64 – Berserk

"There's different types in this world, and there's different types o' rage to go along with 'em. Some o' the pups I train turn to whirlwinds of blind, two-handed fury, to be sure. But there's others that get the tunnel vision. Singular minded, ignoring everything that gets thrown at 'em till they sink their teeth into what they're after. And then, like a stubborn old wolf, they just don't let go." -Old Myrlok of the Ice Wolf Berserker Lodge

Once again Marek's eyes followed Krystine's backside as she sashayed towards the stairway, before he caught himself and his gaze returned to his cards, absently shifting them between his fingers. Gambling here had always just been a way to pass the time, but with the purse of gold the woman had just handed him it seemed even more pointless now. All for a tiny vial of Lothander's curse-laced poison, too. Quite a deal really, considering that the geased young man was busy brewing more of the stuff. Perhaps the poison-application business was the wrong line of work to be in, now that Marek had stumbled upon a steady supply.

"You want to buy some black lotus too?" he asked the man seated across from him. Marek still carried a small vial, along with the tiny amount that was dabbed on the crossbow bolt currently loaded in his bow. Of course the question was hardly meant to be serious.

Greywolf let out a predictable scoff. "No poisons for me. And no expenses. I rely only on my blade and tracking skills to secure my prey."

"You never even pay informants?"

"Of course not. Bah. Tossing coins around in hopes that it will make more flower? 'Wheeling' and 'dealing?' The ways of civilization." That last word came out as a curse. "A man should need only his hands and his will to take a prize. Otherwise has he truly earned it at all?"

Marek rolled his eyes. Why was this old bounty hunter up here playing cards with him at all, if not as a form of 'wheeling and dealing?' Hoping that a certain female prize might show up to be picked off. The hypocrite. Then again, the whole 'rugged barbarian' act-

A loud –Wump! – followed by a series of cracks echoed up from the stairwell, drawing Marek's eyes and breaking his stream of thought. The other gamblers glanced over too, but most swiftly returned to their games. Not like barroom brawls were unusual here.

"Whatever could that be?" Graywolf asked rhetorically, rearranging his cards.

Marek ignored him, shutting his eyes up tight and focusing. The image of the Mermaid's downstairs swiftly resolved before him, thanks to the simple scrying spell he had left active. "It was a table breaking," he answered flatly. Crushed by Larze's warmace. After it had missed a certain very alive, black-haired, and pissed-off looking girl. Damn. They found the place.

"Figured it wasn't loud enough to be a falling ogre. Maybe that will come next."

"Hrm." The mercenaries had spread out and effectively encircled the armored ogre; the bard, wood elf, and cowled priestess edging against separate walls and taking aim with bows and chakrams. Meanwhile the girl and her swordswoman partner were working in tandem, one dodging, slashing, and dancing around at the front while the other slipped in to take swipes at the backs of the ogre's legs, switching roles when Larze wheeled and his warmace came sweeping in.

The ogre was faster than his size would suggest, and his whirling kept both women on their heels, chairs and tables falling but no damage done so far. Maybe- Blast!

And now the priestess had thrown some sort of spell at the broad target before her: a green ripple that made the ogre stagger, and when he swung his mace again the movement was a bit slower. Clumsy. Probably under some sort of magical affliction or poison.

Marek cringed when the dark-haired girl managed a sliding-lunge that drove a sword deep in the back of the ogre's calf, and there was a chuckle from the other side of the table. Greywolf was closely watching his face, it seemed. And eager to taunt.

At least Larze managed to backhand the girl with the butt of his mace, the blow turning her head and sending her helmet flying away. For a moment Marek hoped that the ogre would manage to swing around and brain her with a second blow. Then it would just be a matter of insuring that he collected the bounty. Could he really be so lucky?

Everything was a blur. The world spun.

She fought to steady herself. To stamp down. The light dimmed, blotted out by a great looming form; a heavy shadow, rushing forward.

Back! Get back!

She was retreating; a mad scramble away from the shadow. With each step a knee buckled, threatening to cave completely. Her whole body swayed; punch-drunk.

Something whistled past her face, streaking down like a falling star, the wind blasting her hair back. It struck the floor with a detonation; a thunderous crack that sent up a cloud of splinters and dust, and she flinched as a woodchip struck her cheek. Better that than a mace, at least.

