27 – Dance of the Living
"In these halls we living mourn the dead by dancing twice as hard." – Revelmistress Creda Lyss, Lliiran Sermons
"After the battle I lost hope," Coran admitted, his hand still on Ashura's shoulders. "So many friends dead and…" He winced and shook his head, looking away.
"Don't worry about it," Ashura replied. She gave his hand a pat.
"I should have-" Coran began.
"-tried to help rescue her?" Imoen finished for him with her arms crossed. "Yup. I managed to rescue her and Garrick both, no thanks to you."
Ashura rolled her eyes and gave her friend a sideways look. "Ims. Don't." Cutting his loses and getting the hell out of the woods after the caravan got sacked was hardly something she'd hold against the elf. Or anyone else really. It's what she would have done in his place. Turning back to Coran she said: "Just glad to see you alive." She smiled a bit. "Guess we have some catching up to do."
"Indeed," Coran agreed cheerfully, gesturing at a barstool. "The least I can do is buy you a drink."
"Or three," Imoen put in.
"Sure, let's make it three," Coran said with a playful shrug. "I'm in the mood to celebrate."
Ashura snorted. "Aren't you always?"
"Aye."
"How about the Westgate Ruby Wine?" Imoen asked, taking a nearby stool and pointing at a slate board where the inn's offerings and prices were marked in chalk. The Ruby Wine was the most expensive item on the list, and the suggestion had the desired effect on Coran.
He winced.
Ashura chuckled. "Ale's just fine for me."
"Me too I 'spose," Imoen said in a teasing tone. "Do like that halfling-brewed stuff."
Coran tried his best to hide his relief as he pulled out a few copper coins and purchased the first round of ale for the pair.
"You can always buy me some Ruby Wine darling," Safana interjected. "If you truly wish."
Coran chuckled. "Perhaps we could buy it with that pirate treasure. Which I'll be more than happy to help you retrieve!"
"Perhaps," Safana agreed with a sly smile.
The barkeep slid a pint of Suz-Ale to Ashura and one of Luiren's Best to Imoen, and soon stories and drinks were flowing.
When they eventually got to the part about old Captain Kagain's fate Coran lifted his winecup and proposed a toast to the fallen. There was a fond look of remembrance on his face as the three held their drinks aloft. "To Kagain," Coran began, "And Eddard, Chera, Branwen, Vexila, Amili, Pip, Lorny and Vekar. Good friends and allies all."
There were a couple of lovers in that list as well, by Ashura's reckoning.
"Yeah," Imoen added. "And to Khalid and Jaheira. Good friends, allies, and foster parents in the brief time we knew 'em."
"And Gorion Adrian," Ashura said, realizing that was the name she missed most of all. "May they all be judged true upon the Fugue Plane." Her face had tightened when the name came to her, memories that had been buried under a whirlwind of events rising to the surface. Still, the little blessing gave her comfort. She knew the old sage had been judged true. Knew that right now her father had his nose buried deep in one of Oghma's books.
"Aye," Coran was saying. "And if they aren't may they all twist the Night Serpent into knots. A toast to the fallen!" The cup and glasses clinked.
"Ha!" Imoen exclaimed after her sip. "Kagain would give that old snake some fierce indigestion."
"And Branwen would call one of those hammers down on her nose," Ashura added.
They were close to ordering their second round of drinks when Garrick strode over, having just finished his meal and noticed the gathering at the bar. He clasped Coran's arm in greeting, and in response the elf grabbed him and ruffled his hair, much to Garrick's annoyance. "Hey there lad!" Coran shouted. "Glad you survived as well. Imoen just told me all about it."
"Why does everyone call me 'lad' or 'boy'" Garrick complained when he'd finally pulled back, rubbing his head and straightening his hair. "I'll have seen twenty-two winters in a few months."
"And the term will still fit," Coran said with a smirk.
"Yeah it will," Ashura agreed with a sip of her ale and a smile at the lad.
"Be glad for the boyish good looks," Coran went on. "Believe it or not I'm fairly young by elven standards, but people sometimes treat me like I'm pushing two centuries. Too much drink and laughter, I suppose." To prove his point he chuckled and took a long sip of wine.
Once he set his clay cup down Coran noticed the cloaked and veiled figure that had slipped in behind Garrick. "And who might this be?" he asked, peering at the gap that revealed Viconia's violet eyes. "Judging by your eyes there must be staggering beauty beneath those veils. I'm guessing that's why you wear them? Otherwise your path would forever be obstructed by dumbfounded men."
