The unnamed companions are not mine, the other characters are. After pulling my hair for weeks, I realized this was alot more simple to finish than I had thought.
The noise of the morning rush outside her window woke her from her restless sleep. Shielding her eyes from the sudden onslaught of daylight, Faithless rolled to the side of the bed and sat up in a slump. Resting her face in her palms, she waited patiently for the groggy fog of sleep to fade as she reacquainted herself with the waking world. Her legs shifted, and she felt the dampness of sweat soaked bed linens against her bare skin. Despite the cool chill in the air, her skin was clammy with perspiration, and she shivered. So the nightmares visit me again. If I had any faith left in the gods, I might actually thank one that I woke up for once, not remembering .
It had been a tenday since Jesperth had brought her to his home. During the first five days, she had slept the entire time, only waking up long enough to eat or relieve herself. It had been a long time since she had a full, uninterrupted night's rest in a warm bed, and her body, now free of the spiritual parasite it had harbored for months, was catching up with a vengeance. Her hosts did not seem bothered at all by her unusual hibernation, and she vaguely remembered Jesperth coming in the room, giving her a fatherly pat on the head as he placed a couple of Rilada's potions on the nightstand. Only in the last couple days did her excessive sleep wear off, and she spent most of that time cleaning and working on her weapons and gear and getting light exercise in the courtyard.
Sleep, eat, shit, then back to sleep. It's like a second infancy, she thought ruefully. She turned towards the mirror on the washstand, and could see in her face that the rest and recuperation were working their magic. Her eyes looked a little less sunken, and the dark rings around her eyes were starting to fade. The strawberry-like patches of scraped, raw skin had healed nicely, and the cuts and gashes had shrunk considerably. She even thought she detected hints of color returning to her flesh.
But the sleep was doing the opposite for her mind, for it was when her eyes closed and her conscious mind faded, her soul was laid naked and vulnerable to the maelstrom of memories, fears, and horrors that poured from her subconscious like a horde of undead. Twisted dreams that she could not pinch herself out of. Night terrors that left her shivering in the dark, awake and vaguely aware that something bad had happened. These were not the haunted, tortured pleas of Akachi's shattered soul that had plagued her during those cold, Rashemi nights. These dream wraiths belonged solely to her, and though her flesh was beginning to show improvements in health, the look in her eyes was still the cold, dull, listlessness of a dying woman.
She stood up and walked over to the washstand, grabbed the rag and soap, and gave herself a quick sponge bath. I need to get out. I've been in this city a tenday and beyond two shops and the baths, I've not stepped outside Jesperth's house. I haven't even had a drink since I came. After a four month dry spell, no wonder I'm in the dregs. I need distractions. I need to get pants-pissing, falling down obliterated on some dwarven mead or Moonshae whiskey. I need more than just something to take the edge off, I need to hammer the gods damned blade into a quivering lump of metal. She briskly dried off, dressed herself, and grabbing her harness and pack, she went downstairs.
The main room was quiet and warm, and Rilada was at the far side, trimming a strangely twisted potted shrub. The elf nodded in greeting and motioned towards the low table, where a plate of fruit and a poppyseed buns sat next to a mug of warm, spiced tea. Faithless sat down to breakfast, and watched the elf woman while she ate.
Rilada's slender hands were working a small pair of shears along the edges of the plant's foliage with an easy grace that would have made many a gardener envious. At first, Faithless thought that she was simply pruning the plant, but she noticed that the foliage was growing in a strange pattern. She had seen similar things in the gardens of Neverwinter, where skilled botanists had trimmed and shaped bushes and trees to resemble shapes, animals, or things. Topiary. That was what they had called it.
Faithless was curious. "What kind of shape are you trying to achieve?" she asked.
The elf woman paused, and replied, "Shape?"
"Yeah. You know. Are you trying to trim it into a ball shape, or a lion, or someone's face?"
Rilada smiled. "No. I am allowing it to follow its own lines and contours. It shapes itself. My hands and shears simply follow suit and allow it to be as it truly is."
Oooooookay, Faithless thought to herself as finished off her breakfast quickly. She wasn't surprised by the elf's vague response. She had come to expect as much where Rilada was involved. Jesperth had explained a few days earlier, during one of Faithless' rare waking moments, over dinner, that his lovely elven wife was some sort of monk/mystic who followed the obscure, ancient philosophy of Sennziun. What that philosophy entailed, however, even the half-orc was at a loss to explain, and when she pressed him further, he just shrugged and smiled. "She has tried to explain it to me for the past ten years we have been married, and I still haven't a clue," he laughed. Faithless decided that asking Rilada herself would be pointless. If the Jesperth, who had known the woman for far longer, couldn't figure it out, the tiefling thought it was a safe bet she wouldn't have much more luck.
"I'm going out today," she said to Rilada, who simply smiled and nodded in that weird, absent, yet focused way of hers. Faithless wondered, if she told the elf she was planning to set the house on fire and seduce her husband, if she would get that same peaceful, content expression. Shrugging, she left the house and headed towards the merchant's quarter.