The blur had resolved. Slightly. The ogre was already hefting his weapon again, closing the distance with one sure stomp. Arrows and crossbow bolts hung loose from his arms and torso, completely ignored; the wounds splinter-deep.

No way was she going to parry a swing of that weapon. So as the warmace blurred and the ogre lunged Ashura lunged too, swords held back. She went in low. When in doubt: charge.

"Larze isn't proving to be as much of a bulwark as you had hoped, eh?"

Marek didn't respond, eyes still closed, though he imagined the tight set of his jaw made it clear that things were not going ideally down below. He had hoped the ogre would have at least smashed a few of the mercenaries by now, but they kept scampering about, and Larze was starting to look like a pincushion.

Still, all it would take was one lucky swing of that mace.

And there! The girl had just been struck again, foolishly charging the ogre head-on and getting a knee to the gut for her troubles. The blow sent her crashing into a table, and the ogre kept his foot raised, kicking back at the Dosan woman before she could close and slash him in the back. The kick was awkward, but it at least kept the bitch off-balance, and then Larze was whirling and bringing his warmace down full-strength at the swordswoman.

Dosan raised her longsword to block, caught the mace just under the flanges, and –with a trembling arm and a pained expression– pushed and held it back. Damn! Bending her knees, she up and shoved, redirecting the blow and surging forward, her offhand dagger swinging in and trying to stab the ogre's wrist.

"He's still upright, and fighting hard," Marek stated, face tight, eyes twitching as he watched move and countermove. "Don't think you'll get a chance to steal a bounty from me tonight."

"Steal? Bah," Greywolf snarled. "Who said that's why I'm here?"

"Or maybe you're waiting for me to offer you a deal? Half the bounty if you help me secure it?"

Greywolf cocked his head. "That an offer?"

Was it? Marek had pondered taking that angle if things came to this, but perhaps he had made the suggestion a little prematurely. The ogre could still win the whole fight, after all. Larze was a tenacious bastard, and rumor had it that the reason he hit harder than most of his kin was an enchantment woven into the bracelets he wore. Seeing the mess he'd made of the Mermaid's taproom, Marek could certainly believe it.

So for now he kept his mouth and eyes shut, focused on the battle below, and ignored Greywolf.

In a frantic, scrambling burst Ashura shot to her feet, knocking bits of the broken table aside. Just in time too.

Once again the ogre had whirled around, his narrow little eyes focused on her and her alone, despite the extra arrows he had picked up. And the wounds too. Behind him Shar-Teel was falling back, clutching her longsword with both hands now, a bit unsteady on her feet.

The arrows just seemed decorative really; shafts wobbling and fletching flapping as the ogre stamped his feet with nearly enough force to snap the floorboards, raising his mace up to the ceiling and shouting out something in his own tongue, accompanied by a burst of foamy spittle. "Ner bo-kek! Ash-ra!"

He sounded pissed.

Probably just wanted to do his job and snatch up his bounty. Then all these little nuisances had had the nerve to get in his way! To fill him with arrows! To dodge and duck and stab and scurry and fight for their lives. The audacity!

"Yeah, well fuck you too!" Ashura growled right back, knees bent and stance low.

The ogre's mace swept in as he charged. The same sort of swipe he had made at her moments ago.

Ashura launched herself forward and dashed the four quick paces it took to meet him, just like she had before. All the same moves, just a bit more desperate and furious this time. And then the ogre even raised his leg, kicking once again. Idiot.

This time Ashura saw that coming and slipped past the rising knee, her own knees scraping the floorboards as she slid in. Her sword led the way as she slipped between the ogre's legs, stabbing up.

Marek couldn't hide the pained look on his face as his head turned violently, trying to look away from the scene his scrying spell was projecting on the backs of his eyelids. Annoyingly the image stayed right there in front of him until he forced his eyes open, looking away as Greywolf let out a predictable burst of laughter.

A great animal bellow had erupted from the first floor, and when Greywolf finished his taunting little guffaw he quickly stood, brushing out his firs. "I think I'll be taking my leave now," the old bounty hunter announced.

"The offer stands," Marek swiftly replied. "We split the bounty fifty-fifty."

"Ha! I think not." Turning from the table, Greywolf made his way towards the cluster of chance-wheels and the stairway. "You can have it all. That sound just made it very clear that it's time for me to step out of the way."

Scowling, Marek closed his eyes again. Yeah. It's about over. Larze had toppled now, and the darkhaired girl had leapt atop him and driven both her swords into his back. She held the hilts tight, making the blades twist as she rode out the ogre's increasingly feeble struggles. They'd likely be death-spasms soon.