Ashura rolled her eyes and threw back another gulp of ale. Gods. Every time she was starting to enjoy Coran's company he had to go and remind her what a relentlessly single-minded little creature he was.
"You guess correctly, male," Viconia stated sarcastically. "But I have deemed you worthy of my full beauty. Hopefully it will render you dumb and silent." She turned her head briefly, making sure that the barkeep wasn't nearby, then pulled her veil aside and faced Coran.
The wood elf's eyes widened a bit, but the smug grin returned to his face before Viconia had slipped the mask back in place. "My my," Coran said. "An exotic beauty indeed."
Viconia cocked her head. "Your reaction is surprising," she admitted. "The last two darthiir I encountered seemed ready to kill me."
Coran shrugged a bit. "I owe no allegiance to any tel-quessir nation. I'm just a vagabond. And if you're up here in the company of humans I'm guessing you are as well. You're friends with these folks?" He gestured towards Ashura, Garrick and Imoen.
Imoen instantly placed a hand on Viconia's shoulder, making the dark elf flinch slightly. "Yeah, she's with me," she said cheerfully.
Coran smiled. "Good enough for me. I suppose you expect me to order you a drink as well?"
It was a joke, but Viconia inclined her head. "Of course."
"Uh…" Coran stammered.
"The finest wine they have," the dark elf added with a dismissive gesture of her hand. "Get on it, male."
Coran turned towards the bar with a defeated look on his face and Ashura chuckled, fishing a silver coin out of her purse to pay for the Westgate Ruby. "This one's on me," she said, much to Viconia's puzzlement.
In the end Ashura was the one who bought the third round of drinks as well, and after that Coran persuaded her to follow him to the dance floor. With his slender hand in hers the elf led her through the steps of the Wereshark, cutting fins and swinging hips and all.
There was a step in the dance where they pranced along back-to-back, bodies brushing together and heads bobbing like a wave. The next step swung them together in a rush, many a partner laughing as the lead caught them, bodies pivoting together. Through it all Coran was nimble and quick, that sly grin never leaving his face, though when the jaunty music tapered off into a gentle waltz Ashura noticed that he was panting just a little.
"Guess this is the breather," Ashura whispered.
Coran nodded. "And for that I am most grateful."
She chuckled. "I could lead us through the next fast dance if you like. Think I know the steps now."
Coran's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh, I never object to a lady taking the lead. I won't even say 'please be gentle.' A few scratches really make a night worth remembering."
Rolling her eyes, Ashura muttered: "Always with the innuendo. Are you ever capable of just having a normal conversation?"
"Certainly, but with a beautiful woman swinging along in my arms normal words simply cannot suffice."
Well that answers my question. It was almost sad really. The elf just didn't seem to know how to talk with her without using a line.
Taking a long draw of Luiren's Best, Imoen eyed Garrick over the rim of her glass. The young man had a slightly pensive look on his face, his eyes on the dance floor, where Coran was slowly spinning Ashura. "Jealous huh?" she asked. Garrick had asked her to dance a little while ago, but she'd declined.
To Imoen's surprise the bard smiled sheepishly and shrugged. He turned and looked into her eyes. "Honestly I don't know how I feel," Garrick admitted with a chuckle. "After all the stuff that's happened the past few tendays. It would be nice to just have some time to catch my breath."
"Dunno if we'll get too much of that," Imoen replied. "Seems like Safana wants to go straight to the coast and after her treasure first thing in the morning."
"At the rate you're going you'll probably be too hungover for that," Garrick pointed out.
"Yup!" At that Imoen threw her mug back again and downed the rest of her ale. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve before trying and failing to hold back a loud belch, followed by a fit of giggling. Once she had recovered she spoke up again. "In the adventure stories there's usually a line or two saying 'and the party rested for a month between adventures.' That'd be sweet. 'Course I always figured there was more they did in that month than just laying around in bed. Maybe lots of shopping."
"And drinking and dancing."
"And boinking!" Imoen said with a wicked grin and a playful punch to Garrick's shoulder.
He looked away bashfully, but she was having none of that. "Speaking of which," Imoen went on, "you aught to go cut in." She pointed at the dance floor. "Before that elf finishes sweeping her off her feet."
Garrick let out a 'hmph' and said nothing more for a while. Eventually the music shifted, fifes dropping away as a steady drumroll played, rat-a-tat-tat, the pace increasing by gradual increments. It was a cue for the dancers, who broke apart and lined up, men and women on opposite sides of the floor.
