Chapter Eleven

(*)

Sephiria's sword slammed home onto Acherai's raised quarterstaff, the magically-enhanced metal coating the staff holding up admirably against the very intense strength behind the descending blade. Much better, in fact than the elf holding it.

Acherai wasn't exactly weak, but he was built for agility, not for pure strength. The result of a lifetime avoiding trouble rather than facing it head-on; thieves weren't supposed to get into real fights. As a result, the impact, coming in far too fast to dodge or parry, ran down his entire body like the hammer of a god, numbing his arms and pressing him down to one knee with distressing ease as the young paladin crushed him with sheer force.

"Wait!" he snapped, stepping back and hopping awkwardly back to his feet, trying to ignore how very likely it was that he would die if he couldn't make the lunatic stop this. She was too close, there was no time for spells, between him and the only exit to the tent, he needed to get her back on the puppet strings before she cut his. "For Mask's sake, you need to-"

He was cut off, then, by her snapping his guard out to one side with a swing of her blade, and stepping in to slam her armored elbow into his gut. He fell, gasping for air and choking on the morning's meal it was forced back up, Sephiria raising her sword high, judgment in her eyes.

And midway through its descent, a golden hammer interjected, the magical weapon slamming against the flat of her blade. Lightning ran up the weapon, sending a painful jolt through her whole body and pushing her back out of sheer reflex as she instinctively tried to avoid the shock… only to find a jolt far more personal awaiting her.

She watched in stunned silence as a foot of steel, nearly a third of her weapon's blade, spun through the air and impaled itself into the ground, snapped cleanly off.

Kagain shrugged, his magical hammer still crackling with arcs of electricity from snapping her sword. "Sorry. Good weapon, shame ta waste it, but he makes sure I get paid and you're bein' a brat."

She gritted her teeth, holding her broken sword before her in as close as it could manage to a guard with its balance ruined so. "This was a gift from my first swordmaster. It was special to me…"

"An' now it's a paperweight, 'cause you picked the wrong fight. Way o' the world," the dwarf said. "Don't bite the hand that feeds ya. They turn and bite back, and then yer doubly in the hole."

"He murdered that man!" she snapped, gesturing at the corpse of the prisoner in the corner of the tent. "And you defend him still?!"

"Wasn't planned. Though if it was… what matters he to me?" Kagain said with a shrug. "A stranger, a slave? Worthless."

Sephiria quivered in rage, clearly on the verge of running at the dwarf again as she said, "Anyone who would call an innocent life worthless is undeserving of his own. You have had justice coming for a long time, mercenary scum, and I am proud to deliver it."

"With a broken sword and the skills of a brat, what never fought for her life until a few tendays ago?" Kagain asked. "Like me odds just fine, kid."

"Both of you," Acherai gasped, pulling himself to his feet and coughing up a few drops of blood, "shut up. We're in enemy territory. If you two really want to kill each other, I officially no longer care. But Tazok, at least, is still out there, so save it for a time when a berserk ogre isn't going to charge back to his camp and find we ruined it."

"Taz… dammit," Sephiria hissed. "Kivan!"

"What about Kivan?"

"Tazok went into the woods after him! Viconia saw it, she…" the young paladin shook her head. "I know what she is. I suspect you do too. But for right now, a good man is in danger and I need all of your help to save him."

Acherai narrowed his eyes. "And I have some reason to care about him? All of this," he gestured outside at the ruined camp, "was his doing. Things were going perfectly until he interfered. So why do I have any reason to dig him out of the hole he's dug for himself?"

"Because Tazok is clearly high in the enemy's counsel. And while I am sure whatever papers you might have found here will help," Sephiria said flatly, "will they help as much as taking one of your foe's top lieutenants?"

Acherai chuckled, wincing at the motion as he held his ribs. "See? You can speak my language, if you put the effort into it. But just so it's clear, I have the trail and I don't need you anymore. This will be our final little adventure together, hm?"

Sephiria threw down the hilt of her broken sword and knelt next to one of the bandit corpses, lifting up his fallen blade. A bit light for her tastes, but it would have to do.

"Trust me," she said, looking down on what was left of her first weapon, "I do not wish to spend any more time in your company than I absolutely must."

