Everyone in the Yawning Portal seemed poised on the precipice, hovering on the brink of tearing off into the depths of Undermountain. Maids wound their way through the crowd, some seeming concerned, while others merely seemed harried at the sudden influx of adventurers, drawn by the promise of glory and gold. Many of the sellswords were already fully armed, even though they still sat at their tables, nursing ales with trembling hands. Della thought she might have recognized a few faces, though none that truly stood out. She'd probably met some of them in passing, perhaps even worked with some of them on complementary contracts, though that seemed unlikely this far from the Moonsea.
None of them seemed to recognize her, and that suited Della well enough. She'd had more than enough of gawkers, lately. She was proud of Deekin and happy for his success, but the book had been a bit much. He'd managed to make her seem far more approachable than she liked to appear.
If she'd still been with Murtagh's Mongrels, she'd never hear the end of it. Even ten years hence, Murt had taken the time to send her a letter, congratulating her on her success since leaving their company.
With more ribbing than she'd thought truly necessary.
She still had it with her, the letter carefully kept but still bearing the lines of being repeatedly folded and unfolded. She missed that old orcish bastard. Sometimes he seemed like the last sensible person in Toril, with Drogan gone. He would have warned her off this course, she knew. Or worse, he'd have thrown himself into it right along with her. He'd never quite stopped seeing her and her brother as his responsibility— they'd always be the poor strays he'd brought in off the streets. So when he'd asked after Alaric, when he asked after Neverwinter, she'd not mentioned anything. Murt didn't deserve to be pulled into the midst of her struggles. He was one of the few that had managed to leave the mercenary life behind before it crumbled beneath his feet, and she wouldn't risk him returning to it for her sake.
Halaster was her last chance, the only option that still remained. She had to try, even if it killed her. Or worse, from what she knew of the mad mage.
She weaved her way through the crowd, sidestepping a maid balancing a precarious tray of drinks, then brushing past a reeling man who'd spent too long searching for courage at the bottom of a mug.
"Oi! Look at ye! Who let ye in here, ye scaly runt?"
Della did a half-turn towards the voice, brow wrinkled, her hand resting protectively on Syolkiir's side. He warranted a second glance, perhaps, but she'd been yet to hear someone taking offense at the little creature beyond a suspicious hand on their gold.
It was hard to see through the haze of pipe-smoke and the crush of bodies, but the man was nearby— the same large, bearded drunk she'd passed a moment before. He wasn't addressing her. He stood staring down, glassy-eyed and rednosed, lip curled in disgust at something she couldn't see, hidden by the man's turned body. None of her business, then. Della turned around again to see Durnan at the back of the inn's common room, wiping down tables with a rag. Tamsil had fought her way through the crowd and was leaned over the table, speaking to him. Even at this distance, she could see Durnan's jaw tighten and his eyes narrow. She took a step forward, pushing her way through the mass of people once again, then stopped as she heard a shrill, scratchy squawk behind her, then a loud clatter of something shattering.
Della sighed, willing herself to ignore whatever was happening. It didn't involve her. She needed to speak with Durnan, and make her way into Undermountain before a gaggle of hot-headed men in their father's old armor got there first and made even more trouble for her.
"Deekin is sorry! Deekin is just writing-"She spun around as the man laughed. She could see him now, the kobold the man had been talking to before. Deekin. The man had lifted him by his shirt, so that he was level with his face. Deekin was clawing at the man's hand, his neck craned back, as far away from the man as he could get.
"Kobolds, writin' books? Yer lot can't even speak like proper people. How'd ye sneak-"
"Deekin, friend!" Della called, her voice cutting cleanly through the din of noise. The man turned to look her way, and as he did, Deekin sank his teeth into his hand. He howled with pain and anger, dropping the little kobold to the floor and stumbling backward, clutching his hand to his chest. Blood dripped to the floor, mixing with spilled beer.
"Boss!" Deekin skittered forward, ducking as the man flailed another hand his way, weaving his way through people's legs to reach Della. The crowd took little notice of the exchange. With this many new people, a few brawls were expected. Della took hold of Deekin's shoulder as soon as he was within reach, then pushed him behind her. The man was shoving his way through the people, his head lowered and nostrils flaring, as if he were a bull.
"Stay behind me and stay quiet, Deeks. I'll sort this out." Deekin nodded, wrapping a hand around her leg and peeking his snout out around her just enough to watch, as if he were a child hiding behind his mother's skirts.