With a smile Garrick rose to his feet. "No 'cutting in,' but I think I'll dance a round or two." He turned to Imoen and offered his hand. "Come on. You won't have to dance with me."
"Aww," Imoen said, wobbling as she stood. "Don't think I'm sour on you or anything just 'cause I turned down a dance. You sensitive little artist you." She took his hand and they marched quickly towards the open floor, separating and lining up. Imoen knew this dance as well: Shifting Alliances. It had a thousand variations, from a graceful and elegant ballroom dance to a faster, more raucous version that made barn walls shake, but the main theme was that at each musical cue you swung in a circle and wound up with a new partner.
As the drum picked up and fifes broke in, the line of men and the line of women locked hands and moved in unison across the floor, breaking into pairs the moment they reached each other. Hands locked together, each couple glided along, taking their own path and pace as the music lulled slightly, but when it picked up again they locked arms and spun. When the fife players hit a crescendo each couple separated and rushed into the arms of the nearest available partner, hands catching as they glided once again.
It went on like that, gliding and spinning, gliding and spinning, until Imoen was dizzy and disoriented. By the time the music finally slowed and the dancers did as well Imoen found herself hand in hand with a freckled farmhand. Glancing away from her dancing partner she noticed that Ashura and Garrick were trotting along nearby, murmuring something to each other as they went.
'No cutting in' huh? she thought with a smirk, very much doubting that they had found one another on the floor by pure accident. A little while later when Imoen managed to disengage herself from the farmboy and wobble back to her table with a fresh pint of ale in hand she noticed that Garrick and Ashura where still dancing. Ashura had taken the lead too, swinging him around a bit.
Plopping down in her seat, Imoen laughed and took another drink. "'Just a fling' she says. Pshaw!"
"It appears your companion has stolen your male," Viconia observed. "A grave insult. Something must be done."
"Nah," Imoen waved a dismissive hand. "Wasn't my male. He's a dope anyways. Look'it the way he's just letting her lead him around."
The dark elf raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what males are meant to do?"
Imoen shook her head, swaying. "Not up here it's not. We like our men tough and take-charge. Dashing and a little dangerous. Passionate and decisive!" She giggled. "Or maybe I've just read too many romance stories."
"Definitely," Viconia agreed before lowering her veil and taking a sip of her wine. "He's pleasing to the eye," she eventually said, watching Garrick get dipped and swung around by Ashura. "But he certainly seems a fool. And there are plenty other males available, such as the one you were dancing with a moment ago. Strong and vigorous looking. You should seize one of them, and forget that little iblith."
"Um…that's not how it…" Imoen stammered, then laughed again. "Well, maybe that's how it does work for some people, but not me. I'm not just gonna go flirt with some farmhand just because. Let alone 'seize' one. Yick! Just gonna have to wait for my dashing knight to come along. Shame Garrick wasn't it. He is pretty. And he wrote the sweetest ballad to me once."
"I cannot say I care much for your surface 'knights,'" Viconia stated tersely. "The only one I've met so far was ready to let me hang."
Imoen laughed. "'Spose I need to make it a mission o'mine to teach you not to take stuff literally. Or at least show ya how to joke like a surfacer. By 'knight' I mean some uh…" She fumbled a bit for words and took another drink. "A big sexy fellow who'll swing in and take care of stuff. Dunno why us surface humans associate that with guys in platemail armor. Maybe 'cause the armor is expensive and it means the guy is making some effort?"
Viconia shrugged. By now Ashura and Garrick had left the dance floor, and she had her arm around him, guiding him towards the bar. "Your eyes are still fixed on them," Viconia noted. "Perhaps it is simply the sting of the insult? She could at least offer to share the male."
Imoen gagged. "Yuck! Yick! No way. Glad she hasn't!"
Viconia just gave her a puzzled look.
"Uh." Imoen pursed her lips, thinking. "The little bard's ego's prolly puffed up enough as is." She chuckled. "Sharing? Really? I've always read that women were in charge in drow society, but are you sure? Maybe the guys have just conspired to laze about while the women do all the work and fight over them."
Viconia let out a brief, mirthful laugh. "The fact that we could kill any male who displeased us at our leisure contradicts your theory." She leaned back in her chair, and though it was hard to tell with the mask Imoen got the feeling that the drow was reminiscing about the good old days. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.
"Provided the male belonged to you or a female sufficiently low in station to not protest, that is," Viconia added, warming to the subject. "But for a time, being in the DiVir family afforded me a very high station. It was most enjoyable."