(*)

Kivan had lived this dream every night since Deheriana had died.

The typical elven resting trance of Reverie had been lost to him, leaving him unable to perform the normal refreshing meditations of his people. It was not unheard of for such to happen, in times of illness or due to grievous wounds... or intense grief. His soul was damaged, and he could not balm it. And so when he should have been in peaceful rest, focusing his mind and soul in the Weave of magic, he instead slept as a human might. And in so doing, he dreamed.

Every night was the same. He relived her suffering, her begging her to save him and the absolute anguish of his helplessness to do so. He relived the ogre breaking his fingers, one by one while Deheriana begged him to stop. He relieved the branding irons, the hooks, the beatings that left his face so bruised and swollen he couldn't even see his helplessly sobbing wife. But he could hear her. Always hear her.

The blade slicing across his throat had been almost a relief, because for a time he had not been able to hear anymore, or see, or feel. He was left to do nothing but desperately hold the wound closed and focus with sheer, thoughtless will on surviving at any cost. But leading up to that, the one thing he couldn't ever drive out of his mind was the smile on Tazok's face as he lifted Kivan up, and pried his swollen eyes open so he could watch the bandits take the very same blade to Deheriana immediately after, still wet with his own blood as it cut into her again and again and again...

Most elves who couldn't enter Reverie became a shadow of their former selves. But since Kivan was already broken beyond repair, he was actually quite pleased with the dreams. He needed them. He literally could not keep living in this world, could not fight the urge to pass to Arvandor, without seeing Tazok's leering eyes and bloody blade every night, without feeling the torture, without watching Deheriana fade forever.

The hate was all that kept him going. And it kept him going now.

Tazok's blade fell, the weapon buzzing through the air, and Kivan kicked off the ground with this wounded foot, ignoring the pain that tore through him and the dizziness as blood flowed freely. None of that mattered. None of it would ever matter. He was going to die here, he knew it. But he refused to let that happen while Tazok still breathed.

The arrow was already nocked. He had been preparing to fire it when his foot had been slashed, and his grip was iron. He released it, knowing it wouldn't slay the ogre down no matter where it struck; the creature was borderline invulnerable. Every single shot he had landed had done no more than irritate it. But there was another method he had come to consider, and Tazok himself had made it possible.

He was feeling slightly dizzy simply from the blood lost from his single wound. The monster had nearly a dozen arrow wounds already, and they bled freely. His natural hardiness and the fact he, obviously, had more blood to lose were slowing the effect, but they were alone, far out in the woods, and Tazok was hardly a healer.

He might not be able to inflict a single, lethal blow against the creature's strength and speed but if he could make certain the thing bled to death before he managed to find his way out of the forest...

The arrow lashed out, aiming for the ogre's booted foot and pinning it to the ground through the leather and forcing Tazok to shatter the shaft with a swing of his sword, stomping his charge barely slowed as his massive leg muscles ripped the arrowhead from the ground, his blade whipping forth with impossible speed to open another thin line of blood on Kivan's chest as the attack just barely scraped the archer, yet still pierced his armor like it was made of simple cloth.

And Kivan could not even feel it, just enjoying the sight of the ogre leaving behind a very satisfying bloody footprint.

(*)

"You've ruined everything, child," Jaheira said.

Imoen winced, and said in a vaguely hurt tone, "I feel like that's being unfair to me."

"You led us off into the wilderness on the errand of a hamster-wielding madman. And now we have lost our one and only lead to continue the investigation which, I must remind you, is the entire reason for our group's existence."

The two women (one woman and one idiot child) as Jaheira probably would have put it, stood in the main hall of Feldpost's Inn, in Beregost. Mulahey's documents had led them here, and they had come to the innkeeper, offering him a few gold for the room Tranzig had been staying in, and his silence in the matter of any loud, violent noises that might be emanating from that room in the near future. Only for Feldpost to chuckle, say, "Aye, yer not the first to want a rough word wi' that one. Shame the last ones drove him off, I know not where! A few extra gold always be welcome" and go back to washing his glasses.

"I admit that maybe, just maybe, things didn't go exactly totally perfect," Imoen said. "But I think we still have a chance!"

