Surprisingly, the ficlet is updated, because I have it planned out!

I've decided to make most chapters character-POV-ones, not only from the PC's POV, even at places where you wouldn't expect it! Yay for creativity.

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Tempest

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Contrary to what tales might have claimed later on, it was thoroughly unremarkable night when the future "hero of Neverwinter", etcetera, etcetera, first set foot in the city itself.

Neverwinter was a gloomy place to live in that year and the downpour that came along with the travelers was neither encouraging nor welcome. But it wasn't even a tempest that would properly foreshadow the events to come. It was just another day to survive, just another day to forget.

Days weren't much livelier at the Sunken Flagon, where Bishop usually stayed when the winds brought him back to the city. The tavern wasn't as seedy as most, but it still was the closest thing to Hells in his eyes. Had it not been for the decent drinks Duncan provided, he would have likely preferred the streets, though it was a close call nonetheless. This place resembled a cage to which the leash of his debt was binding him – something he didn't quite understand himself. He wasn't one to think much about honor or morality – those things weren't for those that wanted to survive, so certainly not for him – but once or twice during the years, he wondered just why in Hells he was bothering with waiting for the moment when Duncan would collect on that thrice-damned debt of his.

Honor? A given word?

Yeah, right. Just thinking about that almost made him want to shoot himself. Almost. Life, dull as it was at times, was still something that belonged to him alone and he refused to kill himself because of Duncan. That he had to live because of him was wrong enough.

The door of the in swung open; he noticed only because of the way the wind slammed the wooden surface against the walls and the swift rush cold air. Even that moment was sufficient to count four figures entering, only one sensible enough to have a hooded cloak and covering their face. The others, of course, were soaked to the skin.

A female voice began talking to Duncan, which was not nearly interesting enough to peak his interest, but two sentences were enough to change that: "I'm his niece. I'm related."

Duncan having a niece?

Almost unwillingly, the ranger looked away from his drink and at the woman chatting with Duncan. It was the cloaked one, who had dropped her hood. By chance, Duncan had his back turned in his direction, so Bishop got a good glimpse of her. The most obvious thing was that save for the pointed ears, there was absolutely no resemblance between her and the innkeeper – which was good for her, really. Slightly arrogant expression, high-and-mighty posture, a heavy bag clearly filled with books or some such rubbish; a spellcaster if he ever saw one. Straw-colored hair, green eyes – now that was interesting, admittedly, because you didn't catch glimpse of a sun elf at every corner of Faerun these days.

Otherwise, unremarkable. But the traveling circus behind her was enough to almost cause a commotion in the tavern, though everyone present was already mostly drunk. The dwarf immediately joined in the drinking. The other elf woman, dressed in clothes that seemed to be ready to fall apart, seemed thoroughly uneasy. The last of them, a woman with obvious demonic heritage, seemed right at home in the tavern.

His assumptions about the niece proved correct without fault when they came to the topic of magic. A hedge wizard he knew only by sight came and then went, there was some conversation about shards of something or another, but after the useless talk, Duncan literally pulled the girl to a table and decided to catch up on a lifetime without his niece – for some freakish reason, he seemed to have had no idea that she existed five minutes before that.

The whole family was obviously in need of a few well-aimed arrows.

"Well, then, sit down, lass, sit down!" Duncan waved his hand jovially, motioning to a chair she was to pull up. "We've got a lot of catching up to do here! Now, what can I get you? Only the best for my niece!"

"Some wine would be nice, I guess." The girl said with a light shrug, obviously overwhelmed by the openly warm approach of a relative who knew nothing about her.

"You heard the lady, Sal, you lazy bum!" the half-elf hollered at the bartender, who was, admittedly, very slow. "Now, Neliel," When Duncan spoke the name, Bishop was actually able to make it out even in the loud tavern. "or Nell, is it? Haven't seen you since you were that big." To demonstrate, he measured a very small distance from the ground with his palm.

"Neliel… but everyone calls me Nell. Except for father, that is." From that moment on, it was clear that this woman wouldn't be his type, even if she wasn't Duncan's niece. The hint of humbleness and modesty Bishop saw was enough to confirm that; but there was some degree of pretense behind it, even if Duncan didn't see it in his euphoria. Neliel clearly wasn't as comfortable in the inn as she tried to pretend she was. certainly not nearly as comfortable as she had been when she had had a chance to discuss magic with the moon elf.

Duncan nodded. "Aye, my brother is hardly one for pet names. But I suppose old elven names have a charm to them. Now, tell me about yourself, Nell. Anything and everything." Perhaps this was the reason why he welcomed the woman with open arms; to break the monotony, to have an air of mystery renewed in his inn. Well, it would certainly help to have a tavern wench around; heads turned not only because of the odd motley crew, but also because of the exotic appearance of the elven sorceress.