Viconia sighed, and Imoen shook her head, wondering if the drow was oblivious to her discomfort or reveling in it. Probably the later. She was starting to get the impression that Viconia's favorite pastime was messing with people.
"Forest goblins," Kivan stated.
As Xan's hand shot to the hilt of his moonblade he turned to the elven ranger. "Where and how many-" he began, but by then the thick green leaves above were rustling and little bodies were descending on vine ropes, spears leading the way.
Tasoli, some people called the creatures, but 'forest goblin' summed it up well enough; slender little humanoids with green skin and goblinoid features that hunted from treetops. They were naked save for the coarse green fur that covered their spindly bodies, the brown hair atop their heads all matted tangles, and their large yellow eyes reminded Xan of hunting cats.
The creatures were poorly armed, wielding arrows and spears tipped with stone, but they fought fierily enough. For a moment the four companions were hemmed in, back to back and desperately repelling spear-thrusts from the gibbering, lightning-quick creatures, several arrows bouncing off a protective arcane shield that Xan had hastily called up.
Pitched moments of terror turned to predictable slaughter once Xan was finally able to cast his next spell: a wave that shimmered through the air and left the goblins peering around in a daze when it passed. Some of the creatures turned and ran, aimless rather than fearful, and others lashed out at their companions or fell over laughing.
No matter how the spell effected them the goblins made easy targets one and all. What would they do without me? Xan found himself wondering as he passively watched the goblins fall to arrows and sword-strokes. Probably die.
In moments Shar-Teel was burying her sword in the last moving creature and giving it a furious stomp. Once she caught her breath she turned to Kivan and let out a fierce laugh. "Ha!" she scoffed. "Some ranger you are, elf. Didn't spot the damn things 'till they were on top of us."
"They hid well," Kivan simply stated.
"They did, and it's your job to spot things that hide 'well,'" Shar-Teel went on. "What good's a fucking ranger if you can't even do that?"
Ajantis stepped between them. "We triumphed over the enemy," he stated. "And we'll exercise more caution in the future. Alright?"
"Bah," Shar-Teel growled. She pointed a blood-soaked hand past the man. "Keep those eyes peeled, elf. That's all I'm saying. This was just goblins, but there are worse things in these woods. Feral gnomes with nasty magic tricks, carnivorous trees, giant spiders and satyr barbarians, to name a few." Turning, she absentmindedly kicked one of the corpses. "Hopefully they have better loot too. Worthless little buggers."
"This one had a cloak, at least," Ajantis pointed out, peeling a fine piece of black wool off the shoulders of a dead goblin, apparently the only creature that was clothed or adorned in any way, and probably their leader.
Shar-Teel instantly snatched it from his hands. "Might sell for something at least. A cloak in the Cloakwood. Guess the gods have a sense of humor."
In moments they regrouped and continued down the forest path, their eyes on the trees.
With heavy lids and a throbbing head Ashura finally came to, blinking at the morning light. Ugh. Somebody should close those curtains. She made a move to do so herself and instantly regretted it, every motion sending spikes through her skull. The movement also made her vaguely aware that there was someone else in the bed with her. And that she was naked.
In her blurry vision she noticed long auburn hair. Huh? Coran? She had fuzzy memories of dancing with the elf the night before. A lot of laughter and even more innuendo. Ugh. Did I..?
Thankfully when her eyes cleared a bit she realized that the hair belonged to a fully clothed Imoen. She was stretched out across the bed with her boots dangling off the edge, on top of the sheets. It looked like the girl had swan-dived onto the bed and then promptly passed out, her head turned to the side, mouth open over a little puddle of drool. When Ashura stirred a bit more and sat up Imoen didn't budge.
Cupping her hands against her forehead Ashura groaned a little. "Ugh. What happened?"
"Well," Garrick's voice answered her from somewhere on the other side of the room, "you two were laughing and saying some incoherent stuff about 'the honeymoon suite.' And Imoen kept saying something about dealing with me the 'Drow way.' Must admit I was a little scared."
Blinking, Ashura looked over and saw that the young man was standing by the washbasin and running a comb through his hair, dressed and wide awake. There was a bedroll spread out on the carpet near his feet.
"Then you dragged me up here," Garrick went on, "and promptly passed out. Well, she did first. Then you crawled under the covers."
"Oh," Ashura muttered. "Uh. Sorry."
Garrick laughed and looked over at her. "It's fine. Just another campout, like always." He cringed and averted his eyes when she pushed the sheets back and wobbled off the bed and onto her feet.
