Author's Notes: November and holidays, oh me oh my! But with this update, it looks like my hiatus will come to a close. For this New Year's resolution, I'll strive to update more frequently from now on, at least once a month if I can. As always, I hope you enjoy, and happy late-holidays to everyone!

Chapter 9

The landscape changed dramatically as they traveled further east. Lush green grass turned to brown dirt and dust clouds. Forests were nonexistent—only clusters of spiny trees and shrubs, arid and skeletal without the moisture of the coast. The hot air itched Markra's throat with every breath as he baked inside his armor. Though the party shared their waterskins liberally amongst themselves as they marched beneath the burning sun.

They brushed past a hulking boulder, about the size of a small house, when Markra stopped in his tracks. The rock was smiling at him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes once; perhaps it was just a desert trick, like one of those mirages he'd read about in Candlekeep. But when he looked again, the face was still there. A statue, carved out of the stone's surface in a way that was only capable by man. Markra thought it was meant to be a woman, with its smooth lines and graceful arches, but the sculpture was only half-finished. A rickety, makeshift ladder had been nailed into the rock to reach its highest spots.

Noticing that he'd stopped, Imoen swerved back around and followed Markra's gaze. "Whatcha lookin' at, Marky?"

"It's staring at me…" Markra murmured as he swayed his head back and forth. No matter his vantage, the sculpture's empty eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went. Imoen quickly copied him, and gasped as she noticed the same thing.

"Yowza! The rock's alive!" she exclaimed.

"Don't be so foolish, both of you," Jaheira's scolding cut through their reverie, and earned a jump out of their shoulders. "This is nothing more than a madman defacing Nature."

Khalid chuckled. "W-Wouldn't it be more like…r-refacing, darling?"

"Khalid," Jaheira began with a frown. But upon seeing his giddy expression, she heaved a defeated sigh. "I… Yes, I suppose so, dear."

Markra's brow furrowed. What madman is she talking about? So he walked around a little to get a better view of the statue, until he saw him. A disheveled young man dressed in blue, chiseling the stone ever so delicately. Clink-clack-clink-clack went the soft pound of his hammer, rounding every rough edge and polishing every flaw.

As the party approached, the clinking stopped. The artist gazed at his work with a longing sigh, as though lost in a dream.

"Ah, beauteous creature!" he cried. "Never should I have stolen those emeralds, but there was nothing else that would capture the majesty of thine eyes! I did what must be done, for I have left my shop, forgotten all my commissions, and spent all that I had. I must complete thee!"

"Did he just say 'stolen emeralds'?" Imoen whispered.

Montaron reached for his shortsword as a greedy grin stretched across his face. "Aye. That he did, girlie."

The artist gasped and jumped in place as he beheld his audience for the first time. "Wait, there is someone here!" He spread his arms wide before the statue, as if that could protect it. "Who are you? T'was that relentless Greywolf who sent you, wasn't it!?"

Now that Markra saw him up close, he could see the spark of madness in the artist's eyes. Not like Xzar's madness that came and went on whims, but a relentless passion that had pushed the man to his limits. His once-noble blue clothes were tattered and ragged, covered in dust from head to toe. His hands were swollen and red around the fingers. And his face, so hollow and thin enough that Markra could see his cheekbones protruding, with dark bags sagging under his eyes. Malnourished and weary, perhaps from the many days and nights he'd spent diligently sculpting outside.

Markra immediately raised his hands away from his weapons. "Easy, friend. We've nothing to do with this Greywolf, whoever he is."

The artist sighed and lowered his arms. "Thank Deneir, I thought I was done in. I am not cut out for a life on the run…"

"Y-Your face looks…f-familiar, good sir," Khalid began. "A-And this sculpture… You wouldn't happen t-to be the famed artist Prism, w-would you?"

"That I am," the artist answered with a nod, "though what little fame I've garnered is but a drop in the sea next to her beloved eyes, perfect lips… Such glory is wasted on me should I fail to capture her exquisite beauty."

"You don't look to have failed at all," Markra reassured him. "What you've done here is amazing."

