Siblings
(These are longer than I expected. Maybe I just needed the freedom to post whatever I wanted and not force myself to make it in 55 chapters ;))
Again, Part III will be Mature.
...
"You just put an arrow in the head of someone."
Grunt.
"At two hundred yards."
Grunt.
"I'm presuming you 'know' this person was a bandit?"
Grunt.
"How could you possibly know that? He was two hundred yards away. How did his body language, general demeanor, or clothing manage to give it away? He's a dot."
Kivan looked at Imoen. Then he drew back another arrow, raised the tip, and released. Almost immediately as another dot appeared to investigate the first, the arrow came down and pinioned the second dot to the ground. Imoen planted her hands on her hips and peered up at Kivan with a raised brow. At last she laughed and said:
"Good gods man, you're terrifying. And as cold as ice."
Kivan gestured around them. "Trail," he explained, which suggested that while Imoen had been enjoying the scenery, Kivan had been reading clues in everything from footprints to discarded whisps of rubbish, and somehow from that knew the profession of whomever he'd just felled.
Imoen scratched her head. "Okay, that's... really neat. Is there anything you aren't phenomenal at?"
"Talking," he admitted.
"Well if that's how you say 'Hello,' I can see why!" Imoen giggled, gesturing out to the two dots. "You're sure of...?"
Grunt.
"Well alright, let's go loot, then. Oh, um, are you going to scalp them?"
Grunt.
"Ew, ew, ew. Make sure I'm turned away first, okay? Never had no stomach for that, nope."
Kivan looked at her for a moment. Then he lowered his head, smirked just a bit to himself, and headed forward.
...
Melicamp was ecstatic to see Imoen. The sanctum was a disaster; Thalantyr and Melicamp had no doubt flit around for hours collecting everything such a massive ritual would require from his stores. The archwizard had slept two consecutive sixteen hour nights, gathering energy. He didn't say a word to Imoen and Kivan when they entered. Then again, Kivan was also mute. Melicamp and Imoen did talking enough for ten people.
When Melicamp and Imoen began to discuss magic items and haggle over the Archwizard's Robes, Kivan spaced out and eventually left to hunt. When he returned three hours later with two pheasants slung over his shoulder, he found both chicken and thief to be exactly where he'd left them. They were not only discussing every conceivable property and cost equation of the robe, but seemingly unrelated topics like the weather, each other's health, and the economy of Tethyr.
Kivan tilted his head to the side. Sisters. It seemed to be impossible that any two people could be any more similar to or any more different from one another than Imoen and Aegis of Candlekeep. He came up to the debaters and politely tapped Imoen on the shoulder, whereupon she took a single glance at him and then whirled back on Melicamp with a vengeance.
"You'll take another hundred off, and I'll cook supper!" she announced.
Melicamp flailed in startled excitement so hard he fell back onto his rump. "Done!"
Kivan, who had been quite happy to cook as a gift to their hosts, was suddenly relieved of his pheasants. He frowned after Imoen suspiciously and then pursued her and Melicamp into the kitchen to make sure nothing strange or unnatural happened to his dinner.
...
"Use the sauce. It'll be good!"
He ignored her, stripping the meat with his teeth.
"Kivan, you will use that sauce or, so help me, there will be a ho-down here and now!"
The elf looked mutely over at her. Imoen winked. He seemed perplexed for a moment. Then he sighed, and reached over to pick up the nut sauce she'd made and dutifully drizzle it over his food. He looked at her with a raised brow. She gave him a thumbs up. He shook his head and went back to eating with his hands. She rolled her eyes dramatically.
The elf paused. He hesitated for a moment, and then licked some of the sauce off of his thumb. A moment passed in silence. Then he drew out a belt knife, stabbed up some of the meat and vegetables with it, rolled it in the sauce, and promptly tried the whole thing in one go, the way she'd meant it to be eaten. Imoen placed her hands on her hips. Kivan chewed. Then he gave her a guarded and begrudging look.
Imoen smiled innocently. "See? What did I tell ya?"
Kivan leaned his elbow on the table and rubbed his brow and temple, unable to repress a smirk.
"Ha, that's right! I have only four talents in life: cooking, remembering things, sneaky-sneaky, and talking to ornery people! Say, would you call yourself 'ornery' or merely 'broody'? Cause the difference is important!"
"Imoen, you need to come visit more often," Melicamp mumbled happily into his salad (it had been determined, after much consideration, that chickens ought not to eat pheasants.) Thalantyr grunted.