"Nothing you haven't seen before," Ashura grumbled as she stomped over to Garrick's side and started splashing water on her face.
"Uh…true I guess," the bard stammered, his back still turned, though a sidelong glance showed Ashura that he seemed to be peaking over his shoulder.
"Well," Imoen spoke up from the bed, running her fingers through ruffled hair, "I fully expect you to avert your eyes when I take my turn with the washing bowl."
"Urm, of course my lady," Garrick stammered some more. "I mean… Bah. I'll just go get some morningfeast while they're still serving it." He promptly excused himself, blushing profusely.
Thankfully they were still serving morningfeast in the taproom when Ashura finally managed to stumble down herself. Some greasy sausage, an omelet and strong tea proved the perfect thing to clear the cobwebs out of her head as her little band slowly gathered around the table. Coran was there, eyes always following Safana as they ate and planned. It seemed he had attached himself to their party once more, with the woman's hearty approval. "Another strong man for our little treasure hunt would be most welcome," she explained.
"Too bad you picked a spindly little elf then," Imoen pointed out.
"I'm sure he's very strong where it counts," Safana purred.
"I'd be most pleased to show you," Coran stated. "All my strengths that is."
Funny. It seemed Coran's quest for 'pirate booty' wasn't going very well. Ashura was beginning to think that despite Safana's constant come-hither tone and talk of 'big strong men' that she actually wasn't interested in any of her male pets sexually. Perhaps she just saw them as a means to a very different end.
A strange woman, as Garrick often pointed out.
After morningfeast and tea came shopping. First they traded in some gems at Thunderhammers for a fine suit of chainmail, fitted specially for Ashura. The gems also afforded them some magical weapons: a runemarked bow for Imoen and enchanted arrows and crossbow bolts, along with an extra bandoleer of throwing daggers for Safana.
After that they attempted to outfit Imoen for the journey. She had given up on armor altogether (even light leathers conferred some risk of interfering with spells,) but they managed to find some enchanted bracers for her at the shop in Feldpost's Inn that would offer some protection, along with some sturdy woolen shirts and trousers. Naturally she picked out various shades of violet.
The last stop was the apothecary at the Song of the Morning Temple, where they purchased a few healing potions and magically enhanced antidotes. Ashura quietly took one of the acolytes aside and paid for a few additional potions and herbal mixtures (just in case.) She was a little grateful that Imoen didn't tease, if she had noticed.
Armed, armored and loaded down with provisions, the small band of treasure-hunters left Beregost a little after noon, taking a path through fields of green-gold wheat to the west. As the sun beat down through an open sky the fields and farmsteads were gradually replaced by patches of trees and eventually light forest.
A few hours into the journey the well-beaten western road took the party past a squat, solid little fortress with a wooden sign in the dirt out front that read 'High Hedge.' Garrick explained that it was the home of the 'big wizard in town.' Beyond there the woods grew wilder.
Forest was giving way to stony scrubland when they finally decided that the shadows had grown too long and searched out a suitable spot to camp for the night. An hour later they found the perfect place beneath a weathered overhang that faced east, sheltered from the brutal winds that sometimes rolled off the Sea of Swords.
As the sun disappeared behind the low crags a campfire grew, and Imoen placed a pot of water and some assorted provisions above the flames, stirring up a crude stew. She was getting rather good at that, though her first experiments on the road had led to some burned pots. While supper simmered Viconia happily divested herself of her mask and hood, long white hair spilling out freely in the dimming light, and Coran made his predictable comments about the darkness only enhancing the drow's 'exotic and sensuous features,' from his spot beside Safana.
"The darkness serves your features even better, wael," Viconia hissed. "Pitch and impenetrable black would be a welcome improvement over your hideous visage."
Coran's lips made a lemon-tasting pout, but his eyes seemed to be laughing. He turned to Safana. "Ah, she wounds me so."
Smiling, Safana traced a fingertip along Coran's sharp cheekbone. "Well I find nothing objectionable about your 'visage' dear."
"Even the way that visage is always glued to your anatomy?" Viconia asked. "Your male is quite impertinent. I would teach him a lesson if he were mine."
Safana rolled her shoulders. Her version of a shrug, though every time Ashura saw it she was reminded of a cat stretching. "He seems a perfectly docile gentleman to me. So long as he looks but does not touch." She withdrew her fingertip.
As Safana turned away and began to sharpen one of her throwing knives the look on Coran's face seemed to grow genuinely sour.