She had long decided that some purchases, such as new armor, trinkets, and clothing, were well overdue, and she spent the first half of the day in clothier's and armorsmith's shops. She remembered, in what seemed like another lifetime ago, the problem child from West Harbor, who would have laughed at the idea of paying for something she could so easily steal. The sheer risk, thrill, and challenge of acquiring something through less than noble means was enough of a reason back then to nick anything not nailed down. Now, she was handing over gold to merchants without haggling or even giving them a quick once over for coin purses or valuables within snatching distance. I've changed. Even petty theft for practice no longer interests me.
The merchant's ward was an experience in its own right. She had never seen so many shops with such a vast variety of goods in one district, let alone one town. Jesperth had told her that Everlund was a major trade city, second only to Silverymoon in the Marches for sheer importance and size to regional commerce. Part of it was culture shock, she guessed. Mulsantir, though on the Golden Way, was a backwards dump, and the bazaar had surprisingly little to offer that was of any interest. Unpaved, muck-ridden streets made going anywhere in the town an unpleasant experience, and the constant shroud of cold fog that blanketed the city made the Plane of Shadow cheery by comparison.
As she drifted out of the main merchant's district and into other areas of the city, she noticed another sharp contrast with Rashemen: people generally payed her no mind, and the few that did, did so with polite curiosity. The xenophobic, superstitious Rashemi barely tolerated foreigners or non-humans in their country, and when a foreigner with demon blood and an ancient, dreaded curse stumbled within their midst, it was only the fear of the ruling wychlaren and the spirit eater curse that kept her from being ripped to pieces by the locals. The Rashemi natives had to content themselves with warding gestures, hisses and spits of fear and loathing, and brisk dismissal.
Faithless wandered about the city, unsure of where exactly she wanted to go, or if she really wanted to go anywhere at all. The sounds and smells were enough to distract her for the moment, and that in itself was welcome relief. Her attention drifted to the sounds of music, both from street performances and taverns. She had always loved music, even though she lacked the talent for it herself. Music held the power to both enthrall and liberate her at the same time, and often, she would lose herself in song. A distant part of herself was drawn to the sounds, wanting to listen, dance, or simply let the music take her. As she passed by, her mind wandered to far off forgotten places she had never been, and her thoughts became like pleasant vapors.
The afternoon passed in a dream like haze, and she had lost track time and place. Bringing herself back to reality, she looked around to regain her bearings. The street she had wandered on seemed less crowded, and the area was considerably quieter than the bustle and clamor of the merchant's ward. As she cocked her head, she was certain she could hear chanting coming from the building to her right. She took another look around, and noticed different buildings bearing holy symbols to a wide assortment of Faerunian deities. Scowling, she cursed herself for being so caught up in pointless daydreaming that she wandered into the last place she wanted to be: Everlund's Temple District.
Stupid, so very stupid of you, she berated herself silently. Not only have you not been paying attention to your environment, a folly that could have proven fatal elsewhere, you have managed to land yourself right smack dab in the middle of the divine vipers' feeding grounds. Faithless walked briskly, searching for a road that led out of the district, barely able to suppress the urge to spit or urinate on the different statues of the gods that she passed. She cursed herself again as she realized she could not remember which way she arrived here from. From the looks of it, she thought that she might be in the very heart of the district. Typical. The gods decided to fuck with me once more, for old time's sake.
Her pace picked up till she was almost running. She saw a street that appeared to turn left, back towards the center of town, and she followed it, now running. She almost ran over a few clerics of Helm, and much to her disappointment, they moved out of her way in time to avoid a collision. Better luck next time. Hopefully, I will catch some deity's stooges off guard and smash into them like a dwarven battering ram.
Much to her irritation, the street dead ended at a white marble temple with blue and gold trim. She let out an exasperated sigh. Fucking marvelous. She was getting ready to turn when something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She glanced over, and saw two young men, both clad in blue and gold tunics, pass by a statue of a tall figure holding up a set of scales in one hand. The other hand was missing, and the handless arm hung limply at its side. The two young men paused briefly and bowed their heads toward the stone figure before continuing their conversation.
Faithless stared for a while, her guts feeling as if someone had poured molten lead into them. Her teeth begin to gnaw at her lower lip and she swallowed the lump that was forcing itself into her throat. Temple of Tyr. The Lord of Justice. The Even-handed. She studied the two young men, and though they were too far away to tell, she was certain that if she walked up to them, her nose and skin would experience that familiar, static, tickling sensation. Paladins. She was certain of it. They had that look.
Tears stung her eyes, and this time, she could not stop them. From the depths of the memory sea she was desperately trying to avoid drowning in, he came. Adamantine plate covered a tall, lean, well built sturdy frame. A shining silvery hammer was clenched in his right hand; a well worn but meticulously polished shield adorned his left arm. A slender, handsomely chiseled face the color of milk was crowned in stark contrast by neatly cropped hair the color of coal. Beneath gracefully arched black brows, eyes the hue of winter moonlight on ice glittered with dry humor, flowing compassion, and undying resolve.
