Skie had promised Mizhena she'd find her lost amulet and she hadn't forgotten. She'd had to give Bence the slip again to do it, and she'd been attacked by wolves along the way. Still, it was worth it to see the woman's ecstatic face when she brought the amulet back to the healer's tent.
When she'd arrived it was rather crowded. The Hero's party were crammed into the tent waiting for two of their companions to be revived. They had been on a proper dungeon crawl (which Skie was forbidden from joining of course) and come back carrying two dead wizards. The survivors did not seem particularly concerned about their deceased comrades, and were idling round the tent chatting while they waited for Glint and M'Khiin to do their work.
"Thank you Lady Silvershield," Mizhena had said as Skie pressed the amulet into her hand. "This amulet is very special to me. When I was born, my parents thought me a boy and raised me as such. In time, we all came to understand that I was truly a woman. My parents gave me this as a symbol that they accepted me for who I am." She paused and added resentfully; "Not everybody is as understanding."
Mizhena had glared pointedly at an oblivious Freya. An earlier misunderstanding, which had gone completely over the Hero's furry head, had led Mizhena to mistakenly believe that the other woman was mocking her condition. Skie wanted to tell her that Freya was just piss-ignorant rather than spiteful, but that hardly seemed like the most compelling defence.
"I understand Mizhena, it makes perfect sense to me! Why would anybody want to be a man?" asked Freya cheerfully. As usual she displayed all the tact and sensitivity of a concrete brick. Rasaad raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged. "You own a mirror Rasaad! You know you belong to an aesthetically challenged gender. I didn't mean any offense."
"An aesthetically challenged gender?" spluttered Rasaad. While technically vanity was frowned upon by the Sun Soul monks, in practise it was impossible to avoid to some extent. Their entire lives, after all, hinged around honing their bodies through physical activity.
"Could be worse. Could belong to an aesthetically challenged species," chipped in M'Khiin glumly, as she cleaned Edwin's mud splattered body in preparation for revival.
Glint paused from restoring Baeloth and looked up at the werewolf. It was a long way up.
"We have very different perspectives on the world you and I," he observed pleasantly.
Freya had grinned down at him. "We do at that," she agreed.
Glint and Freya's perspectives were reversed now. The werewolf was staring up at him grimly as his limp feet swung back and forth above her head. With his bright blue hair and beard he resembled a sombre pinata. Skie was shaking with tears, and the werewolf put an arm about her, though she did not take her eyes off the dead gnome. The young thief had known what turning him in would mean, but father had never let her see anything as gruesome as a public execution. She'd expected something akin to a death in battle. Not like this.
Arrow and Rasaad had argued against it of course, but Captain Corwin was not hugely interested in their opinion. The soldiers had drawn their swords when the ranger tried to intervene, and she had no option but to watch helplessly as they dragged Glint weeping and pleading to the trees. She did not see them do it, but she heard it from a distance. It was far worse than any killing she had witnessed in combat. Tucked away in the healer's tent, which now hosted one less healer, the monk stroked her hair comfortingly as she lay pale and motionless on his chest. Her eyes were wide open and staring at nothing.
"His poor mother," she said in a hollow voice. "All he wanted was to give the ordinary people a better life."
"He was working for Irenicus," Rasaad said gently. "You know what that man is. Glint may not have been evil himself but he served evil. That was the choice he made and he has paid the price for it."
"Irenicus tricked him, I'm sure of it," said Arrow. "The Flaming Fist are corrupt and oppress anyone who disagrees with the Grand Dukes. The whole city saw how easily Irenicus could have defeated them on the docks if Freya hadn't been there. I bet he wanted to believe that Irenicus was on the rebels' side and I don't blame him. He was trying to do the right thing for the ordinary people, and they hanged him for it!"
Rasaad stopped stroking her hair and sat bolt upright in alarm. He gripped both her shoulders tightly and fixed his intense, dark eyes on her own.
"Arrow please!" Rasaad cried. "I know you are upset but choose your words with more care. They had no choice but to hang him, he was spying for Irenicus, and both our gods command that we obey all just authority."
"This is not just authority!" Arrow argued. "I'm sorry Rasaad, it isn't!"