Ashura followed the other woman's cue and pulled out her own dagger, carefully drawing the edge across a sharpening stone as the firelight danced off the steel. Caring for her blades in the evening was a habit she had developed at the beginning of her journey, sitting in front of campfires while Jaheira regaled them with advice on how to survive, make do and flourish in the wilderness. She missed those early days now; missed the stern unyielding woman who had served very briefly as their foster mother.
Those nights she had always sat in silence, honing her swords, but she had listened. She knew how to find fresh water, what kinds of bark were strongest and best woven into a container or rope, and what rocks to pick for a firepit. When Jaheira had pointed out edible plants she had taken note, or broken off a leaf and chewed.
Now her swords needed far less care: any enchanted weapon would always keep its edge. Finishing with her dagger, with the evening stew already put away and the camp fallen silent, Ashura found her hands frustratingly idle. She missed those early days on the road; the campfire chatter and Imoen grousing when Jaheira tasked them with almost everything. It had been good for them too. Setting up and breaking camp was now second nature.
Turning to Garrick, Ashura broke the silence. "Haven't heard you play a song in while," she noted.
"Oh yeah!" Imoen agreed. "Play us a song."
Garrick rubbed the back of his neck. "Haven't felt like it I guess," he admitted. "The bandits kind of soured me on taking requests."
"Oh. Sorry," Ashura said. She reached over and gave Garrick's shoulder a squeeze. "You're not our musical servant or anything."
Garrick shook his head a little and pulled his harp from its case. "No, but I do need practice." He strummed out a few low, lazy notes. After a pause more followed; a soft, melancholy tune that Ashura guessed was improvised. As his fingers danced he looked over at Imoen. "How about you play the bard?" he asked.
"Me?" Imoen looked taken aback. "You know I can't sing!"
Garrick chuckled. "You're not as bad as you think. But I was thinking more like a story. I've been wanting to hear of Black Alaric."
"Oh I see," Imoen said with a laugh. "Hitting me up for material eh?"
"Exxxactly," Garrick admitted dramatically. "T'would be criminal of me to travel with two ladies from Candlekeep and not hit them up for stories."
"And he knows I'm a terrible storyteller," Ashura said with a chuckle.
"I wouldn't say-"
She poked Garrick. "You know I am. Stuff the compliments."
"Okay, okay. You're a terrible storyteller." He turned to Imoen. "So?" The meandering tune went on.
Imoen looked around at the rest of her companions, and when no one objected she pursed her lips and thought. "Hmm. Okay. How 'bout the tale of Black Alaric, Selia Fairsail, and the Hunt for the Ship of the Damned…"
Garrick chuckled. "Ooo. A campfire ghost-story! Perfect!"
With a smile she began her tale.
By the time Imoen stood and took a few steps from the dozing camp, stories told and songs long done, heavy grey clouds had rolled in from the coast and veiled the moon and stars. She could see the dark landscape well enough; the rustling trees and the sand and the rock-faces were outlined in faint orange by her infravision. Of course without the moon or stars in sight it was pure guesswork to know when to end her watch.
End it when you're bored, was her first impulse, but of course she was well into boredom within minutes. She supposed the best idea was to just wait until she was really really tired. Coran had volunteered for the second watch, with a comment about how he hardly needed 'Any rest,' and a sly look at Safana that went ignored.
Well, I'll at least give him a few hours. Walk till I start yawning. It was an easy watch at least, with their backs to the big rock and open land in front. She just had to pace from one side of the rockface to the other in a semi-circle, and if anything was out there she'd see it bright and red. No sneakin' up on Imoen.
Five times up and down her rout and one yawn later, Imoen stopped, hand going to her quiver. She peered into the dim orange and saw the same landscape she'd been seeing, but something was off. She bit her lip.
The rustling. That was it.
There was always wind rolling off the coast and the woods had been sighing most of the night, but she was hearing rustling from somewhere lower. Bushes and shifting branches. Something was moving out there.
She knocked an arrow. Yeah, she could see rattling motion in the low branches, but there was nothing glowing. No one. Or at least no heat.
"Oh shit!" she hissed, realization coming at the same time that the undergrowth was pushed aside and over a dozen figures burst into view, all the same pale orange color as the cold stones and trees around them. Some swayed like drunks, shambling from foot to foot as they slowly crossed the open sand and pebbles between the forest and the camp. Others lurched mechanically forward, limbs jerking like those of puppets. There was a faint, pinprick glow in each and every eye socket though: uniform wisps of ghostlight.
Of course there was no heat! This was an army of the dead.