"Well, I'm… I'm a bit overwhelmed." That much was obvious – not even her acting could conceal her surprise at a warm-hearted reception. She wasn't naïve enough to believe in such things, it seemed. "And I deeply regret that I had no idea you existed a few weeks ago. Father never spoke of you… or of any relatives, really."

"You've known him long enough to know that he's like that. Sometimes I think he enjoys being the lonely martyr, though."

"Martyr?" Neliel's eyebrows rose, but it was part of another act; she had asked something similar before and now was trying to wheedle information out of the innkeeper while he was in such high spirits. Almost praiseworthy, really.

"Well, Daeghun lost his wife and your mother, which were both hard blows. It's never easy to say goodbye to comrades in arms and friends." Ah, adopted. The girl had had a truly misfortunate childhood, then.

"Do you know a lot about my mother?"

Almost, but not quite. Something in her body language betrayed her – though admittedly, it was pleasing to observe the curves beneath her armor, carefully concealed though they were - and the question was too direct. Not even Duncan was that gullible. "I knew Esmerelle well enough, but don't try being sneaky with me, lass. I told you it isn't my story to tell. And none of those spells for bewitching people you wizards use!"

"Damn." She laughed a bit, a pure, melodic sound. Just listening to it was sickening. "And here I thought I was being charming enough."

"Far more so than I would expect after a childhood in a swamp I remember the Mere from years ago. Not for the faint-hearted." So that was the faint smell familiar to him that he had sensed from the girl. He thought he had heard the wizard say something of the sort, but now, hearing it plainly, he had to admit that it was the truth. A wizard from the Mere of Dead Men. One that was related to Duncan –though how in the world, he had no idea. Certainly this was the most interesting thing to enter the Sunken Flagon in years. "Speaking of which, your wood elf friend seems to hail from the Mere as well."

"Elanee's a druidess of the Mere." Cue look at the ragged elf. Well, she could have been pretty, save for all the dirt on her, but there were perks. Bishop's keen eyes could clearly discern the places where she hadn't fastened her robe properly. Apparently, druids really were "children of nature" in every conceivable way. "There's been trouble there recently, not only because of the shard."

"Odd business, that." Duncan seemed to frown, because his voice always betrayed his expression. Of course, everyone in Neverwinter knew about the odd murder. It was the talk of the town – Bishop didn't care. It actually brought him some degree of satisfaction, because it was like knocking down two birds with one stone. Not only was some annoying noble dead, but this Neliel, this niece of Duncan's, thus had no way of doing what she had apparently traveled for weeks to do. "And it had to happen at the worst time, too, with the district closed and all that."

"Don't worry. I'm just glad to have a roof over my head for a change." Some degree of honesty was in her words. And if she really was from the Mere, then the seedy little inn had to seem like Nasher's palace to her.

"It takes time getting used to the open air." Duncan said blithely, as if he assumed that his niece would be able to handle anything and everything. "You'll need some clean clothes, I'll wager, and some real rest."

The mental image of the elf girl in the clothing Duncan's meager funds could supply was a bit tempting, but it was obvious that she'd wrinkle her nose at such garb, peasant or not. Elves of any kind simply had that in-born arrogance in them that prevented them from appreciating practical clothing for its uses – except for swamp druids, it seemed. "I bought a spare robe at Fort Locke, but I'd appreciate getting my armor washed. I probably look like a hermit wizard, don't I?" Yes, there it was – the defeated expression. Vanity. Not much… but there.

"No more than the rest of the docks. Neverwinter ain't as much of a pure gem as the bards would have you believe. But you'll see yourself in the morning. Besides, compared to Sand, I'd guess you re a court wizard!"

And, of course, compliments were the way to get into the good books of any woman – or under her skirts, but that wasn't the case with this one. "I was kind of hoping to see Cloaktower and the mage's academy during my first visit to Neverwinter, but this will do for now." That was more down-to-earth than he had expected. Perhaps all elves should move to swamps and have their egos get a solid beating. It seemed to do some good to this one.

"Well, the docks don't see too much of the arcane, except for Sand, of course, not that the little viper's much help with restoring order."

"Still, he seemed capable, once you got past his ego." Neliel noted, obviously recalling the image of the moon elf's sharp face and sharper tongue.

The innkeeper shook his head once more. "I'm letting that slide because you don't know what kind of vermin you can come across round here. you're just getting swayed by two-edged flattery. Be mindful of fair-weather charms in the city, Nell."