"There's nothing we can do," the monk insisted. "He is dead, it is done and it was done for the best. Arrow I beg you not to say such things. I could not bear it if you were to join him in the tree."
"I thought you said my loving sister would never do such a thing?" Arrow snapped sarcastically.
"If she thought you were a threat to the nobility she might," said Rasaad. "I underestimated how infatuated with Skie she is."
Arrow nodded and settled back down onto the monk's chest, but now her mind was turning over the cause that Glint had died for. Like all Ilmatari, she was dedicated to helping the poor, but what if with all the unrest there really was a chance for the poor to help themselves? If they could vote, they could choose leaders who would not leave them to starve in squalor. What could be achieved by Grand Dukes whose goals were to lead their people to dignified self-sufficient lives, rather than just lining their own pockets?
"Someone should tell his mother before she hears it from the town crier," Arrow said quietly. Rasaad nodded in agreement. "I… I can't write. Not properly, not well enough for this. Will you help me?"
The mood was sombre around the tree. Glint's drugged cookies had been concrete proof of the gnome's guilt and nobody but the Ilmatari and her monk had questioned what had to happen next. Yet the cleric had been well liked in the camp, having healed many of the wounds sustained on the march, and there was a general feeling of wishing it had been someone else.
Corwin's reaction was predictable, she had considered Glint a threat to the Grand Dukes even without bringing Irenicus into the mix. It was she who had given the order to hang him, supported by Freya. For her part, the Hero was relieved that the spy had been caught. Imoen watched him choke and struggle on the end of his rope with an uncharacteristically vindictive pleasure. The treacherous cleric had not only conspired with Irenicus against the Candlekeep Bhaalspawn (enough to earn her mortal enmity by itself) but it was now clear that his medicinal patches had been the cause of her agonizing headaches.
Freya's party had followed Glint into the wood to witness the final event, Arrow's had not. Dynaheir felt that it would not be good for Minsc to see something like that, and Minsc had said it would upset Boo. Jaheira had kept a discrete eye on Arrow to make sure that she did nothing to intervene in the execution. Given the Fist's current mood, that might see her hanging too. Dorn had also remained behind. Though of a bloodthirsty disposition, the half-orc had no interest in executions, unless the criminal had an opportunity to fight back, and even then he would rather be in the fight than watch it.
There was only the lightest of breezes and Glint swung back and forth with a slow creak. Crows were settling in the neighbouring trees eyeing the dead man with interest. They shuffled eagerly and ruffled their feathers in anticipation of the humans going away so that they could begin their feast. Viconia watched with indifference and Edwin merely looked bored, but Baeloth had become fidgety and was looking from officer to officer with an anxious expression.
"You do realize that it is only a matter of time before that's us up there?" he whispered to Viconia in drow.
"You perhaps," she replied coolly in their mother tongue. "I am the Chosen of all Faiths. The gods will not permit this worthless rabble to execute me. And neither will Freya."
"Do you set that much store by her oath to protect you?" sneered Baeloth.
"Yes," Viconia said, then paused. "Though perhaps it is time to exercise other means of ensuring her loyalty, just to be on the safe side. It should provide me with some entertainment too. What she lacks in brains she certainly makes up for in more physical attributes."
Freya's party turned their evil eyes to their leader as Skie flinched and pulled away from the Hero's breast plate. Freya's dragon scale armour had not yet been made, though she had been assured that there was a forge and a skilled smith in Bridgefort. The front of her existing armour had been badly ripped by the dragon and the slashed, jagged metal had cut Skie's face. A thin oozing of blood mingled with her tears and dropped onto the ground beneath Glint's dangling feet.
Baeloth was not the only one who feared one day sharing this fate. Coran and Safana were ever-aware of what awaited thieves in the city who got caught. They were holding hands. Time to calm down coupled with Coran's new-found dragon wealth had earned him her complete forgiveness. They were watching Glint's face, which was now as blue as his beard, their own faces pale.
"Come back to Baldur's Gate with me Saffy," Coran said very quietly into her ear. "Irenicus' agent has been caught. There's no more reason for you to risk your neck in a war. I miss you. Freya can take care of herself now."