"The Wychlaran and Greycloak were unable to come?" the archmagus asked, and it was the first thing he'd said to her.
Imoen blinked, and her heart saddened a little. "Yeah. We're going to attack the bandit camp really soon now and... well Edwin is not on our team anymore."
Thalantyr regarded her. "Is that what you and the Thayvian were arguing about so incessantly the last time you were in my home?"
Imoen looked at her plate and nodded. "Yeah, sorry about that."
The archmagus grunted. "Waste of a good audience." He considered the problem of the bandits and then looked to Melicamp. "Give her another ten percent off. And throw in a ring of Protection from Fire."
...
Imoen watched incredibly closely as Thalantyr drew the ritual circles he needed. She offered to help, but he waved her away and muttered something about how every tiny line needed to be perfect, or they would all be blown to smithereens. As such, she sat and watched. And watched. And watched. She watched every tiny little rune and sigil, her mind searching for a story with which she might record meaning.
The sigils seemed to come alive before her eyes, twisting into overlapping metal and light of many colors, bending and twisting together in search of a final shape. He had lain down many pages of notes and pre-drawn sigils, and his spellbook was laying beside him. As he work he laid down spell components and switched through a wide variety of ritual chalks.
Thalantyr was busy laying down yet another ring and lifted a hand to turn over a page in his spellbook, when he noticed Imoen had come up beside him some indeterminably long time ago and was watching the spellbook. He glowered slightly. "Excuse me."
Imoen beamed at him. "Which would make you feel better: if I told you I have no idea what I'm looking at; or if I told you I understood absolutely everything without even trying and therefore your wisdom has contributed to the greater wealth of magic in the world?"
Thalantyr scowled, perhaps still a little paranoid about why a Red Wizard had taken such an interest in her.
"You did invite me to watch," She reminded him cheekily. "That sort of implies you want me to follow it as best I can."
He waved irritably and went back to work; he had no time for her. Imoen looked at him a moment and then decided to get up and fetch him some lunch. Her suspicions on the ornery old magus' weaknesses proved to be correct, when lunch dramatically improved his mood. She spent the afternoon jotting down recipes for Melicamp.
...
Imoen held out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Before her stood neither chicken nor splatter nor anything in between. Before her was a young man scarcely seventeen years old, with a wide-eyed expression! Whole, in the flesh, in the buff...
"Am-am I right again? Did it work?!" he asked hopefully. Then it occurred to him to look at his hands. "I have fingers! I have fingers, I have fingers!"
Imoen leaned slightly to the side. "Yup. You're whole alright!"
Melicamp's eyes rounded. He looked down and then rapidly covered his groin upon discovering that he was completely naked. His face turned scarlet. "Oh dear. I'm terribly sorry"
"Nothing I haven't seen elsewhere!" Imoen piped up cheerily, standing up straight and pulling off her cloak to give to the ex-chicken. He held it as a temporary drape and thanked her. She gave him an enormous hug and he couldn't help but giggle, he was so excited about being human!
Thalantyr gave a groan of relief. He stumbled backwards and then sank into his armchair. When at last he lifted his head, he was wearing an incredibly content smile; and it was clear from his expression that he had just unraveled quite a mystery. "Well," he sighed. "Melicamp, if you ever do that again, I am going to serve you with gravy. And that's a promise."
The young man straightened. "Y-yes master!"
"Go and put some clothing on.
"Y-y-yes master!" he stammered.
"Now, please."
"Y-y-y-yes master!" the boy squeaked, and he quickly fled.
...
Melicamp overexerted himself doing everything he'd missed being able to do while being a chicken; which was to say everything, even tasks Imoen would have normally considered boring. He flew around the sanctum brooming things, dusting things, taking things out, putting things away, stopping for a few minutes to dance about squealing, and then eventually ended up passed out on the couch, sleeping off the adrenaline rush.
Thalanyr just shook his head. "You are welcome to stay here another evening," he grumbled at Imoen. "If you cook."
Imoen saluted. Thalantyr grumbled to himself about old age and headed off to nap. Imoen looked up at Kivan.
"Really makes you realize what we take for granted, huh?"
Kivan blinked, and then got a far-off look that suggested she'd accidentally hit on a poor topic.
"Hey! Teach me to hunt?" she queried.
Kivan answered: "No patience," and it wasn't clear whether he meant he had none for her, she had none for hunting, or both.
"Well then," she decided, walking over to where Thalantyr had left his spellbook neatly in a corner with all his notes, "I guess I'll study, then."
...