But…Oh! What's this? Perfect! While the girl was finishing the ogre some of her companions had already begun to move, and Marek could see which one was rushing to be first up the stairs. Maybe this could still work.

Sitting back and reaching into his cloak's pocket, the assassin placed his fingers upon the wand there, at the same time quickly whispering the words of a spell. A familiar shimmer enveloped him as he faded from sight.

A moment later a woman in dented scale armor topped the stairs. She looked to be over six feet tall, blockish in shape but awfully fast in motion; ugly, with a face full of scars and smeared with blood and dirt, a beak for a nose, dirty-blonde hair bound into two frayed braids, and thin, sneering lips. The instant she stepped onto the gambling floor her eyes alighted on Greywolf, briefly widened, then sharpening to a murderous glare.

"You!" the woman snarled, pointing with her longsword. She had been carrying a dueling dagger earlier, but it was gone, and the sword had switched to her right hand.

Greywolf had made to slouch against one of the chance-wheel tables, but now he took a cautious stance and faced the woman, and Marek grinned an invisible grin. Rashelt Dosan. He knew her by reputation. Also knew that there had been some bad blood between her and the old bounty hunter. And of course he had never mentioned her presence during their card games.

In a rush of heavy boots and clinking steel the Dosan woman charged across the room, her sword high and a warcry on her lips. Greywolf responded by bracing his legs and ripping his longsword free of its scabbard in a gust of curling frost. The ice-white blade pulsed, pointing up in a high guard, but Rashelt's sword streaked past it, zigzagging. Greywolf had to backslide a bit to tamp down on the blade with his own, steel ringing and grating as they slipped into a duel.

Marek had his wand out fully now, and his other hand carefully gripped his crossbow. No need to use the loaded bolt on the girl though, if she proved to be the next arrival. It would be a little redundant to poison her again, not to mention that Marek only had so much of the stuff, until the herbalist mixed up some more. If the bard, scout, or the priestess mounted the stairs first a bolt might be best for them though, and then he'd save the first, crucial blast of the paralysis wand for the girl. Keep her at a distance.

The rest he would play by ear.

There was a crash as Rashelt rolled across the surface of one of the gambling tables, sweeping cards and piles of petty coins into the air. She slipped off the edge and landed on her feet, leaning back a bit as Greywolf's sword bit into the wood, sending up a shower of brittle, icy splinters.

Rashelt kicked the table over and towards her foe, perhaps hoping to dislodge the sword from his fingers in the process, but Greywolf managed to raise his blade and counter with a kick of his own, sending the toppled table sliding at the woman. She leapt up as he did, balanced on the edge of the overturned table, and took a swing with her sword, steel ringing when the old man parried. An impressive display of fury and surefootedness, though there was something stiff about the way she carried her left arm through the motions.

All the while the old bounty hunter laughed and jeered. "Dosan's little girl," he taunted as he batted away a blow and took a hop back (to force Rashelt to leap after him, and open herself up for a blow, Marek judged.) "Now that's not a bounty I expected to fall into my lap tonight. Welcome though!"

Rashelt did leap, but it was a bit to the side, and her knees bent low as she landed, slipping under a slice of the frosted longsword and replying with an upward slash of her own. "The only thing landing in your lap will be the point of my blade, pig!" she snarled back.

"Not a pig. A wolf." Steel rang, boots scuffled the floor, and the dozen panicked gamblers who had backed away from the duel now huddled against the far wall.

"An old grey one. Slow–" A clang punctuated the word. "–blind–" Another sword-clash. "–and senile."

"Was fast enough for that old lover of yours. She never saw me coming. Blindsided while she was drunk and taking a piss. Quite a noble battle-death."

Taking a minor risk, Marek briefly closed his eyes and the lower part of the tavern appeared before him once again. The ogre was still now, and the girl had leapt off, the others still holding back at their respective walls, ranged weapons in hand.

And good! The girl was filling his field of vision now, charging the stairway. She'd be the next to the top.

Eyes snapping open, Marek fully dismissed the scrying spell (good riddance too: the alternating vision was starting to give him a headache) and pointed the wand at the top of the staircase. Not that everything had worked out as planned, but so long as he remained back here and in control he could still time this and make it work. Stun the girl first. Then throw up a series of illusions that would give him cover. Next, a true strike spell and a poisoned bolt for the drow priestess.