"Really? Because I think that our only lead has left Beregost for an unknown destination and has at least a full day's head start on us."

"But Minsc and Dynaheir seem well rested now!" Imoen said. "And I think Dynaheir might teach me magic if I ask real nice. An' I always kinda wanted to learn magic!"

"… Imoen?"

"… You don't care, huh."

"I do not."

"Still angry, huh."

"If my husband had not developed an odd paternal fondness for you, I would hurt you so badly."

"You, uh… you go tell the team that things are going great," Imoen said, taking a few steps back from Jaheira. "I'm gonna go… scout out the area."

"Things are not going great, Imoen," Jaheira said flatly. She had one hand on her quarterstaff, just kind of idly drumming her fingers on it.

"Sorrycan'thearyagottascout!" Imoen squeaked, running away as fast as she could. She sprinted down the wide roads of Beregost, not looking back, and ducked down the closest thing she could find to an alley in this ridiculous town full of cottages and well-lit public boulevards, the space between two houses.

Honestly. What kind of city didn't even have proper alleys? Her childhood was weeping with dismay. But it seemed like Jaheira hadn't even bothered to chase and give the murder in her eyes an outlet.

"Ho there, child. Might I ask what pushes thee to flee so?" a weird old voice asked her, and she looked up from her heavy breathing to see a suitably weird old man sitting atop a barrel next to her. He had a beard longer than her hair, bright blue eyes that didn't quite look old enough to match his leathery skin, a burning pipe in his hand, and bright red robes that looked like they had probably been very good quality before someone had done a lot of gardening in them. She was 99% certain he hadn't been there when she'd closed her eyes to catch her breath.

"My friends are scary, mainly," Imoen said, taking it in stride. "So are you, a little bit, but I figure you're probably not a bad guy since you dress all colorful 'n such."

"Ah, the young. No matter how old I get, a charming lass 'tis enough to bring me back to younger days," the old man chuckled, puffing on his pipe again.

"Uuuum, are you hitting on me? Because I gotta be frank, I'm not really in a situation where I can be getting romantic right now, and you're… well. Really old."

The old man chuckled again, shaking his head. "Ah, yes, thy personality will definitely be a help, in its own slightly unknowable way. 'Tis best I give thee a nudge towards her, then, I fear that things are not at all going how she'd hope, much less how Gorion wished. The world 'tis a cold, dark place, and a friendly face is sometimes the best remedy."

"Wait, what?" Imoen asked, blinking in confusion. "Gorion? You knew…"

"Hush, child, and accept a bit of aid offered in good faith," the old man said, passing her a scroll. He had not pulled it from a pouch or his sleeve; one moment he was not holding it, the next he was.

Imoen narrowed her eyes. "I may be new at this adventurin' thing, but let me be super-clear: I know not to take weird presents from creepy old men in alleys. 'Specially not if they're wizards."

The old man… old wizard, more accurately, of course… laughed heartily. "And the world would be a safer place if more people followed such advice. However, there be no harm in a simple map, and possibly avoiding quite a bit of harm if it calms dear Jaheira. 'Tis up to thee how it is used, of course, but I have faith in thy judgment."

"Well, I guess I can-" she began, glancing briefly at the cloth map in her hands (and hadn't it been a roll of paper a second ago?), only to find the old man was gone as soon as she looked up from it.

"Ooooookaaaay…" Imoen said, blinking a few times and wondering if she should throw the map away and scream, only to feel something hard and evil (she could sense the evil) that she bumped into as she took cautious steps backwards.

"Hullo," Jaheira said.

"Eeep!" Imoen squeaked in dismay, whirling and throwing the map at her out of pure reflex. The druid caught it without looking.

"So, then. We never finished our discussion."

"I… swear I didn't mean it! I didn't know he was gonna leave, and I didn't know about the crazy old man, and I only threw that map to the bandits because you startled me, and…"

"You only threw what now…?" Jaheira muttered, unrolling the cloth and looking at it in some mixture of confusion and disbelief; a map of the Sword Coast region, lovingly detailed and pointing out the most well-maintained roads and safest forest paths possible during the current crisis, and marking a spot to the east of Baldur's Gate in red was a simplistic drawing of a campsite. She was half tempted to call the whole thing a hoax and wonder how Imoen could have possibly played such a ridiculously elaborate trick on her…

Save for the top left corner of the map, the compass rose was not four arrows marking the cardinal directions, but a harp held inside the hollow of a crescent moon.