When Kivan returned with rabbits for the evening, it was still early on in the day. Melicamp was still sleeping, and a quick review of High Hedge had turned up no sign of a (second) thief.
Kivan suspected Imoen to be up on the roof of High Hedge, but how she might have reached the dome was an enigma to him; None of the nearby trees were tall enough. He tilted back his hood and inspected the external structure of the haven. There were certainly enough handholds and foot holds for some stretches of the building's exterior, but other areas were naught but smooth stone blocks.
After some consideration he decided to try and make the climb anyway.
Sure enough, he found her up there lying back on her cloak, enjoying the autumn sunshine and reading the 'stolen' spellbook. "Hey!" she waved. He grunted, coming up beside her and placing his hands on his hips. "I wanted to see the sky."
Kivan sighed. He glanced around at the view visible from the top of High Hedge. After a moment's thought, he settled down to sit beside her. Imoen was starting to get the impression that the primary means by which Kivan interacted with people was by simply staying within earshot of them.
"Do you ever talk?" she asked him thoughtfully after a few minutes. "Well, I mean, I'm a chatterbox. But you and Aegis seem to have had long conversations."
"It is easier if I whisper," he confessed. "Or have anything to say."
"How old are you?"
He shrugged.
She pouted. "How can you not know?"
"Didn't count."
"What happened the decade you were born?"
"Trees grew."
Imoen looked at him. "Cannot tell if being contrary... or highlighting the detachment wild elves have from the rest of the world..."
Kivan smiled slightly. "I am not old, and I am not young."
"Well I figured. You have been married after all," she grumbled.
"Have been? Am," he corrected sharply. "Soul bonds do not end at the boundaries of worlds."
"What was she like?" Imoen asked him. The innocence of her voice seemed to calm him a little, though he was surprised she'd brought up the topic with Xan and Aegis' concerns hanging in the air. He draped his forearms over his knees and shook his head. Imoen waited a moment and then prodded one more time. "What color was her hair?" When the elf didn't answer, she went back to studying.
A long moment passed in silence before: "Red."
Imoen looked up at him in surprise. Kivan was looking far off into the horizon, his arms crossed over top of his knees and his face quiet in expression.
"She was the daughter of a satyr, and could dance like fire. She ought to have outlived me by a thousand years. It was not to be."
Imoen blinked several times. "Did she have hooves?"
He smiled and closed his eyes. "And horns," he admitted in the quietest of whispers. "Small ones. But no fur. Her mother was a devote of Hanali. A satyr can be my height, but she and her mother were always petite. She was no taller than you, no bigger than Xan." His eyes opened to slits. "She was always self-conscious about her hair. It curled in tight ringlets, and wouldn't grow long or straight no matter how she brushed it. I..."
Imoen propped herself up and quickly scooted over to him.
[Not want to talk,] he said abruptly.
[You should rest your voice,] she said, putting her arm about the elf hesitantly. He tensed but permitted her, and was surprised by the lyric color of her elvish.
[The others worry about me,] he broke the silence almost immediately. It was clear his mind was in more turmoil than he let on.
[Yeah. Aegis especially.] She wagered if Kivan was willing to talk to her, then her sister was on his mind.
[They do not know what it is like. To have half of yourself already dead,] he told the pink girl. [I know Deheriana is waiting for the day we will be reunited. I feel her there, at all times, as if past a wall of water; as if our fingers were touching on the surface. But I can't go to her yet. I can't go because he is still alive.
[Do you understand?] he asked in a rush. [Shevarash flows in my veins; the black archer's strength is in my arrows, my blood, my hate; and until I have avenged her and made peace with my failure, I will not sleep.]
Kivan was filled with incredible life; he was an elf, after all, and the world had spent over a century building him into an adult. That he'd waste that life trying to get to elf-heaven faster, when everyone eventually died anyway... Well, it reminded Imoen why elf romances tended to make her cry so much.
[I think finding out that a tiny action you did at the lowest point of your life ended up having such a huge impact on someone else's life, has shaken your convictions. It was easier to pretend you were a ghost when you weren't leaving any footprints.]
Kivan went still.
[I'm worried about Xan,] she told him, changing the topic. [I don't think he's contacted Everska to even tell his family or superiors that he's alive. At first I thought it was survivor's guilt. He survived; his fellow didn't. Then I realized it's deeper than that. Xan feels dirty that he wanted not to die. Somewhere in his head that makes it feel like he chose what happened to him.]
Kivan slowly looked up at her past his arm.