"Lover? Ha!" Rashelt was shouting, blade crisscrossing through the air to repel Greywolf's, move for move. She was in a low sidestance, left arm fully hidden behind her back. "You men make the stupidest assumptions." And now her elbow bent and her hand snatched at something at her belt, yanking a tiny dirk free. As she did that she swung high, knees straightening, pushing Greywolf's sword up and locking blades. "Never stop to think that…" And at the same time that she taunted she twisted and swung in with her little pig-sticker, attempting some blindsiding of her own.

Instead of the smooth motion that it needed to be, though, there was something jangly about the stab. A half-breath too slow. Yeah, her left arm was definitely injured, by Marek's guess. A sprained wrist, or perhaps something was dislocated.

Greywolf was faster. He turned and sidestepped the stab, the edge of his sword sliding down Rashelt's as he slipped to her side. A flick of his wrist and their swords were untangled, her body slightly over-extended, and before she could pull back Greywolf's blade came chopping down. It sliced into the wrist of her sword arm, cleaving into bone and showering the floorboards with blood, some of it instantly turned to half-frozen slush. The woman looked down at her mangled, dislocated arm in shock, her hand hanging on by sinew mostly, and that gave Greywolf plenty of time to ram the jeweled pommel of his sword into her jaw and send her toppling over.

"The bounty only pays if you're alive. Lucky you."

At the same instant a streak of steel-grey and black topped the stairs, the girl with the twin swords leaping up the final flight. Her helmet was gone, and her dark, wet hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes blazed, sweeping the room. Searching.

Marek wasted no time straightening his arm and barking out the command word of his wand, flashing into the visible range as a ripple of energy shot across the room. It spread like a net and enveloped the girl, though at the instant that he appeared and spoke his target locked eyes with him, whirling.

Her eyes were blazing. Yes. Blazing! There even seemed to be a hint of golden fire there –a spark in the icy blue– as the heat-shimmer of the paralyzing magic roiled around her. The magical field closed, congealed, and then it flared up and burst, a wave of something seeming to counter it and roll out through the hall.

There were screams everywhere, the girl kept moving, and Marek's pulse quickened, blood running cold. The girl's face was locked in a grimace; a mask of fury.

Fury. A berserker. He had not planned for that.

Fighting the compulsion to turn and run, Marek hefted his crossbow and began to intone the words of a simple illusion. There was panic everywhere, the gamblers who had huddled back now toppling tables to flee, and for a moment Marek felt a little relief when one of them sprinted headlong into the girl, sure to tangle her up.

But she barely seemed to slow as her leg swept the screaming man's feet out from under him, the pommel of one of her swords coming down to bash the back of his head at the same time and send the poor sod flopping, belly-first, to the floor. She never looked at the bystander through it all, her burning glare fixed on Marek and Marek alone.

The crossbow thumped as the girl leapt over the fallen man, punching through mail just below her shoulder and turning her slightly. That slowed her, knees bucking for just an instant, and at the same time Marek's spell took shape and four translucent doubles of himself bloomed and spread out.

But those blazing eyes stayed focused through it all. Fixed on Marek as he frantically snatched up another bolt and locked it into the mechanism of the bow, the wand abandoned at his feet. He managed to load it, but then she was right there in front of him.

Damn! There'd been no time to move; to mix himself up with the doubles. Now all he could do was desperately lift the crossbow.

And then –before he could even get off a blind shot– the bow came flying up into his face with a wet, jarring crunch. Marek didn't have time to stumble back; the girl stamped down on his foot right after the kick, and then he was bending forward and sharp, white-hot pain was flaring in his chest as he fell onto her sword.

The man's face contorted and puffed; now a cherry red. His feet were twitching and his hand was pawing for the dagger at his belt, but the clumsy fingers slipped and missed, and each grasp was more of a fumble as he was lifted off the floor –as she howled right in his face and drove her second sword up and through his chest.

Lifting. Howling. Lifting higher. A furious scream rising–rising–rising from her throat.

On the periphery there was chaos. She could hear it. Feel it. The beat of the fleeing feet. Panicked screams. Bodies toppling, trampling, scrambling over each other to get to the stairs, limbs tangled. She could smell the fear.

Her arms stretched further, elbows nearly straight, and held the convulsing man aloft on her swords. Bloody spittle ran down his chin. The fight was leaving him, the light dimming in his eyes. Almost over. And though his death looked as indignant as they all do, at least she smelled no fear.