Safana nodded silently. She was more than agreeable to protecting the treasure carts on their perilous journey back to the city. More than that, she had missed Coran too. Voghiln was sloppy and the novelty of his love sonnets had already worn off. The parties they could go to! The clothes she could buy! Yes, this haul would keep the pair of them in hedonistic paradise for many years to come. Time to go home and enjoy it.
The adventurers and soldiers began to peel away in groups of two or three, talking amongst themselves. Skie meandered away from Freya and wandered over to Bence. The werewolf sighed resignedly and went to check on Imoen. Glint had been caught a little too late. His pint-sized corpse dangling sadly in the wood did not change the fact that Irenicus could penetrate her mind at a distance now, and his talk of 'blasting holes' made it sound like he might have done some permanent damage.
"You ok Imoen?" Freya asked, gesturing at her head. "Do you remember the Irenicus dreams?"
"No," frowned Imoen. "But I know Glint's patches changed something. It was like the pressure built up and up behind my eyes, then burst suddenly. Just like popping a huge painful pimple, but in my brain y'know?"
"Er… thanks for that mental image Imoen," frowned Freya. "So I've been wondering: if you're made up of bits of our souls does that mean you can read our minds? What am I thinking about right now?"
"Caelar Argent's cleavage?" Imoen hazarded. Freya turned pale and her hand flew to her golden head in alarm, as if trying to block Imoen's mind-rays.
"I don't like that! You stop that right now!" she cried. Imoen laughed.
"No, I can't read your mind Freya, it was an educated guess," the pink-haired girl grinned, and stood on tiptoe to muss Freya's golden hair. "I mean with you it was going to be either women, digging holes or chasing squirrels. There's not a huge amount going on in there."
"I haven't dug a hole since I was a puppy!" Freya retorted.
"Remember when you stole that ham from old Winthrope and buried it?" Imoen grinned. A shadow fell across her face. "And then they blamed me for it."
"I felt so guilty I dug it up and tried to put it back," sighed Freya, shaking her head. "It was all gnawed and covered in mud."
"I notice you don't deny the chasing squirrels part," Imoen said slyly.
"Squirrels are sneaky little bastards that deserve to be chased," Freya retorted. "Look at those bushy tails and twitchy little squirrel-hands and tell me it isn't true."
Back in camp Edwin and Baeloth returned to the healer's tent to gather their remaining belongings. Both spellcasters were fully restored, though the replacement for Edwin's splendid Thayan robes was a mere dressing-gown of fire resistance. There were better available in the Quartermaster's stock, but they were not red, and Edwin refused to be seen dead in green (like some grubby little hippy).
The only other occupant was Rasaad, who was sufficiently healed to sit up. He was musing to Arrow about the symbolic significance of the eyes of Selune on his chest, now that they had been scratched out by the dragon. The ranger, secretly, was not sorry to see them gone. If she and Rasaad were to ever actually sleep together, having Selune's eyes glaring disapprovingly at her as she bedded one of her monks would have been a little off-putting. She was content to listen to Rasaad's ramblings, since it gave her an excuse to gaze at his bare muscular chest. It was a welcome distraction from thinking about Glint.
The monk seemed convinced that his goddess was sending him a message, but couldn't seem to decide what it was. Was she telling him that he was failing her as a follower? Or perhaps that he was following her the wrong way, and should take a different, less stringent path. Arrow encouraged him in the latter opinion, though she was highly biased. Truthfully, she felt that if the blinded eyes really had a lesson to teach, it was that pissing off dragons is a bad idea. Still, she smiled and nodded and every so often applied healing balm to his scorched, scarred legs.
"Enough of this revolting display," sneered Edwin disdainfully. He and Baeloth seized their things and returned to Viconia who was waiting for them at the tent flap. Her red eyes were watching Arrow trace the scar on Rasaad's chest on the transparent pretext of making some observation about it. Idiot male. He must be as blind as Selune's eyes.
"Unctuous do-gooders," she agreed with Edwin, spitefully.
"I really don't see your problem. They seem fine to me," Baeloth remarked benignly. Viconia and Edwin turned on him. Baeloth shrugged and said mildly "They'd put up a decent fight, die when they're supposed to and cause me no trouble. I'd purchase them for the Black Pits any day."