"Imoen," Jaheira asked, her tone barely above a whisper, "where did you get this?"

"… Would you believe a weird old man in alley hit on me and then handed me a map and disappeared?" Imoen asked, wincing with each word as if she expected Jaheira to punch her in the face. And Jaheira was tempted to hit something, just not for the reasons that Imoen likely suspected.

"Unfortunately," she said with a sigh, rolling up the depressingly-probably-real-map and turning to head back to the group, motioning for Imoen to follow, "I really would believe that, a fact which fills me with great sorrow. Well done, Imoen. For a certain value of the words, mind you, as you may grow to consider the connection you have made this day to be more annoying than beneficial. Silvanus knows I do."

"… Yay?" Imoen said, not entirely sure if she should be happy or sad, from the way her pseudo-mentor was talking.

"No. No 'yay.'"

(*)

Kivan winced as the ogre's sword, once again barely dodged, opened a thin line of blood on his shoulder, but it was more reflex than anything. Wounds that would have left him helpless a scant few weeks ago barely registered, as if he was piloting his body from afar rather than living in it; when one knew death approached, and welcomed it, it stopped to be a thing of fear and became a tool.

Your life is an arrow. Drive it into his heart. Nothing else matters.

He turned the motion of clutching his bleeding wound into a reach for one of his final few arrows, using the second of Tazok's over-extension following his massive swing to plant the shot somewhere truly vulnerable for once. The ogre fell to his knees, letting out a most unseemly squeal of pain as the projectile dove into the side of his neck, and Kivan felt a thrill of joy at the first reaction he had managed to get out of the thing.

Tazok's thick hide and ridiculously corded neck muscles stopped the arrow from traveling completely through and severing his spine, but the wounds had finally managed to snap the ogre out of his berserk rage. The loss of blood, the dozens of wounds, all of them were adding up now, weighing him down. For his own part, Kivan had gone outside his body, the warmth of his own blood coating his foot and flowing down his chest barely registering, even as his vision started to dim from the loss of it.

The tables had turned, well and truly. The unstoppable juggernaut and the hapless prey had taken on new forms as the ogre began to grasp how wounded he had allowed himself to become, and the elf stepped back, drawing one of his final two arrows, almost feeling the hand of Shevarash, god of vengeance, guiding him as he drew the bowstring back…

And, just a second too late, saw the flash of cunning glee in the ogre's eyes as he whipped his sword-arm up in a blur and threw the massive weapon.

For anyone, anyone else, the tactic would have been suicidal and pointless. A sword, particularly a broadsword as massive as Tazok's, was not balanced to be thrown. To make it go any distance with any sort of accuracy was nigh impossible. Even the scant fifteen feet between them would have been impossible… for a human.

But as Tazok had proven more than once, he was far, far more than human. Propelled by the ogre's impossible muscles, the sword tore through the air with the speed of a shaped javelin. It wouldn't go far, regardless, but… it didn't need to.

Kivan felt no pain, Kivan felt nothing but the need to end it. But the sword diving into his stomach was massive and hurled by an arm a thousand times stronger than his own. Even if he couldn't truly register the pain anymore he was still a slender elf facing a colossal impact…

His arrow went wide. And when he tried to draw his final shaft, he found his hands cold, slow, like moving through molasses, even as his mind screamed for any weapon at all, and Tazok smiled as he lunged…

(*)

Sephiria ran, fully aware that only she cared.

The world had turned against her, and she knew it. Not only had she lost her father and been cast into the wide world alone, but the first allies she had taken on were beings far outside her experience or morality. She was a paladin, and had been duped into an alliance with beings motivated solely by greed and ruthless pragmatism. And the only one among them with any morals, the only one she had thought she could trust, had proven so twisted by revenge that he may have done more harm than any of them.