She crumpled down onto the cobble street and allowed her head to hang heavy. The ghost image didn't shift, and she felt her mental hand reach out to try and touch him. Her hand slipped through him like air, and she shook her head bitterly. Paladin. You, out of all of them, deserved your fate the least. Following me to the bitter end, despite how things turned out. How I wished you would have left before. You could have lived to see another day, lived to save another soul. But you wouldn't leave, no. You couldn't leave. Anymore than I could. And even after everything, you still loved me, even though I did not deserve it.
Of all the friends she lost, discounting her ranger lover, the paladin's death was the most bitter pill she had swallowed since the defeat of the King of Shadows. Died trying to hold up an escape route for everyone else. So like him. Damn you. Why couldn't you for once in your life be a tiny bit selfish? Why did you have to waste your life for my sake? I wouldn't have bothered; it's not like the world would be worse off without me in it. She thought back her meeting with Jerro in the Academy. "He died when his back gave out trying to hold a pillar up so the others could escape," the warlock had said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You were the only one who hadn't come out from the corridor. The fool thought you'd be coming around the corner any moment. Unfortunately for him, he didn't realize you were face down in the dust of Illefarn, oblivious to the triad of gargoyles circling you." There was a subtle, nasty undertone in Jerro's voice, and though he did not say the words, there was no mistaking the unspoken accusation. The righteous fool died for the love of an idiot girl who didn't return the sentiment. He died because of you. How touching.
Ammon Jerro's words ripped through the teetering hope in her mind that she had anything in the Sword Coast to return to. The warlock seemed darkly pleased as he coldly observed her horror. She wanted little more than to tear that contemptuous, gloating sneer from his face, but didn't. Because he's right. They all died because of you. Especially the paladin. You killed him, because you didn't have the guts to drive him away. You might as well have shoved the Sword of Gith into his breast. After all he did for you, it should have been your worthless back snapping under the pillar.
She lifted her head and stared at the statue in front of the temple, and felt caustic bile rise in her gullet as she regarded the god of justice's image. Justice? Her hands clenched into tight fists, and snorted. Oh my, the fucking irony is killing me. Slowly she rose and continued to glare dangerously at the statue of Tyr. The planes don't run on justice. Ol' Lord Skull was so very fucking right about that one. Ahhhhh, the wisdom of a fallen god..... Faithless' face grew dark, and a twisted smile curved her lips as she strolled over to the statue. The two young paladins were further away now, seated on a bench nearer to the temple, continuing their discussion in earnest. She gazed up at the face of Tyr. Stone eyes continued to stare off into the distance.
"So," she greeted the statue, her tone rich with mockery and contempt. "Oh Great Tyr the Evenhanded. Lord of Justice. I beseech you to enlighten this stupid mortal before you. Can you explain to me the concept of justice, since that's what you are supposedly the great provider of? I'm a bit confused here. You see, I might be a backstabbing hellspawn, but I always had this perception of justice as being something that rights wrongs and gives protection and comfort to the innocent." She paused, and she thought about the incident years ago in Neverwinter involving a priest named Fenthick. "Well, most of the time, at least." She snorted, and continued. "So that's my take on it, at least. My question to you, is, as the god of Justice, honor, and all that other bullshit your lackeys wax philosophical over, how do you justify the existence, let alone the creation, of a huge, twisting, stinking, ravenous wall that devours the souls of people whose only crime in life was not bowing and scraping to some divine power? I mean, I've seen the fucking thing. Hells, my own soul lay screaming and twisted in the damned thing for four months, so I know what I'm talking about. And I remember quite well the screams and cries of the souls of infants and children who didn't even have the mental capacity in life to realize that they were required to bow and scrape, let alone aware that there was anything to bow and scrape to."
The Wall memories filled her mind, but her anger, growing like a forest fire, kept the grief and horror at a distance. Faces and bodies, twisted unnaturally, screaming until their voices collapsed, tormented. She let it build, then focused her thoughts back on the uncaring statue. "What. No answer? Have I given you a quandary? That holy, orderly, godly mind of yours suddenly stuck in a logical and professional rut? Or is it simply that you really don't give a fuck, and are sitting nice and cozy in your grand palace on Mount Celestia with your head stuck comfortably up your ass so you cant hear the hellish screams of the innocent on the Fugue Plane?" She spat at the statue. "That's the great truth, isn't it. That none of you or your colleagues really give a shit. About anything. Especially your own worshipers. How many faithful Tyrrans have ended up in the wall because they got on the wrong side of the spirit eaters before me? How many faithful of any of you miserable gods ended up in that wall, while their divine patrons sat on their shiny asses, not giving a shit? That's their reward for devotion?" She kicked at the statue, and suddenly, she wished she had a large adamantine club to bash at the stone image.
A horrifying idea popped in her head, and she gave it voice. "What about him," she hissed, suddenly feeling even sicker and angrier. "Your paladin who died in a valiant attempt to save me and the others. Does his soul dwell peacefully on the slopes of Celestia, the pain and torments of his life all forgotten as he basks in your radiance, or did you just forget about him and abandon him on the Fugue Plane to get dragged off by Kelemvor's toadies because he might have committed some minor slight he forgot to repent for?" Blood tinted foamy spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. She had bitten herself without realizing it. "It wouldn't surprise me. You gods can't even follow your own fucked up laws. The only certain thing in the Planes is that nothing is certain where gods are concerned. There really is no guarantee that a life of slavering away and feeding your sorry existence with our mortal bootlicking will save us from worse fates, is there?"