[I thought about it a long time. And I realized that if he feels disgusted with himself, it makes sense he doesn't want to face anyone. How could they possibly love him when they can 'see' the taint it left behind all over his body? How could he handle their disgust?]
[Then he fools himself. His death would have brought sorrow; his life is an occasion for joy.]
[Aye.] She looked at him meaningfully. If she couldn't save her own friends then maybe, just maybe, she could help save Aegis'. [That it is.]
...
Kivan didn't speak again; not until many, many hours had passed and they were about to head down to cook dinner. Then he asked her: [Will return to party?]
Imoen hesitated. [I...]
Kivan watched her face. [You never left him in his time of need,] he prodded.
She looked at her hands. [You want to know what the worst part is?] she asked him. [If someone is about to kill him, I'm supposed to let them. Edwin would never in a million years let any other Red Wizard kill me. He wouldn't even hurt me.]
[Do you think there can be kindness without empathy? We are all interconnected; to kill yours is to kill you.]
Imoen looked at her hands.
Kivan watched her expression for a long moment. [You must go, even if you can change nothing. Whatever happens to the people you love, you will never forgive yourself if you had hid when they needed you.]
The pink thief thought of Aegis. Kivan considered her distress about the evil wizard.
[You should be there to see the end. You are the only one who could weep for him.]
...
Imoen dreamed of walking among burnt corpses with unrecognizable faces. The tattered fragments of robes and armor were almost indistinguishable under ash and through fog. There was blood everywhere, and the air smelled of offal.
It was almost over. She could smell the ends as they came. She strode through the ashes. The Last Breathes of the dead gathered in the air around her like little Dancing Lights.
Imoen stopped at last beside a quivering form. It was not clear where red fabric began and blood ended. There were black, burnt patches from the effects of lightning. He was still conscious, and he had noticed her. His eyes tracked hers weakly as she knelt beside him.
His breath came in labored pants and crackles of liquid. He managed to say her name- not her real name, but Kwefai.
She reached forward to gather him up, and that was when she realized he'd been disemboweled, as not all of him left the ground. He sagged in her lap, his head dropping back limply. She cradled it in the crook of her elbow. He watched her face for a moment, pensive. Then a smirk drew his lips.
{Why are you even here?} was the only thing he asked her. He already knew she wouldn't save him.
{'Cause I'm your mum, stupid,} she retorted uneloquently.
The smirk didn't fade. After a moment, he turned his face into her and closed his eyes. He did not have the strength to taunt or jibe. He managed to keep breathing for another five to six minutes, his heart fluttering like a bird against her chest. How long ago had Dyn referred to them as 'The Children?' That she'd called herself his sister?
Then there was silence, except for the whirling ash and the blooming of another Last Breath. The fog stirred and whispered. The darkness moved.
Imoen looked up as long skeletal fingers closed around the Last Breath. Standing above her was a giant black skeleton, with a scythe of bone handling from its opposite hand. Rich golden curls spilled around its face. The eyes which watched her were the color of rain. The gaze was surprisingly soft.
...
Imoen couldn't sleep. She pace through the sanctum and its many displaced curiosities (Melicamp had begun some sort of deep-dust cleaning). Her mind was filled with half-finished nightmares and strange ghosts. Back and forth she paced. Left and right. Around the sanctum. Her mind roved, restless, anxious.
The sanctum was dark but for the glow of magical devices. A glint of light off a distant box caught her eye. On the edge of a little end table, a crystal cube stared up at her, the contents lost to the gloom of evening.
Imoen frowned. After a moment's hesitation, she stepped up to the little glass box and leaned over to peer inside. The Hand of Kazgoroth sat there, its gnarled ghoul-like fingers shriveled of moisture. She lifted her hand to the case, paused, and tilted her head to the side.
Kagoroth? Didn't he turn out to be an avatar of Malar of Bhaal or something?
I feel like we are hearing a certain dead god's name once too often.
My auntie was a Chosen of the Death God Bhaal! And Xzar's a fucking Deathstalker and half cleric to boot!
You are the only person you will ever be able to trust at her back. Don't trust me, and don't trust anyone else, either. Do it yourself. Trust yourself. I trust you.
I worried about Death! Death!
The Lord of Murder will perish... But in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny... Chaos will be sown from their passing... So sayeth the wise Alaundo...
...
Oh boy, I think high stress and an overdose of death-cloud-elf may have provoked an epiphany.
Meanwhile I wanted to take a little peek at the spiritual relationship between the dominance PC Bhaalspawn, and its little sister...
