music filled the air between them and she knew just what words to weave to it—to transfer her own fatigue to him:

"Your steps slow as your speed's erased,
Your feet will trip and halt your pace,
Your lungs belabored, fatigue sets in;
Your breath comes short, your vision spins.
Slow your breath and feet alike:
You stumble, once—and close your eyes."

The bounty hunter's eyes stayed locked on her, even as he fought through the spell. He blinked... stumbled... and yawned.

A ringing smash echoed through the sudden quiet of the inn, and the dwarf crumpled to the ground. The innkeeper stood over him with a dented skillet. "Heh," he said. "There's some iron still good fer something."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Not the first bit of trouble we've had 'round here." The innkeeper winked, like that might explain why he was so good with knots. Behind him sat the dwarf, tied up tight to a chair. With that lump on his head as big as that dent on the skillet, he sure wouldn't be moving anytime soon, anyway. "The guards are on their way." The innkeep hesitated. We've enough witnesses, should you need to be taking off." He'd seen that bounty notice, too.

"Thank you," Sajantha said, "I suppose that might be for the best. I'm awfully sorry for the trouble, sir."

He shrugged. "You think I care more about a couple chairs than the safety of my patrons?" He cleared his throat. "My reputation?"

"Shame about the skillet, though."

His concern got swallowed by a grin. "You ladies keep safe out there."

Decent fellow. Imoen dug through her satchel, left a handful of coins on the table. Few of them might've come from this very room, though; she tossed down a couple more.

Still early enough in the day, there was enough traffic outside to make Imoen's spine tingle. No wonder Jaheira hated towns so much; at least out in the wilds, you had a bit of warning before something jumped on you: you could assume any sound belonged to something dangerous. Here, though, any one of these folk sidling by casually could just spring for your back as they passed. Hard not to get dizzy, walking with her neck bent around like this, checking every single one. Maybe they should have just waited at the tavern for the Harpers. Like they were supposed to.

And, "Maybe it's not such a great idea for Sajantha the bard to be makin' noise. Keep your name hidden along with your hair, yeah?"

"You're a bard, as well? As am I!"

Imoen jumped. Eyes front for one second was apparently enough for someone to sneak up on her! The fact it was that minstrel from earlier made it even more humiliating. Her heart slowed back down; he wasn't hardly dangerous, at least. Just not so eager to see Sajantha go, if his puppy-eyes meant anything.

"Oh!" said Sajantha. Just as surprised, but her nice enough to cover it. "I never thanked you for your intervention, kind sir; you've my gratitude."

The young man's chest puffed up. "Nor need you, my lady; 'twas an honor to be of assistance. If you should e'er—"

"Thanks," Imoen cut in. "Really appreciate it, yep." Sajantha probably would've been polite to that dwarf, too, had she been around when he woke up. "But we'd really better go." She dragged Sajantha—who threw back an apology, but whose legs trotted along eagerly enough—a few more steps out of sight, and shook her head. "It's that hat."

"What?"

"How much you pay for it?"

Could have just been the shadow, but Sajantha's face looked as red as her hat. "More than I should have."

"It's got an enchantment on it. How'd you miss that?"

Sajantha sighed. She tugged the hat from her head, flinging it to the side. "I don't know." Her curls bounced loose; angry at being squished up, they sprung every which way.

"Like you need to worry about charming folk, anyway." A neat trick, though; no way Sajantha had missed it. Her face was definitely red.

"Didn't work on the bounty hunter, did it," she muttered.

"We'll go trade it in." Imoen bent to retrieve it, brushed it off. "Only missing a couple feathers. We'll get you something proper. I heard tell there's a magic shop out west."

"That's the wizard I was talking about! He's not a shop. I don't imagine he'd much like being bothered as a supply store."

No end of crotchety wizards, was there? "Bet he has some spell scrolls, though. Some disguise spells, maybe?"

Sajantha folded her arms together. "It doesn't matter whether I memorize magic or read it off a scroll; there's no way to rid myself of wild surges."

Imoen sighed. "Okay, never mind. Let's just get to the smithy; they're probably all stocked up by now." Hopefully the Harpers hadn't left yet.

Sajantha came to a stop. "Are we... are we going to tell them what happened?"

"You want to?"

Sajantha hesitated, then shook her head. "It was my fault. I said my name; I should have been more careful."

"They might wonder why we wanna take off right away."

"Mayhap. But I think Jaheira will be relieved enough our stay's a short one."

"Rightly so." And Imoen would miss that warm bed, but not all the questions they'd have to deflect. Or arrows. Who knew how many more bounty hunters'd be crawling about?

They were almost to the smithy before Sajantha spoke up again. "That bard," she said, "I don't sound like that, do I?"

"Oh, boy," Imoen blew out a gust of breath. "Do you ever."

"You're kidding. You—you are kidding me, right? Imoen?"