They broke off their conversation because Freya was striding purposefully toward them. As she walked she took a series of long gulps from her flask. She was past pretending that the skin contained water, and had moved on from beer to wine. This was something of a blessing to Edwin, since the wizard had a refined palette and the werewolf had decided that his new job was to taste everything she ate and drank. There would be no more near misses like the spiked cookies.
"How are you two feeling?" Freya asked the two wizards. "Better?"
"My state is superior to that of the slippery, seditious subversive," said Baeloth.
"Translation?" demanded Freya.
"Better than the gnome," explained Viconia with a smirk. Freya shook her head impatiently. She was in no mood for gallows humour.
"Alright Baeloth," Freya said, dropping herself down heavily beside him. "Tell me what you know about Irenicus. Absent the annoying avalanche of alliteration if you don't mind."
"I don't know a great deal I'm afraid," wheedled the drow. "He just showed up in the Black Pits one day with a seemingly bottomless wallet demanding to inspect the Bhaalspawn. I didn't think much of it. Eric was a popular pit fighter and we put a lot of effort into advertising him. Irenicus was by no means the only one to take an interest."
"But you must have talked," pressed Freya.
"Very little," admitted Baeloth. "I got the distinct impression that Irenicus finds dealing with drow distasteful."
"A common attitude among darthiir from what I understand?" Freya asked. Viconia nodded with a quizzical look. "I can smell him," the werewolf explained, feeling more confident to share this information now that the spy had been disposed of. "He smells weird, there's something very off about him, but there's definitely a whiff of elf in the mix."
"Interesting. That would explain why he made an offer to Safana and Glint but not to me," mused Viconia, sucking her teeth. Baeloth shrugged disarmingly. Viconia took a lock of her hair, twirling it thoughtfully and staring down her fellow drow. "What exactly did he want with Eric?"
"Truly I don't know!" answered Baeloth, looking increasingly edgy. "Whatever it was, the boy's addiction to numbing potions was getting in the way. He tried to bait him, anger him. I think he was trying to coax out more of the Bhaal essence but since Eric was drinking numbing potions he could not feel anger properly. Nor anything else."
There was a pause, then Baeloth burst out suddenly; "Eric got worse under his influence I know that much. I was petrified of them both by the end and I'm glad at least one of them is dead!"
Bence's call to drill blasted out across the camp. The werewolf swore violently and jumped to her feet to join the other Flaming Fist officers. Skie was right, drills were muddy and tedious. Practising the same sword strokes over and over, when she could kick her opponent's blade right out of their hand if she chose to. The stench of the other soldiers was also becoming a strain on her overly-sensitive nose. Personal hygiene had its limits in a situation like this, but some of the officers were making more of an effort than others.
"You see?" Baeloth fretted, his pretty face a picture of anxiety. "She's one of them. I'm telling you we're not safe here, any of us! Our leader is so petrified of Corwin she publicly licked her boots."
"That must have been hard for the Hero of Baldur's Gate," sneered Edwin. "Perhaps she is not so strong as we had supposed."
To both men's surprise Viconia let out a little chuckle. Her red eyes glinted with mischief, and she leaned forward toward them, showing a great deal of cleavage as she did so.
"Care to share the joke?" demanded Edwin.
"Certainly," Viconia replied smugly. "While you were watching her tongue, I was watching her eyes. I don't think it was as hard for her as you suppose. Though were she a man, 'it' might have been hard."
The two men paused for a moment as they struggled to catch her meaning. Then Baeloth's beetle-like eyes twinkled with amusement. He looked at poor Edwin, who was mumbling into his beard, unwilling to admit that he did not know what Viconia meant. Baeloth's eyes trailed over Edwin's haughty face and long, clever fingers. He was growing quite partial to the wizard's company and was starting to think that the three of them might do better to slip away quietly together before this war became too dangerous.
"Are you proposing that the posturing Puppy of Baldur's Gate possesses a partiality for powerfully prepotent partners?" suggested Baeloth, raising a pure white eyebrow curiously.