"I'll remember that." For the first time during the whole conversation, she seemed to notice that they were being observed and her eyes slowly traveled the room before resting on him. Neither of them gave any change of expression – there was just the single moment when their eyes met, like two clashing blades. Danger, the sound of the weapons vibrated. Both felt it. And then, Neliel looked back at her uncle and grinned like a little girl. "But hey, maybe it's just nice to meet a wizard who isn't out to kill me. I'll stop by that shop of his sometime. I need a few spare wands and my ingredients will run out soon enough."

"Just remember what I told you about not paying in advance. If he tries any merchant tricks on you, tell me and I'll set him straight." Duncan warned, blissfully oblivious to what had happened a second before that. and it was for the best – Bishop really wasn't in the mood to listen to the innkeeper spawn some rubbish about keeping away from his niece, which, if he had seen them look at each other, even for a second, would have been inevitable but unnecessary.

Anything connected to Duncan could inspire only hatred in the ranger, even his niece, who had the potential for inspiring lust and contempt both.

"I know how to toss fireballs, no worries, uncle." An archetypical mage – overconfident and arrogant, but clearly a goodie-two-shoes on the outside. Still, she was the best thing to look at in the room, unless you had a fetish for dirt-covered druidesses. Which, mercifully, he didn't.

"Very well, lass. Now, come on!" With a bit of force, Duncan got to his feet. Apparently, the initial interrogation was over and he finally understood that the Mere was really quite far from Neverwinter, thus the journey must have been very long and, judging by Neliel's clothing and the faint bloodstains on her sword, not entirely a field trip. "Daeghun would take my ears as a trophy if he found out that I didn't show a guest and kin at that a room!"

"Uncle, I'm sorry to be imposing on you like this…" She was saying it because she felt the need to say it, felt guilty not saying it, not because she actually meant it – she wasn't sorry, at least, not as sorry as she would have wanted to be.

But Duncan waved it all away without a second thought. The discovery of his niece brought him clear joy, which was a very good reason for hatred for the woman. "Nonsense, Nell, nonsense! You're more than welcome here – you and your friends:"

"I'll say!" The tiefling woman appeared nearby; apparently, she had also eavesdropped on the conversation. "It sure is nice to be back in Neverwinter with a fire to return to."

"Just keep your hands to yourself, tiefling, and we'll be fine." The dwarf retorted while taking hold of another keg.

Those two obviously didn't get alone well, which, considering the tiefling's shrill and annoying voice and the dwarf's bravado, was easy to understand. Both had the air of honest idiots around them, though they were probably good in a fight, if no one else was around. Bishop really couldn't imagine another reason why Neliel would keep them around other than that she didn't wasn't to dirty her hands with swordwork. But her own sword clearly didn't lack use, either.

"Looks like height isn't the only thing you're short of, Khelgar. I don't bite the hand that feeds me. I'm not stupid enough to…"

"What I meant to say was that I'm willing to help out or at least give you a coin or two once in a while." The words came out of her with obvious difficulty. "For everything."

"I wouldn't be having my own kin paying to stay with family! No, no, lass, keep yer gold. I wager you'll be needing it soon enough. Besides, making the docks a safer place is just payment in my eyes. Besides, a future Cloaktower mage has no call to play a tavern wench!"

The thought of the mage with her hair down, in a low-cut dress, a rag in her hand and plates of food in the other, was ridiculous – thus amusing – but also tempting, in a way, a sweetness that was enhanced by the fact that it would certainly be to her own humiliation. It was not to be, clearly, but it was an entertaining fantasy.

In the hour or so she had been in the in, the little mage had managed to entertain by simply being there and talking, which was saying something. If nothing else, Bishop decided to keep an eye on her. as long as she remained entertaining, she would live. Because a wonderful plan was forming itself in his head, involving the complete repaying of his debt to Duncan – a death for a death that should have been. Killing Duncan would never have been satisfying, because then, the innkeeper would have eternal piece.

Killing Neliel… killing a woman Duncan was obviously attached to immediately… that was an idea. That was a plan.

But before that, he intended to let her run rampant and do whatever she had come to do. If she remained interesting, he would be able to wait. Besides, there could be no greater blow to Duncan and his conscience if he managed to bed the proud she-elf in the process – which also wasn't an idea not worth considering. After all, even filth could shine for a moment.

"Perhaps." This time, Bishop wasn't looking at her, but he felt that for the briefest second, against her will, perhaps or out of simple caution, Neliel's eyes strayed back to him. "Goodnight, uncle."

Run, prey. Run and hide and struggle. But I will find you.

A precious trophy that would be a means to an end. Prey. Hunter.

One day, he would stand over her corpse with satisfaction.

"Aye, goodnight, Nell."

Not in his wildest dreams did he expect that months later, in a faraway citadel of stone, it would be her image haunting and hunting him. And that eventually, he would lose the will to run.