"I thank thee, friend." Despite his exhaustion, Prism managed a slight bow. "I have been using potions of speed to aid my work, and have not slept for days." Though the madness snuffed out his pride as he revered the sculpture once again. "She is beautiful, is she not? Tis a monument to my foolishness. I saw her but once, on the outskirts of Evereska, and said nothing. I let thee pass from mine eyes, and mine heart hath cursed me for it!"

"Regardless of whatever your inspiration," Jaheira said in a cold voice, "you said yourself that you stole those emeralds. I would expect better from an artist of your esteem."

Prism winced, shaken from his musings, and bowed his head in shame. "I had intended to return the gems after…but alas, I know not how long I have left, and she must be completed soon… She must!" He eyed the six of them, surveying their every feature, and especially the weapons strapped to their hips and backs. "Mayhaps…you could help a foolish sculptor finish his epiphany?"

"How so?" Markra asked. "I don't think any of us can sculpt." He glanced at his friends just to make sure. Imoen and Khalid shook their heads, and while Xzar giddily started off with a nod, a jab from Montaron switched him to a no.

"Please, guard this place," Prism explained. "Surely Greywolf will come seeking the bounty on the gems, but I need them to complete her first. I will pay with my last possessions if you would do this one service for me."

It didn't seem like such a bad job. Prism may have stooped to thievery, but it wasn't as if he'd stolen the emeralds out of greed. Whoever this woman was, Prism loved her enough to capture her in something eternal. Unlike a sketch or a painting that curled and faded as the paper aged, a sculpture would stand the test of time for many years, even in the harshest wind and rain—and Markra had a feeling rain didn't find this region very often. It would be a shame if Prism's work were left unfinished after so much love and dedication had been put into it, especially now that he was reaching the end.

And it wasn't as if the Nashkel mines were much farther away, either.

"Sure," he concluded. "If it is so important, then we'll guard you the best we can."

Prism brightened into a grateful smile, though while Imoen and Khalid seemed to take Markra's side, the rest of his party didn't shy away from showing their disapproval. Jaheira sighed and shook her head with her arms crossed over her torso, muttering something about needless distractions. Montaron rolled his eyes and took a seat on a rock much too large for him. Xzar didn't seem to care either way, lost in his own quiet chuckling as he nibbled on his fingers.

"My thanks to thee, newfound friends," Prism said with another lopsided bow. "Now I may return to my work in peace."

With that, Prism pulled another slim potion from within his jacket. A vial of white liquid that shined in the sun like well-beaten egg whites. The cork popped as he opened the vial and shakily downed its contents in one swig. As Prism resumed his work, the rest of the party set up a perimeter around the sculpture to keep an eye out for Greywolf, or any more greedy bounty-hunters. Montaron on his rock, with Xzar wandering closeby. Khalid and Imoen on each west corners, and Jaheira and Markra on the east.

Hours passed. Tracing the sun's path in the sky, Markra saw the glowing orb had passed its highest peak and dipped into the afternoon. And yet, still no sign of any mercenaries. Prism did not speak or pay any of them much attention, fervently chipping away at the rock. But as time went on, Markra saw that his hands could no longer lay still, wobbly and raw. Whenever Prism took out another oil of speed, his entire body shook with an enormous effort just to pull out the cork. Every now and then the artist would close his eyes, only for a moment or two, and he'd start to sway. Just before his eyes would pop back open with the shake of his head, and he'd persist.

Markra feared he would pass out at any second.

"Hey, Jaheira…" he began cautiously as he watched Prism from the corners of his eyes. "Is it safe for him to be drinking that many potions at once?"

"If he hasn't given his body any other proper rest or nourishment between doses," Jaheira answered just as quietly, "then no, I would say it is not." She watched him too with narrowed eyes, tracing every detail of the artist's haggard state. "With how many he's taken, over the course of several days and nights, then I would guess… He'll likely die within the hour."

Markra's eyes widened. "Die? Then we have to stop him!"

But before he could start walking toward Prism and confiscate any and all other potions he might have on his person, Jaheira touched his arm and held him in place.