"A partiality, a predilection, penchant, propensity, proneness, proclivity… one might say even a preference if one wished to be pointlessly prolific with one's pronouncements," agreed Viconia, who thus far had refrained from mocking Baeloth's mode of speech but could resist it no longer. "It seems to me that there are few things the Bitch of Baldur's Gate likes better than being another woman's bitch."
"That would explain a lot," mused Edwin. "It has struck me as peculiar the way she allows Skie sleep in Bence's tent and permits Safana and Corwin to openly spit on her, but still gives them whatever they want. And all this despite being the strongest, wealthiest person in the city. I had put it down to her inferior canine brain."
"Ah," Viconia purred triumphantly, "But have you ever once seen her let a male disrespect her? She does not give an inch to the inferior sex."
"A perceptive point, but is it pertinent to our current predicament?" pondered Baeloth.
"Oh yes," smiled Viconia. "I consider myself to be something of an expert in this department. Trust me, by the time I'm done with her, nothing Corwin can do or say will persuade her to betray me… and by extension, my males."
Freya was, indeed, partial to being treated poorly by the women in her life and for this reason readily accepted Corwin's apology when it was unexpectedly offered. The Captain even brought Freya her evening stew along with her own when she saw that the werewolf was not eating. This loss of appetite actually had little to do with the boot-licking incident, and more to do with the smell of the food. Fresh ingredients were in increasingly short supply this far into the march and the Quartermaster had been 'improvising.' Nobody felt like asking what this meant. Some horrors were best left undiscovered.
"I had to do it," said Corwin stiffly. "Skie challenged me in front of the entire camp. There would have been no point punishing her. They needed to know that you're not their leader. I am."
"I understand," Freya replied neutrally. "Really, I do. I'm a pack animal, remember? These people need to know who their Alpha is or there'll be chaos. That's why I volunteered to join the Fist in the first place. It wasn't because of how much I love Bence's endless fucking drills."
"Those drills are improving you Freya, your power in combat is growing by the day. You might not have noticed it but everyone else has," Corwin said sharply. "That and dragon scale armour? At this rate the next time you meet Irenicus you'll be able to do more than just scratch him."
"That's the idea," growled Freya. Without the Fist's backing she still didn't fancy her chances against the evil wizard. Yet the odds were slowly shifting in her favour. They had changed from certain to merely probable defeat.
"I've been thinking about what will happen when we reach Dragonspear," said Corwin. "I've never been part of a coalition before. Alliances can bring strength." She shot Freya a significant look. "As long as everyone can get along."
"I never wanted us to feud Corwin," replied Freya, folding her arms.
Corwin gave the Hero a painful look. The truth was that she no longer wanted to be enemies either. Despite her better judgement the Bitch of Baldur's Gate was growing on her. The fact that she was the most attractive person that she had ever set eyes on didn't hurt. That challenging cock-sure grin of hers was almost as charming as it was annoying. Only, if she was to sincerely forgive the idiot woman and move on as… friends… Freya needed to understand what it was that she was forgiving her for.
"After that business with the girdle…" Corwin began hesitantly. Freya, who had been facing determinedly forward, swung around so that the two of them were face to face. Then the Captain took a deep breath and pressed on resolutely. "When you knocked me out in that Inn so that you could steal my clothes and impersonate me…"
"Captain with respect, all we did was borrow your uniform. It wasn't even personal, we were being blackmailed," Freya growled impatiently. "And all they did was unofficially demote you for a few days. It wasn't that big a deal and it was months ago. You need to let it go."
"Not a big deal?" Corwin hissed under her breath.
The soldiers did not need to see their superior officers fighting among themselves. She led Freya into her tent where they could talk in private, and clipped her around the jaw.
"I drank an ale that creep Eldoth handed to me and it knocked me out. Then I woke up in a strange room in my underwear. Nobody told me why until hours later! What do you think I thought had happened to me Freya? What would you think?" Corwin asked.
Freya turned pale. She ran her fingers through her golden hair in a distressed sort of way. She opened and shut her mouth like a guppy. She made to hug Corwin. She thought the better of it.
"I'm sorry," she finally managed. Freya had uttered those words at least a dozen times since the incident, but this was the first time Corwin believed that she really meant it.