The cold stone remained as silent and aloof as the god it represented, but Faithless felt her limbs tremble with raw emotion. I am Faithless. That is my name, because that is what I am now. Not who, but what. I have no faith. Not in the gods, not in their laws, not in the planes. Not in myself. After what I have seen and learned, faith in anything is a more horrific fate than the Wall, Hells, and Abyss combined. Never again. She backed away from the statue of the God of Justice, and suddenly, her hand drew her rapier from its scabbard and she slashed out at the stone hand that held the scales.
The strike sliced a thin scratch in the stone. A normal rapier might have snapped, but hers was far from normal. Even with all the enchantments on the darksteel masterpiece blade, the damage to the statue was barely noticeable. The elements had left far worse marks in the stone, and Faithless lowered her blade in resignation. The truth in a nutshell. All your pathetic mewling, cursing, and pitiful little attacks against the gods, and you barely even scratch the surface. Time and storm harms them more. That's the great truth of the Planes. I thought you figured that out the night Kelemvor sent you hurtling down here, you stupid bitch.
Her futile attack on the image of Tyr had not gone unnoticed, however. She heard angry shouts, and when she looked up, she saw the two paladins stomping toward her, swords waving angrily in the air. She had completely forgotten about their presence in her attempt to defile the God of Justice's image, and turned to face them, her sword arm still limp. Both stepped in time with each other, and as they approached, she could feel the sharp tingle and prickling of their combined auras on her skin.
The taller of the two, a redhead who did not look much older than she did, rapped the flat of his sword against his thigh and spoke first. "How dare you! You step upon the hallowed grounds of the Even-Handed's temple to perform an act of vandalism on his holy image! What foul power has sent you, fiendling?" His hazel eyes burned with righteous anger, and Faithless found she had to keep herself from bursting into laughter right there.
The shorter of the two, a sandy haired half-elf, held his sword in a guarding position and said: "Indeed. Who are you, tiefling, who so brazenly comes before Tyr in broad daylight, in sight of His disciples, for the sole purpose of defacing His property?"
She smiled broadly as she re-sheathed her rapier and took an exaggerated bow. "Me?" she asked, holding her empty hands out from her sides in a sarcastic gesture to placate the two. "No one important. Just a poor, doomed, faithless soul come to give her regards to the One Handed." She glanced at the minuscule scratch in the stone and shrugged.
The redhead regarded her for a moment, then scowled. "You are without faith? Then what, in Tyr's name, are you doing here?"
"Oh, believe me,Tyr and his name have nothing to do with why I am here," she retorted. "Your god and his image deserve all the bird shit the pigeons of Everlund can drop. I ended up here because I got lost, and when I saw the fine stonework you have here in your temple yard, I knew I'd found what I was looking for: sparring practice."
If she had run up to this pair naked with Elminster's head in her hand and slapped them, they could not have looked more shocked and horrified than they did at that moment. "How dare you!" half elf gasped, his knuckles turning white has he gripped his sword tighter. "You desecrate our temple grounds, and you spew mockery towards our Lord. Were I not bound by my vows, and standing on the sacred grounds of my god, I would strike you where you stand!"
"Oh would you, now?" Faithless sneered. "Now that isn't very knightly of you. Threatening an unarmed opponent. But then again, I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised, coming from a lackey of the Master of the Great Hypocrisy." She stepped back and spread her empty hands out wider for emphasis. "But if it makes you feel any better, smite away. Its no worse a turn than your windbag of a god has already done me."
Redhead snarled. "If you have come here to provoke a fight, fiendling, you are wasting your time. We will not be goaded into fighting you to satisfy whatever twisted urges propel you. If you are so eager for battle, perhaps you should try the temple of Tempus. I'm quite certain the followers of the Foehammer will be more than happy to respond to your insults and degradations with the force of arms you seem to crave so."
"Who, me? I'm not looking for a fight. Like I said, just paying my respects." She glanced back at the statue. "Though I really doubt Tyr could give a rats ass about anything I had to say."
"I suggest you leave, now," the half-elf hissed through gritted teeth. "Our Lord is patient and just, and he will probably overlook your blasphemous behavior. But Herdor and I are mortals, and there are limits to what we will tolerate. Especially from one who is a self proclaimed unbelieving fool."
Faithless eyed them both with a mixture of contempt and amusement. "Mere mortals? And for a moment I thought you boys might be paladins." She turned to leave, and as she started to walk away from the temple grounds, she stopped and shot them both a dark, bitter grin. "I once traveled with one of your lot. A fine man he was. More than a man. He had more personal honor and a sense of justice than your lame deity ever could. What is it called when a man surpasses the virtues and and convictions of the god he bows before, and becomes more an embodiment of those things his god is supposed to uphold?" Her smile faded and she glared at them. "I can only tell you, my friend was far more worthy of worship than your cunt of a Lord will ever be. Have a nice day." With that, she turned and stormed down the street. She did not look back, though she could picture the paladins staring daggers at her as she went. Oh, go ahead and petition Tyr to curse me, you fools. Trust me, I don't think ol One Handed could throw anything my way any worse than what has already been done.