"Do you think that you could?" she asked. "Look at Prism again." So he did as Jaheira continued. "That man has poured everything that he has into that sculpture. He said himself he's neglected his commissions and sold all of his possessions, save for what he now carries on his back. He even went so far as to steal valuable gems that any bandit or thug would kill him for. Now I ask again, Markra. Do you really think that you, or I, or any of us could stop him from ending his own life?"

He paused and averted his gaze. "No… But still—"

"This isn't the slaughtered family we found in the woods." Jaheira's words cut into his core, and earned a flinch out of Markra. He hadn't even realized he'd been thinking about them until the druid pointed it out. "Prism made this choice with his own power, and that deserves your respect as much as your concern. Tragic as it may be, he's not going to change his mind now just because you tell him it's dangerous. I suspect he knew the dangers the moment he arrived at this spot."

Markra watched Prism again. The artist accidentally struck his own hand with his hammer. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he shook his hurt hand, as if to shake the pain out, but with a stubborn glare he tried again. Not just his motor skills and mobility, but even Prism's vision was deteriorating too. Even if Markra somehow convinced Prism to put the chisel down and rest, he doubted it would be enough to save the doomed artist now.

Yet another person dying before his eyes that he could not save. However…this time he was not so powerless to stand by and watch. At the very least, he would finish the job Prism had asked of him.

"Yeah," he told Jaheira after a while. "You're right. All we can do now is honor his last request, and make sure he finishes in time."

Jaheira nodded with a small, pleased smile. "Yes. And sometimes, that is all that we need do."

"Ohhhh Maaar-kraaa!" Xzar's voice suddenly sang out like a dramatic opera singer. Markra turned to see Xzar pointing down the slope with a giddy, malicious smile. Montaron was nowhere to be seen. "The big bad wolf is here!"

Sure enough, climbing the slope with a sword over his shoulder, was the rugged mercenary Greywolf. Fur taken from a gray wolf pelt lined the collar of his studded leather armor, and a crude, bronze medallion in the shape of a wolf print hung from his neck. His hair was greasy black with streaks of gray and his tanned body was laced in old scars. Greywolf smirked as he gazed past the wary adventurers and straight at Prism, like a real wolf eyeing its prey.

"I have come for you, Prism," he chuckled.

Prism started from his sculpting as his protectors took a defensive stance. Markra put a hand on his trusty longsword while Jaheira drew her quarterstaff. Behind them, Khalid came running with his shield raised and Imoen drew her bow.

"No!" the artist screamed. "Not yet! My work is nearly done! Please, I implore you!"

"Your sentiment is wasted on me, fool. You are but gold in my purse." Greywolf flashed a toothy grin as he waved a hand at Markra's party. "Do you make your situation worse by hiring help to protect you? Who are you fools?"

"Who we are is unimportant," Jaheira answered. "You must be Greywolf."

"And if I am?" Greywolf asked, but judging from the widening smile across his lips, he had no real intention of hiding his name.

"Prism has been out here for days crafting this sculpture," Markra explained. "He only wishes to finish his masterwork. Why not let him? What harm could it do?"

"Ha!" Greywolf barked a laugh and spat on the ground between them. "You should be more worried 'bout the harm I can do! Never have I taken a bounty and not delivered!" He then raised his sword and pointed it straight at Markra. "Now, stand aside that I might dispense with this fool and claim my prize. Or would you rather I go through you to get him? Consider well if he be worth your lives!"

Six against one. So Markra hoped as he glanced at his party members. Aside from the vanished Montaron and the frantic Prism, everyone was staring at him. Of course, this job had been his idea. He was responsible for whatever would come next if they spat with Greywolf. And as good as the odds looked, the mercenary must be either wrongfully arrogant or rightfully powerful to take them all on at once. Or, Markra realized uneasily, perhaps both.

He glanced back at Prism. At the tremor running up and down his limbs, so spent he could hardly stand. At his bloodshot eyes, his blemished hands. At the flawless sculpture he'd slaved over for hours, even days to complete, all for a nameless muse who'd stolen his heart.

The nameless muse whom he would die for.

Gazing back at Greywolf, Markra at last drew his sword.

"You can't have him," he said. "I promised I'd protect him, and that's exactly what I intend to do."