Instead she just sensed frustration, annoyance, and a lot of pain. He knew that this was just business, between killers. His eyes fluttered. Struggled. Lifted. Looking over, looking beyond her. Was he seeing the other side? Cyric's realm? Or…no...he was clearly looking at something. Almost seemed happy to-

Behind her!

There was a great cold something looming there, an eye in the maelstrom of terror. Cold wafted against Ashura's cheek as she whirled, carrying the body with her. She made to throw the dying man off her swords and at whatever it was that was attacking, but a jolt of ice-cold steel and the force of something striking her arm stopped her. Sent her stumbling back.

The assassin slipped from her swords and crashed to the floor at her feet, between her and the second man, whose longsword was now sweeping in for a backhand slash. His features were sharp as ice, rough as leather, little beady black eyes flashing in the lamplight and hoarfrost rolling off his blade.

Without the impaled man weighing them down her arms suddenly felt light as air, and it was easy enough to swing up and catch the longsword with a scissoring parry. Her swords formed a pincer and her arms twisted and worried one way, then another, trying to rip the blade from the man's grip.

That didn't work. He just held on and scowled. So the shoved his trapped sword aside and pushed in close: kneeing at his groin, bashing with her elbows, snapping her teeth when she got close enough to his face. His motions matched hers though, fluid and twisting away, feet always stamping and endlessly turning.

Suddenly he had the leverage, and with a sharp turn and a shoulder-shove he managed to throw her back; to disengage. She just leapt forward again, no time for breath or stances or positioning: a flurry of blades. Both of her swords sang, clanging against his again and again as he was forced to give ground, backing towards the stairway and the clog of people there, some struggling to get down the stairs and others shoving their way up.

The man with the sharp face tried to regain the momentum, pushing hard with each parry he made, all his strength going into the swings. Her blades were batted away and in the same motion he made his counterattack, sword streaking in and ice tickling the back of her neck as she ducked beneath the slash.

Ducked low –her body a spring– and then she turned that into a leap. His sword darted in on her left, of course, but it scraped against her lefthand blade as she flew, and righthand took the lead, all the way through the air and through the fur across his chest and the leather shirt beneath and the skin and muscle and bone and blood and out the other side.

They both tumbled over and the sharp-faced man struck the floor beneath her. The struggle continued down there: grappling and rolling and punching and clawing at each other like animals. But the man had a sword through his chest and Ashura didn't, and the fight left him quite a bit before it could be kicked out of her.

Ripping her blade free, Ashura shot to her feet, panting hard, soaked in blood, a sword at either side, and her eyes alighted on yet another armed man in leathers, mounting the stairs. Snarling and flexing her wrists and her blades, she took a step forward.

"Uh…"

Then another.

"Ash?"

She blinked. The voice was familiar. The young man's face grimacing. Concerned. A few more blinks.

Gods. Her swords were so heavy. And she was so out of breath. And there was a great gash across her upper arm that was radiating an icy burn. And the entire front of her body was one sore ache, along with her jaw.

Oh. And there was a crossbow bolt in her chest.

"Garrick. I…" Her knees wobbled.

The shouting all around suddenly seemed distant. And the lamplight grew dim.

"You were poisoned!?" At the same time that the voice screeched above her Ashura felt hands at her shoulders, violently shaking. "And you didn't tell me? You didn't find me?"

Shake – Shake – Shake. Like she was a bag of potatoes.

"Ugh," was all that Ashura could manage at first, until she eventually pried her eyes open and looked about. Once again someone seemed to have put her injured self to bed, though the room was different. Unfamiliar.

And she had a bedmate this time: Shar-Teel was splayed out and limp on the other side of the hay-stuffed mattress, both of her arms bundled up across her chest and only her head sticking out from beneath the sheets and blankets. Her chin was pointed up, mouth open, and despite the noise and the shaking the big woman seemed dead to the world. Since the thought of cuddling up with Shar-Teel wasn't terribly appealing, Ashura was grateful that the bed was fairly large.

Scooting a bit and scrunching her eyes up tight, Ashura managed to sit up. "Ims…stop it."

The shaking relented, though Imoen continued to glare.

"We looked for you in the morning," Ashura offered. "At the Kegs. But they said you and Xan never showed up."

