This fic is inspired by Aeryn's great mod. I avoid direct quotation, yet there will be similar themes and dialogues.

I mostly stick to vanilla game events, though I place accents a bit differently. I might also quote vanilla game from time to time. There will be no happy ending, please be warned.

I edited the beginning yet again, it should be much cleaner now.

Rated for language and adult themes in later chapters.

Hope you'll enjoy it!

Sours and sweets

She stumbled upon them nearby the camp: orange and fig trees and apricots; branches heavy with ripe, sun-kissed fruits, earth covered by overripe ones, a feast for flies, bees and birds. So many colors, vivid, almost palpable: green and bright orange, pinkish, brown, clear blue, dark tree bark.

Fruits that good would have costed a fortune back North, and here they were, a treasure grove, a secret corner, where life prevails over all, and neither war nor death can stop their growth.

Reila stood, marveling silently, for a long time, before she grabbed a round, warm orange in her palm, enjoying the smell. The whole grove smelled of sweetness and leaves with a sharp orange undertone, and she closed her eyes and enjoyed it. It takes careful and mindful focus to be here, to enjoy, for a being like her – to silence the call of taint, worries and tasks.

But she mastered it over time to perfection.

Slowly, she took off the peel from the first orange and licked a juice drop from the opened slice. She ate them slowly, focusing in this moment, taking effort to feel and remember. Now, she exists only in here and now, while there are still some sweets in her life; now, for this is the only moment she can snatch form fates and gods and death; now, for this is the only moment she can choose.

She carries them back to the camp in the hem of her shift, lips swollen and red, face and hands stained and sticky, hair in disarray.

"You won't believe it," she says when she approaches the camp.

"Tell me you didn't eat unknown fruits in the middle of the drow forest," Viconia hisses, looking at Reila's juice-stained face.

"I did and it was delicious, thank you," Reila licks her lips, sticky from sweet juice.

"You're unbelievable, abbil," the drow rolls her eyes while Immy and Jan come closer, grabbing the fruits she brought.

"Those are the best oranges I've ever tasted, Viconia, stop scowling and try it."

"I wonder if they will go well with the rabbit we have," Jan grabs the largest, reddest fruit, palming it curiously.

"Minsc, toss me your helmet, I'll put the fruits there and you can wash it later."

She walks, careful not to drop her precious load, towards Minsc and Sarevok, who have just returned from scouting the nearby area, both in full armor still, and Boo jumps on her knees, sniffing fruits suspiciously.

"Minsc, take one, too, before they're all chewed by Boo," Reila smiles, seeing the giant space hamster squeak.

"We don't have the likes in Rashemen, and they smell suspicious to Boo, too, look at his whiskers!"

"Even the rodent thinks it's better to see if you are all alive in an hour before trying them."

Sarevok is frowning - but when he is not frowning? - as he starts to take his armor off.

"There won't be any left in an hour," Reila says, still waiting for Minsc to give her a helmet to be used as a plate. "And if you frown some more, your face will get paralyzed."

"How do you manage to stay alive behaving like 8-year-old for all your might is a mystery to me."

Maybe he wanted to sound full of contempt and declare he despises childish behavior, yet it turned out neither insult nor compliment - a distant wonder, an attempt to puzzle out a completely alien being.

The helmet lands near her and she puts fruits in it, trying to shake off the juice-drenched edge of her robe. The robe sticks to her legs, and she stops her futile attempts and takes herself another apricot, trying to interest Boo in it.

For a brief moment, she thinks that Sarevok is staring at her strangely a lot for a simple disapproval.

But her day is sweet with oranges and figs, despite all the visions and prophesies and dreams coming closer and closer, and she must carve such days in her memory, while she still has a chance, and oh she will use all her stubbornness to do so.

Later that night, she sits by the fire, itching her fingers ferociously, while Jan on watch duty, humors her with the best stories about his nephews and she giggles so loudly Immy can't sleep.

Jan changes shifts with Sarevok in two hours, though, when her elbows itch bloody and Reila knows sleep is not one of her options today.

"They were good, though," she states defensively, noticing his look.

"A merchant visited Candlekeep once, who brought oranges. The price was unreasonable, but I've been helping scribes and had some savings, so I spent all I had on buying one. It was so sour it made my teeth ache, so I swore a solemn vow that someday I would travel to an orange field or a farm or whatever it's called and eat a dozen sweet ones."