Greywolf's smile bent into a frown, and he scoffed. "Fine. If that's your wish, then I'll just have to cut you down too!"

And with another battle cry, he lunged. Metal-on-metal clashed and grated against one another as Markra blocked the first—the second—the third blow, one after another after another. Greywolf's swings were relentless, savage, and fast. Blocking the first few was easy, but with each collision, Markra lost inches to Greywolf, and his confidence.

Jaheira tried to get in with her quarterstaff, but he was too slippery, nor did he seem to care when or where Jaheira struck at him. Markra sensed it in his ruthless gaze and harsh swipes—it was the elf, the baby-faced elf who'd dared to get between him and his mark… He pissed him off the most. An arrow flew past them both, just a breadth away from hitting Markra. From Imoen, though her friend and her enemy were too close together to land a clear shot.

White sparks lit Xzar's fingers as his hands danced, and the familiar pale orb flew out of his palms and struck Greywolf. The mercenary staggered, and gave Markra but a moment's relief. The elf thrust forward, aimed straight for Greywolf's heart. But he recovered too fast, and with a snide grin, Greywolf swung and blocked yet again.

This time was different. As their swords collided, a chilling breeze blew into their faces. Shards of glittering ice grew out of nothing and crept along their blades like living crystal. Frost bit into Markra's fingers as he fought Greywolf's weight, but the ice didn't harm Greywolf. With another loud yell, Greywolf shoved him off and the flower of ice shattered—along with Markra's sword.

Icicle shards cut into Markra's exposed hands and face, as deadly and fragile as glass. As Markra faltered, trying to shield his face with his free arm, Greywolf swung a kick into his gut, hard enough to throw Markra rolling down the short hill.

In a victorious yell, Greywolf raised his sword again, but Khalid and Jaheira stood between him and Markra. The magic sword banged against Khalid's shield and left a bloom of ice behind. Jaheira struck him in the shoulder with the butt of her staff, but Greywolf whacked his blade against it and threw her off her aim. Another stray arrow shot too wide, almost hitting Prism as he clambered to finish his sculpture amidst the chaos.

Once he'd hit the bottom and the rolling slowed to a stop, Markra scrambled to get back on his feet. But as he reached for the hilt, one look at his sword dashed his hopes. Cracked in the middle and splintered, as though a beast had bitten it in half. Flecks of frost lined the edges where it'd broken in two, and somewhere far away, old Winthrop's words echoed in Markra's mind. "A fine choice, lad! Crafted with Iron Throne metal an' all!" Metal of the Iron Crisis, brittle and dull.

A thousand panicked thoughts swam through Markra's head as he watched the fight continue above him. At last, Montaron reappeared. The halfling melted out of the shadows behind his new favorite rock, and thrust his shortsword into Greywolf's lower back. But Greywolf sidestepped at the last moment and threw him off his aim; the shortsword just barely sliced the corner of his tunic. A red line etched into Greywolf's side where the clothes had been torn open by the blade, but it was only a surface cut. A wound that would bleed, yet damaged nothing of import.

Letting out a yell, Greywolf turned his vengeful eyes on Montaron. His sword slashed through the air, seemingly whiffing, before another burst of ice crystals flew out of the blade. Jagged icicles buried themselves into Montaron's right shoulder, and the halfling fell to his knees.

Though with Greywolf's back turned, one of Imoen's arrows finally found its mark: his upper back. Greywolf loosed another angry howl as he swerved around and raised his magic sword with both hands. This time, at Jaheira. Khalid leaned close to Jaheira as he raised his shield, covering them both. But it was a clumsy stance, hastily put together, and now they were trapped behind it and Greywolf's relentless barrage of swings.

Khalid seemed to shrink beneath every strike, knees bent and arms dipping. Not because he was tiring already, but with each collision, Greywolf's sword left sheets of ice on his shield. Layer upon gleaming layer gathered in its center, one on top of the other, and burdened the shield with crippling weight that Khalid was not used to. It was taking all of Khalid's energy just to hold his defense, let alone look for the chance to strike back. A chance that Greywolf was not about to give.