"is that-thing-yours?" Della grimaced as the man snarled, spittle flying from his mouth and flecking her face. She raised a hand and wiped if off, doing her best to keep a placating smile. He smelled awful, this close. Like stale beer and vomit lay in the black, bushy nest of a beard.
"I apologize, good sir. My friend-"
He laughed at that, cutting off her words harshly.
"Vermin, more like."
"My friend meant no harm, I assure you, "She stated firmly, squaring her shoulders and meeting the man's gaze coolly, "However, I would be more than happy to give a few gold to prevent any future…misunderstandings."
She could feel Deekin's accusing stare at the concession. She squeezed his shoulder a bit more tightly, gently tugged a thread of the Weave, and sent a whisper of thought his way.
Better gold than blood, Deeks.
He sniffled a little, a low whine humming in his throat.
Deekin not…Deekin not bad, boss.
I know.
"A few gold! A few gold, ye say!" He thrust his bleeding hand in her face, shaking it so blood dripped to the floor. "Look at what the blasted creature did to me!"
It wasn't as bad as he insisted, she thought. There was a lot of blood, true, but that was hardly surprising from a man as drunk as he. The actual wound was barely worse than a nasty scrape. Deekin hadn't bitten as hard as he could have.
"How am I supposed to work-
"Three gold. You may take it, or you may leave it, but this conversation is over." She fished the gold from her coin purse, and proffered them to the man.
He hesitated for a moment, pride warring with greed on his face, then reached a hand forward to take them. Deekin clutched her leg a little tighter, and she heard him snuffle quietly.
She dropped the coins to the floor, the gold clinking rudely against the wood.
"Oh, dear. Clumsy me." She smiled innocently as the man looked up at her. His already ruddy face had reddened even further with embarrassment and anger, but he leaned down once again to scoop up the coins.
She stepped on them before he could, then grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing his gaze upwards once more. His eyes met hers, bloodshot and black with anger. He went to lunge to his feet—
"Stay."
—and found he could not. He sank back down bonelessly. She could see some part of him fighting her order, small twitches on his suddenly complacent face, but he could not break her hold. Even sober, she doubted that he could manage such a feat, and she wasn't certain this man had ever spent a day out of his cups.
"Listen."
His bleary eyes focused on her face attentively, as if she were suddenly the only person in the overcrowded room.
"Uh, boss?" Deekin tugged at her shirt, and she turned her attention to him, still holding the man by his hair.
"Boss, Deekin be thinking, maybe we just leave? Deekin be okay."
He looked up at her plaintively, and she fought to soften the scowl on her face.
"You shouldn't be, Deekin. You should be angry. And you-"She spat her words out as she looked at the man again, still staring up at her obediently, "-you deserve to have an apology beaten out of you. Did you truly think I would give you some gold, as if you could pay to abuse my friend?"
He whimpered a little, eyes wide with panic, unable to speak or lift a finger under the force of her command. Syolkiir shifted uncertainly on her shoulder, and she hesitated at the ripple of doubt that crept through her mind.
"Boss!"
Deekin pulled at her again, more urgently this time.
"Hush, Deekin." She hissed through gritted teeth, feeling the man's mind writhe in her grip, trying it's best to slip out of her grasp while she was distracted.
"If there's a problem, I'll thank you lot to fix it outside."
Durnan's large hand clapped down on her shoulder, sending Syolkiir fluttering into the air with an indignant squawk. She released the man none-too-gently, and he sprawled to the floor, then scuttled back crab-like on all fours, scrambling out of her sight.
"I apologize, Durnan. I didn't intend to…well, I didn't mean to involve you. I lost my head a bit."
He sighed and pushed her to sit at the nearest table, then took a seat next to her, calling out to a serving girl for some stew and ale in spite of Della's protests. Deekin scrabbled up next to her, Syolkiir perched on his head, apparently deeming him the less precarious choice. She saw Durnan eye the kobold up and down, then he reached out a hand.
"You'll be Deekin Scalesinger then, if I don't miss my mark. Can't say I've ever seen a kobold bard, much less a famous one, but you've done a fine job, lad."
Deekin took his hand a bit awkwardly, and held it, as if uncertain what exactly he was meant to do. Durnan grinned, and shook it firmly anyway.
"Deekin just be writing about Boss. Deekin not be so famous."
"Aye, mayhap, but you've traveled with Adelais and are no worse for the wear. That takes a true talent."
Deekin tittered a bit nervously, casting a wary eye Della's way. Syolkiir hissed quietly, his blue scales darkening to a deeper indigo.
"Just Della, if you please, Durnan. I've never been particularly fond of Adelais," She spoke softly, wincing at the name. Even now, it still held too much of her mother's expectations in every syllable.