Sarevok sits near her, expression flat.

"Rieltar used to have exotic fruits at important dinners," he mutters distantly and heavy silence falls between them.

Because each talk about the past is a brush against old scars and the fragile peace between them starts cracking as if about to break.

"I read a book about Calimshan once," she says, just to fill the silence and take her mind off past. "It had a chapter about local fruits, with small black drawings in the corners and crazy descriptions. Peaches intrigued me the most, they were described as "a delight most desired by tired lips, sweet as a beautiful woman's kiss, given under the full moon". That sounds like something worth, doesn't it?"

She lets her voice fill the silence, because casual jesting is what she's good at.

His gaze is fixed on her face, lingering on her lips.

Reila is tempted to ask him if he's ever tried peaches, but hesitates, in fear Rieltar brought peaches the night Sarevok's step mother died - and she's not the type to step on someone's pains and past unprovoked.

"Tell me about it," he asks abruptly, stretching his ridiculously long legs.

"Peaches?"

"Candlekeep."

The itchy night ahead is long and having a conversation distracts her from her elbows, so Reila just shrugs her shoulders. They've already had this talk, when he stated it did her good to leave Candlekeep and she only laughed, if a bit bitterly. Because come on, it was never a choice for her or him that days, what's the point in justifying or condemning it now?

The wheels are turning, we are trying hard not to drown.

"I believe you've been there more than once? As Koveras, I mean. Gods above, I still can't believe I couldn't puzzle out that nickname in five seconds. Has anyone told you, you lack creative approach?"

"I almost conquered a nation, I remind you."

"That's a tactical mind, not creativity. Still, you must have visited Candlekeep, we have... used to have the most complete collection of Alaundo's prophesies told by three dozen magicians."

She wondered from time to time: did they actually meet before all the doom, gloom and prophesies? She was a scribe, she used to attend visitors often and now she does not even remember them all, only the oddest examples. A merchant from Tethir who spent two dozen days comparing all the copies of "Lustful dragon maiden" and pointing out inaccuracies to her.

A noble girl from Watedeep who painted almost all pages in a copy of "Wonders and Travels", and the drawings were so good no one charged her for damage.

Maybe somewhere among the countless faces and hands was the face of the man whom she gave a copy of "Alaundo's foretells"? Asked him to wash his hands before reading, not tearing her eyes from the catalogue, and wished him a good day?

She is silent for a while.

Odd how things turned out. How life curves and twists, and how them two managed to find themselves here, sitting by the same fire. How wheels turn and bring you where you couldn't have imagined.

He looks like he is thinking something similar, expression strange and thoughtful.

A year ago, if they were this close to each other, one of them would surely be dead.

Two months (or is it already three or more?) ago, he witnessed her casting the high magic spell for the first time and was looking disturbingly exited, hunger almost palpable on his face.

A month ago, their conversations begun to resemble talks more than a verbal form of a duel.

A couple of weeks ago, he told her, bitter and full of some hidden anger, that perhaps she was right in believing none of them ever had a choice.

An hour ago, they ate from the same bowl. Now they are sitting here in silence, and for both of them the past is a corpse pile and nothing to return to, yet the present is just two people sitting by the fire.

One may believe it was all for greater good or for worse, but Reila thinks that it simply was and now it is all gone and there is no point in dwelling. Her «now» is too short as it is.

No need to scratch old scars until they start to bleed again.

She shouldn't have thought about scratching. She scratches her elbow again, too stubborn to ask Viconia for a soothing balm or a healing spell. The drow will mock her to no end.

"So tell me about these exotic fruits, which are the best?"

He's hesitating for a moment, expression guarded and flat. As if he expected everything, anything and not this simple question.

Still, he answers.

"When I was a kid, I used to snatch little green apples from an old fruit merchant. Very sour, as you can imagine. Mighty and rich are not served sour apples, Reila. Only the sweetest and the reddest."

"Sour apple person, really? I never thought you existed, oh creature of myths. Still, why couldn't you buy yourself some back at Baldur's Gate, you were quite rich I assume?"

"It never seemed important enough to bother."

He snorts while she itches, and Reila thinks that sour apple person is but a step away from just person, and person is something she never would have thought to find in him, yet did.

"Take my bottle of healing potion, I have some left, and stop this irritating sound," he snaps, perhaps meaning to sound irritated, but failing.