Broken sword or not, Markra had to do something. He threw the useless weapon away and reached for the bow strapped to his back. How long had it been, he wondered, since Greywolf had tossed him over the hill and out of sight? Not very; mere seconds, minutes at most, yet it seemed that the mercenary had already forgotten him, thirsty for new blood. And while Greywolf may be a famous man with a shiny sword, in the end, he was still just one man with only one set of eyes.

This should surprise him, Markra thought as the fletching touched his cheek. While aiming, Jaheira's eyes met his, an unspoken question as she grasped her quarterstaff with white knuckles. Markra answered her with a nod, and she poised to strike. And that's all I need to do.

The arrow flew. It dug into Greywolf's exposed side, right where Montaron's sword almost stabbed into him. For the first time since Xzar's magic trick, Greywolf faltered, hand instinctively reaching for the red splotch in his waist.

That moment was all Jaheira needed. With a final warcry, she leaped out from behind Khalid's shield, spun her quarterstaff above her head in a fluid dance, and—crack! The brunt of the stick whacked Greywolf's skull, and he dropped to the ground like a pot from a high window.

A silent wind brushed through Markra's hair as he slowly climbed back up the hill. Khalid fell on his butt, breathing heavily, and at last dropped the frozen shield. He even began rubbing his hands together, as though to keep them warm.

"Alright, we did it!" Imoen was the first to cheer, punching the air victoriously as she hopped to her friends. She even gave Jaheira a loving clap on the shoulder, beaming. "Take that, ya greedy mongrel! And oh boy, what a hit ya gave him, Auntie! That was great!"

"Thank you, Imoen," Jaheira replied, though her brow furrowed an instant later. "But did you just call me—"

"Ohhh!" Xzar popped out from behind the rock with a spring in his step, and a goofy, almost drunken tune in his voice. "Fi-fo, thy brute is dead! That's what I said, the one thou wed! Fi-fo, thy brute is dead, but now I shall take thine spot in bed!"

And a drunken rhythm in his steps, as Xzar practically tripped over his own toes and fell on his knees. He hovered just above Greywolf's corpse, a slimy smile tugging his lips. "And take thine shiny pretties too…"

Before one of Xzar's slippery hands could cut Greywolf's purse from his waist, however, Montaron grabbed his shoulder and yanked him off. Only with one arm too, but even as his strength returned and the ice in his shoulder started to melt, he shot Jaheira a haggard glare as he struggled for breath.

"Quit yer yowling before I cut out ye throat," he growled at Xzar. "You did no' do nothin' to earn a pretty coin in that fight. Me, on the other hand…could be usin' a certain woman's touch?"

A scowl etched into Jaheira's sharp features, but she wordlessly sat beside Montaron and began to heal him with magic. Within minutes, the ice vanished, and all that remained of the hole in his flesh was a red stain in his clothes and some bruising. When she had finished, Montaron scooped up the pouch of gold for himself, and began counting the pieces inside.

Markra had no interest in Greywolf's gold though. His hands wandered instead to the hilt of the sword lying abandoned beside its old master. Even without Greywolf's icicle attacks, Markra could have known just by looking at it—at the sheen in the blade, the design of the hilt, the magic that resonated in the air around it like the quiet thrum of hummingbird wings… This was no ordinary sword.

"H-Hey, hey!" Khalid's voice pulled him back to the real world. The half-elf gently put his hand on the sword and lowered it back to the ground. "C-Careful with it, Markra. We don't know wh-what kind of s-s-spells are in it."

Yes, Markra knew full well the dangers that came with mishandling magical items, especially when he may not know the extent of its abilities. Gorion had made well sure that those lessons had gotten drilled into his very soul back in Candlekeep, let alone his mind. But—

"All it does is make ice," Markra reassured him. "I don't think it's too dangerous, so long as you don't point it at the wrong person."

Everyone's eyes fell to him and to the sword in his lap, some more wonderstruck than others. Imoen peered at it over his shoulder and gave a breath of awe in his ear. "It sure is pretty, Marky," she gasped. "Real pretty, kinda like it was made for you."

"It would be more efficient in Khalid's hands," Jaheira bluntly pointed out. But right as Markra opened his mouth to protest, Khalid raised his hands up and shook his head.