As she turned the corner and looked for another exit from the temple district, she realized that at that moment, she had never wanted a drink so bad in her life as she did now.
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Faithless sat and sipped cautiously at the tankard of ale in front of her. She had tried to drink a small mug of ale a few days ago at Jesperth's house, and found it had made her violently ill. She could only guess that it was probably due to a four month long dry spell and the ravages of the curse. Though she wanted to get violently drunk and pass out into blessed numbness, she knew she had to take it slowly or else she would simply end up sick and sober. She had only drank a quarter of her ale, and already she was feeling a strong buzz.
Looking around, she watched as the tavern started to fill up with patrons. Rilada had told her about this place, which was two blocks away from the house. Jesperth often stopped in on his way home, and sometimes even ate here. Rilada was a strict vegetarian, and when the half-orc needed to feed his carnivorous cravings, he came here to indulge in a roast or beef stew out of respect for his wife, who hated the smell of cooking meat. Faithless sniffed at the air. From the smell, it looked like tonight's house specialty would be some sort of pork dish. Her mouth watered.
The Grey Horse tavern was surprisingly clean and tame for a "working man's" alehouse. She had been here an hour and no one had so much as raised their voice. Conversation filled the room, but it was a calm, even hum. A bard at the far end played lilting tunes on his flute that gave the place an airy atmosphere of relaxation and respite. Her thoughts drifted back to her uncle Duncan's place in the docks of Neverwinter, The Sunken Flagon, and she chuckled to herself. By this time of day, the Flagon would be infested and reeking of dock rats and local riff raff, and half of them would be falling out of their chairs. Someone would already be face down on the floor, and at least one fight would have been broken up by now. Especially when her slap happy dwarven friend was around.
That's it. Consign their names to the oblivion you've sent your own to. Easier that way, right? You have been back for a tenday and a half, and not once have you been able to even think of their names, let alone speak them. You can curse the gods by name and title, but you can't even give your devoted friends who gave their lives for you even a mental eulogy. Because thinking of their names makes you remember, and you don't have the guts to do that anymore, do you, coward?
Faithless rubbed her temples to stave of the sharp stabbing pains that were beginning to bloom there. They all had names. Names that once rolled off her tongue with ease. Names that she had thought of often in Rashemen, that kept her going when she believed there was something to go home to. Now those names only served to twist the daggers of guilt and loss deeper in her gut. They kept the soul wounds fresh and raw. They are gone. Let them rest in peace. To forget and be forgotten, that's paradise, right? Daeghun seemed to think so for all those years, and as cold as he was, he survived sane, did he not? Maybe you should take a hint from your old man. Her mind brought up an image of her dour foster father, his sharp elven face forever locked in an emotionless mask as he seemingly drifted through life like a specter. She shook her head. No. He really didn't survive, did he? Is that what you want, to live life as a dull echo of what once was? Isn't that what the Wall does to you anyway?
She took a deep draw from her tankard, not caring if it did make her sick. She wanted to drown her brains in alcoholic bliss now more than ever, even if it did mean spending the rest of the night in a puddle of vomit.
An hour passed, and the buzz of conversation grew louder as the tavern grew fuller. She looked down at her half empty tankard and was debating on finishing it in one swig when the main door swung open and Jesperth swaggered in. The half orc looked around the room until he caught sight of her, and he grinned as he waved to the bartender and strolled over to take the empty seat at her table.
"Good to see you back here in the land of the waking!" Jesperth bellowed cheerily. He leaned back in his chair and waited as a serving wench brought a mug of mead over and placed it on the table. He nodded in thanks and flipped her a few coppers, then lifted his mug in salute to the tiefling. She lifted hers likewise and their tankards clanked. "Here's to hoping you'll stay awake long enough to sample the variety of fine beverages the Grey Horse has to offer!" He drained half of his mug in one hearty swallow and sighed with pleasure.
She eyed his half empty mug. "Well, I'll try, but don't expect me to keep up with you if that's your speed."
He chuckled. "Oh, alright, lightweight. Ill slow the pace down so you can keep up. Wouldn't want to have to sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, puking down my back as I carry you home. Ril would be quite pissed at me."
"Really?" She found the idea of the serene elf monk getting even slightly irritated at anything hard to imagine. "Well, we wouldn't want that. Guess we would both have to find some nice quiet alley to sleep it off in. Don't want your lovely wife thinking I'm a bad influence on you."
"Ha! She would probably be thinking the opposite!" Jesperth took another sip from his mug. "From the smells in the kitchen, it looks like Doril is cooking up some pork chops. Looks like Rilada is gonna get a night of peace from my singing after all." He studied Faithless for a moment. "Since you haven't had a nice decent cut of meat since you've been here, I'm guessing you'll be sticking around for dinner too, eh?"