"You think licking my boots was humiliating?" the Captain went on stiffly. There were angry tears welling up in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. "I had to wrap myself in the bedsheets, beg the innkeeper for some spare clothes and report what had happened to the Fist. I was crying in front of my own fucking officers! What a good joke they all thought it was when they found out it was just you, Coran and that worthless bimbo Safana pinching my uniform so you could go on a jolly in the Ducal Palace!"
"I'm sorry Corwin, I'm really sorry," Freya pleaded. "I didn't think."
"You never do Freya! That's the problem!" Corwin groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. She stayed like that in silence for a few moments, regaining her composure. When she looked up the werewolf was wiping her eyes on the edge of her bedroll. "So now you're going to cry?" she demanded impatiently. "Look, I'm telling you this because I want us to move on. We need to move on if we're going to defeat Caelar."
Freya nodded, but couldn't meet her eye. A cold, nauseous feeling settled in her stomach. Corwin was relieved to see some evidence that the Hero of Baldur's Gate was capable of feeling shame. She certainly deserved to. She was waiting for Corwin to say something, but her Captain was not about to let her off the hook so easily.
"What's your first name?" Freya asked finally. Corwin blinked. Of all the things she'd thought Freya might say to break the silence, that was not one of them.
"You seriously don't know?" asked Corwin, acidly.
"You never told me, and I've never heard anyone use it," said Freya. "You use my first name."
"Only out of habit. I ought to call you Sergeant Candlekeep, but I keep forgetting." Corwin replied. She met Freya's sceptical grey eyes and relented a little. "Schael. My name is Schael."
"Schael," repeated Freya, with a half-smile. "It suits you."
"You never, ever, ever use it in public!" the Captain snapped.
"No Sir."
There was another pause while she tried to work out whether or not the werewolf was making fun of her. At length she decided that she wasn't, and poured the two of them a small drink from her own private stock. It was a lot better than the caustic red liquid Freya had been quaffing from her private flask and they drank together in silence for a while.
"I've let other people into my life since Rohma was born," Schael admitted. "But they… I don't want to talk about them. Father says you only need to win one to win the game, but I'm tired of playing games." She looked sideways at the werewolf, who was wearing a grim expression. It made her seem strangely older. "I suppose you and your friend Coran never tire of games?"
"Coran doesn't, certainly," agreed Freya emphatically. She paused. After the way the Captain had detested her all this time she was not sure she wanted to expose her weaknesses to her. On the other hand Corwin had shown some vulnerability and if they were going to get past their differences perhaps she ought to give something back. "As for me, games are all I've got."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Corwin.
"I'm not Coran. I want a home, a wife, kids but… it isn't going to happen."
"Why not?" Corwin frowned.
"Is that a serious question?" laughed Freya bitterly. "I'm not a man for starters, that rules out the overwhelming majority of women. Skie and her noblewoman friends might jump into bed with me for a curiosity fuck, or something to brag to their boyfriends about but marriage is different. Then add to that I'm a Bhaalspawn and a werewolf. Those Selunite monks were right about one thing. No woman worth a damn is ever going to want a serious relationship with me."
"Freya…"
"And I don't blame them," Freya added with crushing finality.
"You are pathetic Freya!" snapped Corwin suddenly. "Mooning around after Skie and feeling sorry for yourself, instead of even trying to have a real relationship! Has it occurred to you that the reason nobody wants you isn't because you're a werewolf, or a Bhaalspawn or because you like women but because you are a infantile, arrogant arsehole?"
Well, that was a mistake, Freya thought. She had shown the officer the tiniest chink in her armour, and the other woman had gone straight in there with a dagger. Freya opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't seem to summon the anger needed to respond. Instead she seemed to deflate. It felt to Corwin that she had never seen a more defeated person.
"Yeah," Freya shrugged. "Yeah. Pathetic."
"Freya?" frowned Corwin.
"I am sorry about that business with the girdle," Freya repeated in a more formal tone, getting to her feet and saluting. "And I'm sorry for everything else too. Goodnight. Sir."
She left the tent. Schael watched her leave with mixed feelings. The woman's childishness and irresponsibility could be put down to immaturity, but the stupidity she would never grow out of. Yet she was so pretty, and the Captain had a long and peppered history of falling prey to beauty.