He nodded at her, his brown eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled.
"Apologies, lass. I remember you insisting on that name, last time you and the Mongrels were here."
She chuckled at that. Durnan had a better memory than she'd hoped, to remember such small things from so long ago.
"Ah. True enough, but you'd be insisting on your name too, no matter how much you hated it, if you'd been in Murt's company."
Durnan snorted fondly at the mention of Murt, reclining further back in his seat.
"What was it he called you two? The Birds?"
She could hear Deekin's quill scribbling away furiously. She'd have to steal those pages away when she got the chance.
"Aye. Bluejay and Magpie. One to squawk at a man, and another to steal his coin." She recited, doing her best to mimic Murt's deep rumble of a voice. "I swear, he never let us live that down."
A bowl of stew thumped down in front of her, so thick with meat and potatoes that it barely even sloshed in its dish. The ale was not quite so lucky—a good half of it splashed out onto the table, and she quickly leaned back to avoid a stain on her tunic.
Durnan shouted a quick "oi!" at the departing girl's back, but she rushed away without turning around. He sighed and shrugged as he looked back at Della, then took a long swig from the mug.
"Better mockery than losing a hand, I suppose."
"And I'd happily endure a thousand of his jests to see the Mongrels back together again."
Durnan shook his head a bit pensively, his gaze somewhere far away and long ago.
"I don't doubt you would, lass. Nothing good ever came from dealing with Zhents."
Della gave a crooked smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"No. Nothing good ever did."
"What be Zhents, Boss?" Deekin piped up, his quill stopped in its tracks by confusion. Durnan looked as if would have spit at their name, if he'd been outside his inn.
"Frozen lunatics from the Moonsea with more gold than morals." She paused, then frowned and added, "And please leave them out of your notes. They're best left unmentioned."
Deekin looked up at her pleadingly, then sighed as she shook her head, and scratched out his last several paragraphs.
"It's for your own sake, Deekin, I swear it. You don't want to end up on their bad side."
"Or their good side, if they had one," Durnan muttered around a spoonful of stew.
"Exactly. Best to stay away from all sides of that tangled knot of snakes. They have a nasty bite."
Durnan had fair poured the stew down his throat, for all the little that remained. Della had forced most of it down, in spite of her stomach's protests— her blood was still up from the morning's encounters, and she still smelled the lingering scent of burned hair and flesh, as if it had lodged in her nostrils, but she doubted that she'd have more than trail rations for some time. She ignored the mostly empty mug of ale, choosing to drink from her waterskin instead.
"I assume Tamsil told you of the incident this morning?"
Durnan furrowed his brow, his face darkening like a thundercloud.
"Aye, that she did. I thought you'd like to wait for Alaric to rouse himself from bed before we discussed it."
Della's hands turned to ice, and she took a deep breath to keep her voice from shaking.
"Alaric and I…we had a bit of a falling out, I'm afraid."
Durnan could not have looked more shocked than if she'd told him she'd been practicing necromancy in her spare hours.
"I…I have a hard time believing that, lass. You two were nigh inseparable. What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"
She was keenly aware of Deekin's quill, stilled in its usually never-ending scrawl. She could feel Syolkiir in her mind, a comforting thrum of warmth against the coldness that had spread through her body.
"Neverwinter." She spoke the name so quietly that Durnan had to lean halfway across the table to hear it properly. She closed her mouth to stop all the other words that wanted to spill out and felt them become lodged in her throat, choking her with all that she wanted to say.
Durnan didn't press her, and when he spoke, there was only sympathy in his voice. Not pity. She was grateful for that. She was tired of pity.
"I am sorry, my girl. Tyr will see all of Neverwinter judged for those days, mark my words."
"Will he come down from the heavens himself to deliver that judgment?"
"I can only—", Della shook her head and rose from the table.
"I am half-sick of platitudes, Durnan. If Tyr intended to judge them, he would have cast their coward of a king down long ago." She raised a hand to stop Durnan from speaking once more, and continued, "It doesn't matter. Not anymore. I came here to find Halaster."
Durnan raised himself from the table as well, more slowly, and grimaced as one of his knees let out an audible pop.
"You and half of Faerun, it would seem. But I can help with that, at least. The well room-"
The world shook under her feet and she was pitched forward, her ribs slamming into the hard oak table. The breath whooshed from her lungs, and then there was a roar of noise and the smell of smoke. Then blackness. Blacker than night. Blacker than being stranded in a cave.
And then, light. A brilliant purple flame, running down her arms, up her back.
Faerie fire.
Drow.