She nodded. "You guessed correctly. Haven't eaten anything since breakfast. Been out walking a lot today, so I'm starving."
Jesperth raised his brows. "Oh have you? Finally got out and got to exploring this fine city of ours, did you?"
"Some of it, yeah. Had to do a bit of restocking. Only really saw the merchant's quarter and the temple district, though." She decided she would not mention the incident at the temple of Tyr. She did not want her host to think she really was cursed with madness.
"Glad to hear it," he replied. "It's a start. Rilada and I were getting a bit worried about you when you were sleeping so much. Guess you were a lot more run down and dogged out than you seemed, eh?"
That's an understatement, she thought. "Yeah. Hadn't really had much sleep before. Guess my body was catching up." She decided to change the subject. Thoughts she did not want were beginning to creep in. "So hows the roadside eatery business going?"
Jesperth shrugged, taking another drink. "It's a living. Picking up a bit as summer is coming. That's when you get a lot of traffic in, as the mountain passes have thawed and the orc and giant tribes tend to leave the roads alone, since there's easier pickings elsewhere. Soon, Rilada's summer wine will be ready to sell. Its a big hit with travelers, especially elves and cultured types looking for a bit of refreshment."
"She makes wine?"
"Aye, that she does, and let me tell you, I've had wealthy people from Waterdeep wanting to get a hold of large quantities of the stuff. They say its comparable to some of the vintages from Evereska, or even Evermeet." Jesperth smiled, a bit of pride creeping into his voice. "Remind me to take you down to the cellar where she makes it to have a sample. Trust me, once you've had even a sip of that stuff, you'll never look at wine the same."
"I'll hold you to that," Faithless said after a swig from her tankard. "Though I must admit, Rilada never struck me as the drinking type."
The half-orc rolled his eyes and snickered. "Oh, you won't find her in any alehouses, for certain, but I tell you, she is something else when she's had a few glasses of wine. Its about the only time she starts waxing philosophical and it makes any sense." he grinned. "Or maybe its just I get too drunk to tell the difference." He drained his mug. "So you'll be wanting a full dinner, I take it?" She nodded, and he waved the serving wench over. He gave the girl an order for two full meals and two mugs of mead.
"Mead? I'm not even finished with this ale," she said after the serving girl left.
"Yeah, but better to get it now. This place gets packed around this time, and you'll end up waiting a while to get served," he told her. After a few minutes, the girl returned with two full mugs. Faithless set hers side, lifted her ale glass, and toasted the half-orc as she finished the dregs of the ale.
The two talked for a while as they waited for their meals to arrive. Faithless had not had much interaction with her hosts during the week she had spent there beyond short conversations over dinner, so she asked Jesperth about himself and his life. It seemed strange that she knew little about her benefactor, and she found herself curious. The half-orc was amused, and seemed quite pleased to share his own tale.
Jesperth and Rilada had been married for ten years. She had originally hailed from Evereska, and her family was less than approving of her choice in a mate. It never deterred her, and she seemed rather accepting of her family's rejection. Jesperth, who always been a prodigy in the culinary arts, saw his destiny in providing hot, fresh food to weary travelers along the Silver Marches' busy highways. It was his passion, he said, and from the tone of his voice, Faithless thought he might even feel a certain spiritual reverence in his work.
Rilada had gained knowledge of ancient elven healing arts from her father, who was a well respected healer back home. She had been expected to follow in his footsteps, but instead became fascinated by the teachings of a long dead Sennzuin master named Chaieren. She left home to seek out others who shared this philosophy, and after fifty years of wandering the realms, she finally found a remote, long forgotten sect inhabiting a monastery in the Galena mountains. She spent a whopping one hundred years there in study and contemplation before deciding there was nothing left to learn, and everything left to experience. It was during her wanderings through the Silver Marches that she had met the young half-orc on the roadside, when he had first started his business just after leaving his home in Targos, in Icewind Dale. Later, when their relationship had blossomed would she tell him the scent of his gooseberry tarts and the lusty bellow of his voice as he hawked his wares drew her to him like a bee to honey.
"She was serious as a judge when she told me that, too," Jesperth added with a smile. "I'm telling you, the bard's don't have a clue what they are talking about. The keys to the fair maiden's heart aren't won through dragon slaying or duels to the death with rivals. You win them with you mother's jealously guarded cookbook!"
Faithless smiled as she listened to the half-orc share his life story with her. She admitted she was growing quite fond of the man despite knowing him so briefly. She certainly felt more comfortable in his presence than she had with any of the companions she had traveled with in Rashemen. His whole demeanor was refreshingly lively, especially after four months dwelling amongst the cold, paranoid Rashemi. Jesperth possessed not only a hearty appetite for life and love, but he also had a very keen, open mind and healthy wit that was both amusing and disarming. When he brought up the topic of religion, she listened with interest.