She had always felt that deep down, on some level at least, most people were inherently good. Naïve, perhaps, but she was a paladin and the very fact that gods of goodness and justice could exist and thrive seemed to back up that viewpoint. Certainly, people could turn to evil wholeheartedly, become monsters in human skins, but they were the exception, not the rule. Most 'bad' people were just misguided, warped against their better nature by circumstance and pain. Given the chance, given a proper guide, they could find their way back to the light.

She believed this. Despite the machinations of Acherai and the amoral greed of Kagain and the cold logical ruthlessness of Viconia, she had to believe it. She needed to hold onto something, to believe the world was a place worth protecting. Kivan was a good man, led astray, and she could guide him back to…

To…

She burst into the clearing, the trail of blood and crushed foliage she had been following leading her to the end of the line, and came upon the scene of the final battle.

She averted her eyes, and tried to stay standing as dizziness and nausea twisted her mind. Not the sight, or the smell, she had come to be painfully used to those over the last few weeks. The idea of it, though, everything was just so wrong…

"I don't know what you were expecting," Acherai said from behind her, his tone cold and hard. "But this was always how he was going to end up. It's for the best that you see it with your own eyes."

"Shut up," she whispered, closing her eyes. "A man just died, show some damn respect."

"You barely even knew him."

"Nobody knew him. I think that's what makes me saddest of all," she said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "He had nobody left who cared. I never got to know him, or understand him. And I couldn't save him. Why can't you grasp why that would make me mourn? Are you that empty inside?"

He sighed. "I… suppose I can understand the tragedy of it. But I learned a long, long time ago that letting the death of someone you don't know pain you is a quick and easy road to madness. Best to focus on what you can do for yourself, and the people who actually mean something to you."

She opened her eyes, and behind the tears that still welled up in them was a spark of something just a little too furious for a paladin. "And how many people in this world, Acherai, actually do mean something to you?"

He smiled, and the expression reminded her of nothing so much as a snake that had learned to walk upright and wear an elf mask. On the surface it seemed like a natural expression, but underneath…

"None who are still alive, my dear. None who are still alive."

She shuddered. "I am going to give Kivan a proper burial. And then I am going to return to Beregost and continue on my own. I… thank you for your efforts thus far, at least those which have allowed me to survive where I otherwise would have fallen. And as recompense for them, I will accept your word on the matter in the tent, and not attempt to exact justice for your crimes… this time."

"Never doubted it. And for what it's worth, I do wish you luck, if only because our targets are one and the same," he said with a shrug, turning to walk away. "As long as you harry them, I'm happy to let you go. But don't get in my way again."

The two stood in silence, her gaze burning into his turned back, and for a moment the tension was so thick that it seemed the tentative truce would break down simply by virtue of general disdain… before Acherai sighed again.

"Iron Throne."

"What…?"

"The group that was running that camp, employing the mercenaries. The documents we took confirmed them as the Iron Throne, a merchant cartel."

Sephiria narrowed her eyes. "And you are sharing this because?"

"Perhaps I like having you in my debt a little more, as insurance. Or maybe I just want to make sure the 'sword of justice' is pointed at the people I'd like it pointed at. Or maybe, just maybe, you've grown on me a little bit under all the irritation and I feel like being nice," he said with a shrug. "Choose whatever explanation you like. I doubt it really matters. Enjoy your work here, and let it be a stark reminder of how not to go about things."

He walked into the trees, and was gone. Sephiria watched him go, and, with no other tools available to her, hefted the bloody broadsword and began to dig as best she could. The damnable thing was massive, even by her standards, and the simple knowledge of what it had had been used for left her revolted. But the sad fact was that she was alone in the woods, and any tool she could use was something she would have to take advantage of. The blade was a masterwork, most definitely enchanted, and leaving it behind would only make her death more likely.

If Acherai could be vaguely pleasant, she supposed being vaguely practical herself was not the end of the world.

(*)

The damn elf had killed him.

Tazok staggered through the brush, uncertain if he was even heading back to his camp and the idiots who made up his weak, pink little army. He had been in enough campaigns, however, to know that if he was not walking toward them, and more to the point the Cyricists who had taken the position of camp medics, he was not going to survive.