"Yup," Imoen admitted. "We got put up in this fancy mansion that night. After killing some doppelgangers and saving this rich guy. Long story." She puffed her lips out and blew a stray lock of hair away. "Hrmph. We need more of those magical communicationy mirrors. I was so worried when we couldn't find you!"

Ashura swiveled and planted her feet on the floor, brushing the covers away. Ugh. She still felt awful. Sore, raw, and bruised all over. They hadn't bothered with a dressing gown this time: all she wore were bandages, mostly across her chest and one of her thighs. At least moving about wasn't difficult. The weakness the poison had induced was gone, so she supposed she had been cured.

"Well, at least I'm still alive." She stretched a bit, noticing Garrick sprawled out in a chair at the far corner of the room. He looked nearly as out of it as Shar-Teel. "And so are you. Doppelgangers huh?"

"Yup. We think the Iron Throne is replacing their business rivals with 'em. Once you're all healed up hopefully you can help us exterminate the rest of the critters!"

"Uh. Sure. Sounds like fun." Yay. More fighting. It never ended, did it? Arms stretching over her head, Ashura wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. I smell awful don't I?"

Imoen giggled. "Yup. There's a wash-basin over there."

A bath would have been nice, but a few dabs from the basin sufficed for the time being, and she was grateful when Imoen offered her a clean change of clothes. As Ashura was stepping into a pair of woolen hose leggings the door creaked and a cheerful Amnish man stepped through, arms piled high with white linens and Viconia silently trailing behind him.

"Oh…my…my apologies," Lothander stammered as he averted his eyes. "I thought you were still…" He cleared his throat. "And let me reassure you that it was my wife and the drow priestess who uh…attended to your wounds while you were sleeping."

Ashura shrugged. "Thanks for curing the poison." Lothander's home, above his shop. That's where they were. She had vague memories of stumbling through the city streets, half-conscious, trying to reach the place.

Lothander nodded, eyes down even after Ashura had slipped her tunic on and buckled it into place. "Of course. Your mage friend, Brielbara, helped quite a bit too. Sure knows her curses."

"How about her?" Ashura asked, pointing a thumb towards Shar-Teel and the bed.

Lothander frowned at the floor. "We poured a lot of healing potions on her wounds, along with your priestess' prayers. And I reset and bound the bones in her wrist as best I could but…well… her hand was hanging halfway off when she got here. Not sure if she'll ever be able to use it again. Probably best to keep her in bed for several days too, at the least. And to keep giving her poppy extract. I've plenty of that."

Ashura nodded.

There was a long object slung under Viconia's arm, and she gave Ashura a slight nod when she glanced over, stepping aside as Lothander excused himself. "An impressive display, yestereve, khal'abbil," Viconia noted once the herbalist was gone, her lips curling in a slight, ferial smile. "Vengeance was secured, and nothing stood in your way."

"Thanks." Ashura frowned, foggy memories of the battle coming to mind: the screaming, panicked man she had batted aside with a kick and a pommel-strike. Hope I didn't cave his skull in.

"Truly," Viconia continued, extending her arm and holding out the object she had brought: a scabbarded longsword with an ornate brass hilt and what looked like a ruby imbedded in the cross of the guard. "And I am most grateful for the tome, of course. I plucked this weapon from the battlefield as we fled, off the corpse of one of the males you slew. If I am not mistaken it carries the blessings of the Nightsinger. A blade as cold as the void, and keen for seeking out vengeance."

Reaching out, Ashura drew the sword from its sheath and tested the weight. The sight of the frost-mist wafting off the steel made her shiver, but she felt no actual chill. Perhaps the magic of the sword protected its wielder? And despite being longer than the swords she was used to, the weapon weighed next to nothing in her hand.

"Your pet male claimed to know the name of the blade. 'Varscona,' he called it."

Ashura rolled her eyes, glancing over at Garrick's sleeping form. She was tempted to point out that Garrick was not her pet. 'Boyfriend' was the appropriate, Heartlander term, at least in her opinion. Probably pointless to try to explain the concept to a drow, though. So instead she said: "A fine sword. And I suppose we still have some vengeance to seek."

Author's Note: Hey Celamity. Just wanted you to know that your fics were totally the inspiration for Varscona and Greywolf showing up here in this somewhat late chapter. The sword probably won't have the same thematic significance as it did in Ember's Tale, but I was thinking 'Ashura really could use a weapon upgrade' and Varscona just seemed perfect.