"The gods?" he asked thoughtfully. He shrugged. "I've been known to offer up a prayer or two on occasion, sure. Sometimes to Waukeen when business is slow, sometimes to Tymora when playing a game of dice with the lads." He grinned mischievously. "And sometimes to Sune, when Rilada tells me she has a headache." He roared with laughter and took another drink. "But actually getting into one god? Nah, not for me. My religion is cooking, and until they find a patron deity of the divine kitchen, I'll stick with something I can truly believe in: a well seasoned roast with the right trimmings!" As if responding to some secret invocation, the serving wench appeared with two plates loaded with pork and veggies.
They ate their meals and drank their mead, and before she could finish her first mug, the girl brought two more. She eyed it warily as it was placed before her. The food had soaked up most of the effects of the first cup, but she still felt highly buzzed. She wasn't certain if she would make it through a second cup. But if I don't, at least I'll pass out trying. She smiled and saluted Jesperth as she tipped back the rest of her mug, and with a nod of approval, he did the same.
Faithless and Jesperth spent the rest of the evening in the Grey Horse drinking house mead and playing dice games for fun as they shared jokes and talked about nothing in particular. By the time they left, they had drank themselves silly, and they broke the pleasant silence of the night singing bawdy tavern songs on the walk home. When they stumbled through the door, Rilada was remarkably amused by her cheerfully blitzed mate, and smiled broadly as she took the half-orc's arm to steady him and led him up the stairs.
As she watched the elf struggle up the stairs with her large husband, Faithless collapsed on a pile of cushions, smiling. She was well drunk, and assumed that tomorrow she would pay dearly for indulging. But it didn't matter at that point. For the first time since the siege of Crossroad Keep, her mind was empty of everything except the pleasant hum of excessive drinking. No dreams or nightmares came that night for her, and for those blissful few hours, she captured a fragment of that precious but elusive grail: oblivion.
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The afternoon sun felt warm against her skin, yet it did nothing about the growing chill inside her. Faithless sat on a bench in the public gardens, her blank face a stark contrast from the vivacious explosion of spring flowers surrounding her. Birds chirped and chattered as they swooped from tree to tree, and metallic blue butterfly landed on her left horn briefly before fluttering off. She paid no attention. Her mind was far away in a place where spring never came.
It's time to go, she thought blandly. I've tarried here long enough, and I can't stay here. Jesperth, Rilada, Everlund, the Silver Marches. They are all vibrant, living entities, and I am not. The longer I stay, the more glaringly apparent it is. And everything that crosses my path seems to die.
The past few days only deepened her resolve to leave. She was growing very fond of Jesperth and his strange, but intriguing wife. The daytimes were spent at the house with Rilada, watching her float about in her gauzy gowns like a serenely beautiful specter as she tended plants, mixed herbs, tended to clients (who seldom paid, or were even expected to), or shared some bit of "wisdom" with the tiefling. The elf had taken an interest in her guest, often stopping to ask Faithless general questions out of the blue that had no bearing on the moment at hand. Sometimes, when she went out to the courtyard to spar with her shadow, she would turn to find the elf in the doorway, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
Faithless had once asked Rilada about her beliefs. The elf seemed amused at the idea of her philosophy being referred to as similar to a religion. "Beliefs? I have none. Sennzuin? Its not a system of belief, it simply is. Belief is said to support the fabric of the planes. Sennzuin laughs at the very idea of existence of a fabric. It is hubris. The gods are the dreams and illusions of the planes, which in turn exist as the universe tries to understand it's own essence. The universe exists because cannot perceive otherwise. Perception creates reality, and when perception is removed, the truth can be seen for what it is." Rilada stated as if she was stating something as obvious as the time of day or the color of her eyes.
She's worse than Aldanon, Faithless thought as she tried to wrap her mind around the elf mystic's maze of words. Even Aldanon could be eventually driven to make a point and come to a conclusion if you pushed him hard enough. Rilada went back to mixing some sparkling dust into a jar of unguent, and Faithless was left more puzzled than before.
Still, she had to admit, she liked the elf. She couldn't explain why, even to herself, but there was something about Rilada that resonated with some dim, long forgotten piece of her soul. The woman was a knot of contradictions that seemed to harmonize rather than oppose, as if there really was no difference between black and white, day and night, inebriation and sobriety. Faithless was both confused and fascinated by the simplicity of the woman's life, as it hinted at things more complex. Or so she thought.
By nights, she usually sat in the Grey Horse with Jesperth; drinking, eating, and playing dice or card games. The half-orc was far more down to earth than his wife, but was no less interesting. He seemed unbothered by many of life's drudgeries, despite having to endure them daily, and was more than content with his lot. But contentment did not equal boredom and monotony, and when he shared the details of his daily routine, he could put most bards to shame with his flair for turning the dull into an epic adventure.
Now she sat in the springtime sun, knowing that she had to leave that night. I like them a lot. They have become like family in less time than it took me to grow attached to my old ragtag band of misfits. And there lies the problem. Attachments have a habit of dying and leaving you holding the empty glass after you've drunk your fill. Even if somehow they manage to survive the disasters that keep coming your way unbidden, would you really want to risk fucking up their lives? You have a habit of doing that to people, too, it seems.