From the moment he'd killed the damn elf and the berserker rage had cleared from his mind, he had felt a brutal chill fall over his limbs. The thrill of battle, the rage, the need to rip the smug little bastard apart, had kept him from truly feeling the pain of his wounds... but he had taken a lot of them. He had killed enough men to know that losing so much blood you couldn't even lift your damn sword was a sign things were almost over.

Tazok didn't mind the thought of dying, not really. He had always been more ogre than human, and an ogre didn't claim a position of power without killing the person who'd held it before, much like Tazok himself had eaten Sarevok's former chief bodyguard in order to prove he'd deserved the post more. You couldn't live like that without accepting that it would someday happen to you. He'd just always hoped it would be something more impressive than a damn elf. Spindly-limbed little forest faerie dancing around under the moonlight? When he met Vaprak in the afterlife, he'd be lucky not to have his soul ripped apart.

He smashed aside a sapling tree, stepping through stinging thorns and leaving yet more of his blood behind on the damn greenery, his throat falling as he stomped into the camp, unsure if his vision was swimming because of the blood loss, or because most of the damn place was on fire. He let out a sound that was halfway between a snarl and a chuckle, simultaneously enraged and kind of amused as he said, "Knew pink little nothings would fall apart soon as I left… ha, ha… if any are still alive… will rip them apart to make bandages of their skin…"

"Hello, Tazok."

He turned, his eyes widening he saw an unfortunately familiar figure stepping from behind the half-collapsed ruins of his command tent. Sarevok, fully armored and his eyes glowing with that off-putting fire, looked upon him. He was a full two feet taller than the human, but he still felt as though he was being looked down upon.

"Boss… thought you left," he stopped, coughing up a mouthful of blood. "C-could use a healer, if your woman's…about."

"Tamoko is awaiting my return in Baldur's Gate. I returned because I saw the smoke rising from the camp… but whoever caused this is long gone. I wanted to kill someone for it, of course, so I'm glad you returned."

"HA! S-someone beat you to it, boss. Not long on my feet," Tazok chuckled, falling to one knee.

Sarevok sighed, and stepped forward, the tip of his sword lightly dragging on the ground and killing any grass it touched...but his other hand reached into his pouch and removed a potion, and Tazok felt a glimmer of hope. "Well. Gutting a dying weakling would be unsatisfying, so perhaps you can earn your life back. Tell me who did this, and be damn specific."

"Saw four myself. Elf, slippery little...cold eyed bastard. Drow. Dwarf, seemed...solid sort for a runt. And the wood elf who put all these...arrows in me." He stopped to cough again, his vision swimming and going dark around the edges. "Must have had more in the woods. Elf army, probably, or mercs he hired. Pointy eared bastards...always take things personal."

Sarevok's grip on his sword tightened. "That's it? No humans among them? A young woman, with bright red hair...?"

"Didn't... Didn't s-see..."

"Damn!" Sarevok raised his blade, and for a moment Tazok thought it was the end, but the armored man just brought the weapon down on a convenient corpse, hacking the thing in half with a single swing. "First Mulahey, now this. I had hoped it was her, but nothing confirmed again! Rieltar will start looking into things soon, and if Gorion's brat isn't the one ripping apart his plans this is all a waste of ti-"

And then, in mid rant, Sarevok stopped, turned his gaze on Tazok, and asked, his tone perfectly calm, "What kind of elf was he? The leader, not the one who humiliated you."

Tazok shuddered, and not just from the chill of his blood loss. It was never pleasant to be reminded of Sarevok's real nature, his mercurial temper that could flip in seconds from berserker rage to cold cunning without any warning. Even to an ogre, a race not exactly known for their steady tempers, it was just a bit wrong.

Of course, it was also a sign that no matter how hurt you were, Sarevok could hurt you worse, and when Sarevok asked you a question, you swallowed the blood and bile in your mouth and you answered. "P-pale one. Grey elf."

Sarevok threw his head back, letting out the deepest, most full-bodied laugh Tazok had ever heard from him. "Oh! Oh, our father did have a sense of humor! The odds are impossibly small it would be him, but who else could it be but family?! And chaos will be sown in our passage indeed! Hahahahahaha!"

"W...what...?"

"To put it in merchant's terms? I believe destiny has delivered me a two-for-one deal. Well done, Tazok. You have given me a valuable clue, and these mercenaries were outliving their usefulness soon enough anyway. You have earned your life."