Freya found Rasaad in the sick tent. She felt bad about asking him to meditate with her when he was clearly in pain, and worse about tearing him away from Arrow when the two of them seemed to be finally getting on. Yet full moon was approaching and with it her anxiety mounted. She had wanted him… needed him… to join the march to Dragonspear for a reason. He had controlled the werewolf in the Iron Throne building without hurting him. If she lost control, she needed him to do the same for her until the moon set and the wolf retreated. It was for everybody's safety, including her own.
"You meditate together?" Arrow had asked, with a suspicious scowl at Freya.
"Does that bother you?" the werewolf asked, cocking her stunning golden head to one side. The honest answer to this was yes. Freya was widely held to be the most beautiful woman in Baldur's Gate, if not the whole of Faerun. She may not be attracted to Rasaad, but that was no guarantee that he was not attracted to her.
As it happened, he wasn't, at least not anymore. Like almost everybody, he had been when they had first met. Yet the thing about charisma, especially magically enhanced charisma, was that it was all about impressions. The closer to a person one got, the less effective it became. With her wolfish sharp eyes and apparent wit, Freya gave strangers the impression of being intelligent but nobody who had spent time with her would describe her as such. Likewise, Rasaad was finding her sex appeal diminish over time to a level that was surprisingly ordinary.
"Bother me? Why should it bother me?" retorted Arrow stiffly.
"It shouldn't," said Freya. There was a long silence. At length the werewolf sighed. "You don't like me much do you?"
"I wouldn't dare say that," snapped Arrow sarcastically. "Glint didn't like you and look what happened to him." Feeling it best to separate the two of them before Arrow said anything else provocative, Rasaad got awkwardly to his feet and limped out of the tent.
Normally Freya would chain herself up and take herself far away from people to transform. The Ducal Palace had been challenging with all those people nearby, but it was relatively safe. Silvershield had installed a concrete post in the floor to attach her chains to and all the staff knew to stay well-clear. A camp full of soldiers was different. Supposing some of the stupider kids decided to approach her for a dare? Or that blasted bard Jaheira brought to the camp wandered into her vicinity in a drunken stupor? Yet if she took herself away into the wood she'd be easy prey for Irenicus. Her howling would make locating her a simple matter.
"Meditating is far more effective with you than it was with Minsc," remarked Freya truthfully. "Boo was a mellowing influence, his owner not so much. I find your example of calm and self-restraint helps me a great deal."
"I think you exaggerate my humble contributions," replied Rasaad modestly. "But I thank you nonetheless."
They walked past Edwin and the two drow who were still in deep discussion about something. When they saw the werewolf approaching, Viconia winked at them and sidled over.
"Off to meditate on the Moon Maiden again?" she purred, running a finger over Freya's unresisting chest. "You should join me in the shadows instead. I can show you something darker. Self-restraint has nothing on being restrained by me."
The drow smirked and slipped back to her males, leaving Freya swallowing and very un-calm indeed. Rasaad sighed sympathetically. He had been fending off these attacks for months, but his faith had held strong and he was confident that Freya's would do the same.
"Does she pull this crap on you too?" asked Freya, tugging her collar.
"Daily," sighed Rasaad wearily.
"And you've not become a Sharran yet?" she asked, impressed.
"No," he answered firmly. Freya saluted him. His lips thinned disapprovingly. "You cannot mean to embrace Shar?"
"Shar? Nah," Freya replied. "But I'd 'embrace' her priestess given half a chance."
Not for the first time with Freya, the monk found a laugh escaping him when he knew it really shouldn't. "Why don't you say that to her?" Rasaad teased.
"Come on Rasaad," winked Freya. "I might take on dragons but even I have some sense of self-preservation!"
They settled cross-legged at the edge of the treeline, where the soldiers were still in sight but the sound of their bustle less intrusive. The moon rose, pale and silver, over the tent silhouettes. Rasaad took a deep breath of cool, clean air, ignoring the midges gathering around his face. The sky was sprinkled with brilliant shining stars and he watched them in contented silence, imagining pictures in them as he did with Arrow's freckles. Freya envied him his dulled human-ears. Unlike her, he could enjoy the evening without hearing the faint groaning creak of swinging rope.