And then, of course, there were the dreams, both surreal and terrifying in their detail. They were no longer content to torture her from sleep: they now lingered in the daytime, an ever present panel of judge, jury, and executioner in a trial that never seemed to end. The more she tried to adjourn the court, the heavier the prosecution argued and accusations flew. Everlund was a place of hope, progression, and lucid optimism where people who knew in their hearts that dawn was always just over the horizon, if you bothered to look. She could barely lift her head to see beyond the tips of the grass.
She had told Rilada and Jesperth that morning of her plans. While the half-orc looked a little saddened at the news, he nodded in understanding. "I'll bet you probably got folks waiting for you somewhere, and I wouldn't want to be keeping you from them." Faithless looked away. Only ghosts waiting for me. Rilada seemed neither upset nor pleased, and strangely, not even surprised by the sudden announcement.
Jesperth had taken her to a livery where he knew the owner, and she purchased a sturdy bay mare at a discount. She spent the rest of the morning buying provisions and gear for the road, including potions and trinkets and loading them into her saddle bags. After lunch, Jesperth had suggested she check out the public gardens before she left, since it would be a shame to leave Everlund without a quick stroll amongst the springtime's finest.
Faithless took a deep breath and looked around. Fine as the gardens were, they did not soothe her soul or calm her mind. She decided she had lingered here long enough, and she got up and left. There was one last stop she needed to make before she returned to Jesperth's home to say her farewells. She exited the garden entrance and headed for the public baths.
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That evening, as the sun was submerged halfway below the western horizon, Faithless finished packing the saddle bags. Jesperth had decided to send her off with a few days worth of pies and pastries, and Rilada had given her a couple bottles of her special wine to take as a going away present. She was forced to buy an extra saddle pack to accommodate their last minute generosity. The half-orc and his wife watched from the doorway of their house, their arms wrapped around each others waists as they watched their guest making her final preparations.
"You sure you don't want to stay another night and leave in the morning?" Jesperth asked, a touch of concern in his deep voice. "Night just doesn't seem to be a great time to begin a long journey."
"I'm sure," she replied, fastening the last strap of the pastry pack. "I dance in the shadows. Nighttime is second nature to me." She turned to face the couple. "Are you sure you won't be willing to accept some form of repayment for putting up with me as long as you did?"
The half-orc snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. You've been pretty good company! Its payment enough seeing you doing so much better than you were when you stumbled out of the Nether foothills. I had to admit, I was a tad worried."
"Well, if that's the way you see it, then I guess I'm lucky I stumbled right at the spot where you set up shop," Faithless replied, a deceptive smile crossing her face. Both of them had refused her attempts at giving them money in gratitude for their hospitality, but she was not diverted so easily. In the bedroom she had been sleeping in, she left a large pile of gold and a few gems on the bed with a note informing them that like it or not, she was repaying their kindness, and that was final. The amount of gold was unknown, as she simply emptied one of her bags of holding out onto the bed, but it was a small fortune, of that she was certain. Gold had lost much of its glitter in her eyes, but it might bring a smile to the half-orc's face, and that was enough reason for her to casually part with it. I've left too many debts unpaid. This is one that won't be.
"If that it how you see it, then yes, credit the concept of fortune," Rilada said in a voice that had grown ethereal. "I, however, do not think it such a casual twist as the roll of a supernatural die." She nuzzled her husband's chest with her nose and lips like an affectionate kitten.
Jesperth brushed his wife's hair and kissed the top of her head. "Well, I'm just glad to see you able to leave under your own power, even if I am a bit sad to see you go, lass," he said after a moment. "I wish you good fortune and a safe journey, however. And you know, if you ever find yourself again with the urge to wander the Marches, you know where to stop by for a decent meal and a game of liar's dice!"
Faithless swung her body up and seated herself in the saddle. She looked at the couple for a few minutes, taking in their faces one last time before she left. A pang of regret stabbed at her gut. "You can bet your horse and wagon on it," she finally said. As she turned her horse around, she caught them waving one last goodbye, and for a moment, thought she saw a wet glint in Jesperth's eye. She rode off down the street, and as she turned the corner, she finally heard their door close.
Faithless exited Everlund through its Bridge Gate. Selune was near her fullest point, so there would be enough light to travel by. Even if it had been the new moon, she still had her darkvision to guide her, and a charm for the horse to see by as well. The road stretched westward, where it would bypass the High Forest and the Evermoors and continue into Yartar. From there, it would terminate in the town of Triboar, which sat at the junction of several other roads going all directions. A couple tendays journey, at least. Better get started, then.
And when you get to Triboar, then what? She asked herself as the bay picked up the pace. Crossroad Keep is out of the question. You gave that place up the minute you stepped into the King of Shadow's lair. West Harbor was a burnt out husk last time you saw it. Neverwinter? No way. If I am lucky, they have declared me dead, and I'd like to keep it that way if possible. Maybe in the future, when this whole war has been forgotten. But not now. So where the hell do you go now, oh homeless and faithless one?
She decided at that point it really didn't matter where she ended up, only that she had to return to the Sword Coast. Despite having nothing to return to, she felt in the depths of her soul, that she had unfinished business to attend to.