The ogre's mouth watered, his eyes locked on the healing potion... As Sarevok finished, "After you have been punished."

The blade raised up and came down with lightning quickness, cutting through armor, hide, and bone with disturbing ease. Again. And again. And again.

Tazok was dead after the second strike, but Sarevok kept going until his arm was half-numb. Destroying the body so thoroughly would make any resurrection more difficult and expensive, but he had truthfully been only barely holding back on the urge to murder Tazok the entire conversation, so much so he had barely been able to keep his hands from shaking. Better to clear out his frustration now than allow it to build up and make his temper flare at an inopportune moment.

Besides...it was fun.

(*)

Sephiria walked long into the night.

Her armor chilled her to the bone and her limbs felt cold and heavy, but she could hardly stop. She was alone in the woods armed only with a sword she had never used in combat, and predators both natural and otherwise were all too likely to be around. Stopping to sleep with nobody to keep watch would have far too great a chance of ending with her not waking up.

So she walked. Working out 'west' had not been too difficult with the sun setting, and she had been going for hours. The Friendly Arm, Beregost...even a real road would be a relief at this point. She had to be getting close to something.

Unless you got turned around. Because you let your moral high ground make you forget that Acherai had the map and compass, you idiot child.

Honestly. Life lately had become one step forward, two steps back. Every triumph met with a disaster, every success turned on her until she could take no pride in it. If Torm was testing her, he was being rather awful about it.

Sorry, my lord. No offense meant. Though if you could please see fit to bestow a boon upon your humble servant, she would greatly appreciate it?

She took another few plodding, painful steps and raised the sword, hacking apart the underbrush in her path. She could not swing the weapon with much force, but it didn't need much, thankfully. The enchanted weapon went through bushes and vines like they were cobwebs. And the very fact she could lift it told her the thing was at least...morally neutral, despite the former owner. She would probably still sell it, just out of awareness of what it had been used for, but at the moment it was a godsend.

...ha! Perhaps a fine blade was Torm's boon after all, she chuckled. The humor was black and laced with a bit of scorn, but something positive was a good thing to focus on. Anything to ignore her broken party, her failure with Kivan, and the simple fact that she needed to keep walking and didn't even know how far...

So yes. Focus on the positive. You are alive. You are armed, and have your share of the group's gold. So when you get to civilization, and you will, you can say a prayer of thanks and then buy a nice room at a nice inn and sleep for a week...

And then, just barely on the edge of her vision, she saw the fire.

Realistically speaking, she should not have headed toward it. Anyone could have been out in these woods, and they might well not have been friendly...may even have been agents of the very bandits she had just helped destroy. But she was cold, and exhausted, and increasingly realizing she had not eaten since yesterday. There were some risks a girl just had to take. So she walked, slow but steady, pushing her exhausted muscles as hard as they could stand, wishing only that she could go a little faster...

From the camp, she heard a female voice say, "And so then Puffguts says to me, 'Oi there missy, we ain't ta be dying the roast pink, na matter how cheerful ya think it is!'. And I say..."

She burst into a sprint, all fatigue forgotten.

(*)

Imoen had just stood up beside the fire to finish her story (the grand finale, where the pink ferrets stole the soup, required some dramatic hand motions), when a gallumphing red-haired giantess with a sword burst into the camp. She had just barely a second to be as happy at the sight as she had ever been about anything, before her adoptive sister rolled over her like a cavalry charge and swept her up into a cold, painful, armored bear hug.

"Gaaaack!" She said, eloquently.

"Immy... Immy, thank Torm, I thought I would never see you again..."

"Ribs! Ribs!" Imoen gasped out, feeling something cracking in her skeleton.

"Thank Torm..." Seffie said again, apparently not hearing her pleas, or perhaps just actively trying to kill her; Imoen couldn't be sure.

The rest of their party, frozen in shock with their weapons and spells half-readied, turned to each other in confusion. "M-my dear? Do you k-k-know what, erm, all this is?"

Jaheira sighed and sat back down to await the explanation. "Not at all, but since Imoen is involved, I suspect the answer shall make me quite angry."