"O-Oh no! Not me, dear," he insisted. "I-I'm much more comfortable with a plain sword… And the cold m-makes me itchy." Then he gazed at Markra, a wry smile in his lips. "B-Besides… Your sword is broken now, is it n-not?"

"Yeah…" Markra sighed out his nose as he gazed at Greywolf's sword. Even with the masterwork resting in his hands, the snap of his old sword still echoed in his ears. It was sad, in a way; that was the sword he'd bought from Winthrop, the sword he'd carried with him from Candlekeep. A companion of sorts who'd been with him when Gorion was killed, when he'd fled through the woods until his legs collapsed in the dark. A guardian who'd protected him from wolves, ogres, assassins, and much more.

Thanks for staying together for me, even though you were made from tainted iron, Markra thought. Silly, thinking to a sword as if it were sentient, yet the prayer gave him some small comfort. I'll keep doing my best with this new partner.

He would need to Identify it later. A small bit of magic, something he'd watched his father practice many times whenever he found something strange. Nothing difficult, but it had its preparations. Until then, Markra strapped the sword's scabbard onto his belt, with a pair of approving nods from Imoen and Khalid.

"Ah… At last…"

Prism's voice drew back their attention, and they all turned toward the artist and his sculpture. He gazed upon the stone even more loving than before, as if a sky full of stars were sparkling in his eyes. But his body was torn, strung together by thin tissue and muscles clinging to bones. Prism collapsed on his knees, yet he continued to stare into the sculpture, a horrid bend in his undoubtedly sore neck.

Markra could not look away either, nor many of his friends. Even Montaron let out an impressed whistle. Every line of the sculpture: smooth, undeterred, graceful and elegant. She looked as though she could come to life at any second and speak to them. Prism had used the emeralds in her eyes, a royal green that glowed in the golden sunlight. Now that she was finished, Markra noticed the high curves of her ears, the sharpness of her eyebrows, the fine features in her cheeks—an elven face not unlike his own, yet he dared not compare himself to such a beautiful creature if she were real. At the bottom of the sculpture lay a collection of empty potion vials. Dozens of them, scattered amidst Prism's sculpting tools.

Upon seeing the pile, a chill ran down Markra's spine that chased away the awe in his heart.

"Prism…" he murmured, but did not know really what to say. Nor did it much matter; Prism may as well have been in a whole other world, an aura of love and relief embracing him all around.

"Alas, she is complete," Prism spoke absently. "Take what you will of my possessions, but leave the sparkle in her eyes. Oh sweet creature, my effigy to thee is done. Perhaps our paths shall cross in distant realms, and I shall find the courage to call thy name: Ellesime!"

A tremor wracked through all of Prism's body as he reached out his hand, and touched her smooth, stone face, much like a caress. Even after his legs failed him and he fell to the ground in dead stillness, the pleased smile stayed on his lips.

Markra lowered his gaze as Imoen gasped beside him, and buried her head in his shoulder. Khalid took off his helmet and held it to his chest as he bowed his head. No one said a word as Jaheira knelt beside Prism's body and put two fingers against his neck. After waiting a minute or so, she closed his eyelids.

"He's dead," she confirmed, and bowed her head in prayer as she whispered the rites. "Silvanus, guide the light back to the source…"

As she spoke beneath her breath, however, Xzar let out a loud groan and gripped his head, as if he were suffering from a giant headache.

"Yes, yes, it's all very tragic and sad!" he scowled. "But what of our payment? What of our just reward for fulfilling this utterly pointless—I mean… Purely righteous request?"

"H-Have you no compassion?" Khalid asked. "The poor man is…d-d-dead."

"Lotsa people die all around," Montaron cut in. "Don't mean we gotta starve for our efforts. Oy, druid! What's the fool got on him, eh?"

Markra gripped the hilt of his new sword as he turned his steely green eyes on Montaron and Xzar. "Prism has just died, and you already want to rifle through his possessions?"

"He hasn't much, I'm afraid," Jaheira answered. "His clothes are all but rags, and his pouch is empty of gold."

"Jaheira!" Markra scolded, but the druid simply shrugged as she pushed herself to her feet.

"They asked; I answered," she told him. "And as tasteless as it is, the artist did promise us payment in whatever was left on his person. The only thing of any value that he owned were the two emeralds in the sculpture. The same emeralds he'd stolen."

A twinkle lit up Imoen's eyes as she jabbed Markra's arm with a smirk. "I'm bettin' those emeralds would sell for a nice price, huh Marky?" Though at his warning glare, her smile dipped. "I-I mean… If they weren't stolen, that is."

"I-It might do us good to hold onto them," Khalid suggested. "Whoever lost them m-must be searching for them as we s-s-speak."

"An' what're we, some delivery service fer lost goods?" Montaron grimaced. "No, not fer stones like those. Ya know how the words go: finder's keepers, loser's weepers. And finder's richers too."

But to everyone's surprise, Xzar was the first to scold his partner, patting him on the shoulder in a tut-tut voice, like a parent to a child. "Now now, Montaron. The goodly ones do have a point."

The tears swelled almost spontaneously as he went on. Xzar even produced a dirty handkerchief from the inside of his robe to dab his eyes.

"Those poor, baby emeralds… Spirited from their homes one night by a mad artist, and now, out in a cold, harsh world all by themselves with no one to protect them…! Oh, just think of the Mama and Papa emeralds! They must be worried sick!"

Xzar blew his nose as loud as a blare of trumpets, much to Montaron's disgust. But as he wiped his eyes dry and feigned his grief, his voice dropped and spoke out of the corners of his mouth, just loud enough for all to hear. "Now think about how much Mama and Papa would pay to see their children returned, safe and sound."

Montaron seemed to take Xzar's advice, for he did not protest again. He instead simmered off a bit, crossing his arms over his chest grudgingly.

"Then are we decided?" Jaheira asked one more time, just to be sure. "Shall we take the gems or not?"

Markra didn't much like the idea of taking the emeralds, even if it was to return them to their rightful owner. Prism had begged with his dying breath that they "leave the sparkle in her eyes," and looking at the stone Ellesime now, he didn't want to remove them. It was the curves of the stone, their glint against the sun—the emeralds just seemed to fit. What a shame it would be if they were taken away now, before anyone else had the chance to look upon her in wonder.

But a much wiser, more cynical part of him knew that it wouldn't last. Someone, some time, would eventually stumble upon Prism's statue, and that person may or may not be an admirer. More likely, a bandit or a thief who would sooner take the jewels for himself and sell them away, to some place where the original owner would surely never see them again. Prism had completed his statue; she was the last he saw before the light faded from his eyes, and she would be etched into his memory for eternity.

And besides, Markra assured himself as he gazed again at the sculpture, she's plenty beautiful without the emeralds.

"Let's take them down," he answered at last. "It's not like they're hard to carry."

Jaheira nodded, and with Imoen's help, they dislodged the sparkling gems from Ellesime's eyes and placed them into a safe pouch. As the rest of the party gathered their bearings, though, Markra continued to stare at Prism. At his content smile, as unmoving as the statue that hovered over him.

"We must hurry to the Nashkel Mines," Jaheira's voice cut through his remorse like a knife through ice. "They won't be much further now, and we need to at least begin our investigation before the day comes to an end."

He knew that. Of course Markra knew that. But that didn't stop him from at least trying to ask:

"We're just going to leave him like that?"

Jaheira sighed, but instead of breaking out into yet another lecture—one that Markra had already begun preparing a plethora of comebacks for—she put a hand on his shoulder, and her gaze softened.

"Let us ask the miners when we arrive," she suggested gently. "As I said, they are not far, and there are many people in this region who loved Prism's art. I am certain we can find someone willing to take care of him."

Markra's mouth opened and closed like a fish, unsure of what to say at first. "J-Jaheira, I… Th-Thank you."

"Think nothing of it, Markra. But you should try to not stutter so much. We wouldn't want you turning into my husband, now would we?"

She smiled to show she was joking. And Markra smiled back, because Jaheira was actually joking. "No ma'am," he laughed. And with Ellesime's eternal gaze at their backs, the band of adventurers continued on, passing through the amber glow of early twilight.