Reila looks at the man, but his expression closed and unreadable now.

She takes the offer, though, and it doesn't help.

oxoxoxoxox

"We would have greeted you with sticks as you, mercenary folk, deserve, if not for the holiday. The goddess welcomes travelers."

An elder woman waves at her, offering her another stinky strong drink, but Reila had quite enough - full, drunk, she refuses, getting up from the table and retreating to a quiet corner of the yard.

The village is poor and small, two streets and a dozen houses, and they indeed were lucky to arrive at the time of the goddess' celebration, to receive not the usual wary glances and sticks, but offered food, drink and shelter.

"Your way of celebrating is just putting the tables here, drinking all night and singing? No fancy rituals?"

"The priest will say some speeches once everyone is drunk and no one can interrupt him," the elder shrugs her shoulders. "It's enough for our goddess."

"Such a nice goddess, eh?" Jan tells her, drunk and trying to pry the secret of the lizard hunting device they've seen.

And she agrees, diving into a foreign holiday in a foreign country.

She tastes all the food, bit by bit, spitting out the too-spicy meat, she drinks a glass of the rubbish they poured in one gulp, and now her head is light, and her step is slightly unsteady. Two old men with drums and a pipe, who seemed the minions of Hell to her at first, out of tune on every note, began to sound like music. Immi sits in the circle of local guys and laughs, showing them card tricks, Minsc has allowed a young round-faced girl to stroke Boo - oh, that's not going anywhere, the girl just doesn't know the ranger is a babe at heart, - and the drow eats piece after piece of stuffed hot pepper. Reila was never as terrified as watching Viconia consume hot peppers stuffed with hotness.

Local girls swirl around Sarevok, his disinterest only drawing the attempts more daring. Thinking she is now too drunk for enchanted rings and "don't drink and cast" rule must be held true, she approaches him - he's the best to guard the jewelry, always keeping to himself.

"You've managed to get yourself drunk," Sarevok states, looking down at her.

"Blackout drunk," she nods merrily and reaches for his palm to give him her rings. "I couldn't waste such a good chance, could I? Killing liches is a banality, but getting drunk, dance, and fall asleep in a barn, that's a uniquest opportunity. Most unique. No way I'm passing that one. Know what? It's fabulous."

She wishes she could see his face now, but it's too dark.

"You drank a thimble."

"And how do you know? Maybe I emptied their monthly... All they had. While you were busy making local girls show off."

"Ah. You are jealous," his voice becomes lower, more round somehow, and she is too drunk to care that made her insides do funny things.

"Yes, you got all the pretty ones and I got an old crone who made me drunk. Share, next time."

"Did I hear dancing?" Jan emerges near them, finishing a sausage. "Who's dancing?"

"We are!"

Reila tries to curtsy, but being drunk and not knowing how to curtsy made that some strange leg waving, and the gnome bows to her, laughing.

Before she could drag - or be dragged, as she is slightly unsteady now - Jan to the dancers, Sarevok suddenly puts something round into her palm.

It feels funny, covered by fluff, soft and strange.

"It's a peach, Reila," he says in the same low voice.

"Ah, delight of tired lips, sweet as something kiss... I would have to find a kiss to conduct an ac.. accurate experiment. Maybe a few, to make results clean. Do you think Viconia will agree?"

"Say that again, please, so I can carve it in my memory and my imagination," Jan laughs, stepping away from Sarevok.

"Dancing, now," she shakes her head, chewing on the sweet fruit.

"I owe you," she waves at Sarevok.

She couldn't dance even sober, and so did Jan, but no one seems to care. She lets her hair loose, waves her hips, clasps her hands and laughs along with the gnome. Drums are bearing not the intimidating sound of war, but an exciting rhythm that makes her heart pump faster, and now, now is the moment to be merry, laughing and drunk, and stars in the sky light up and go beyond the horizon while she wishes them good night.

"So tell me," Jan asks her, when they sat, trying to even their breath, by the fence near the remaining dancers. "What's the story between you and the big bad wolf? I know the general storyline, yes, but what's a good story without details?"

"Are you hoping to take advantage of me being in this state and make me tell stupid things I'll regret?"

"But of course," the gnome pats her hand.

"Usual fun. Lots of dark past and trying to kill each other. You know that already. Is it strange that he is actually a person, now that he is untainted? A real person, you know, and not just spiky armor. You can talk with that person and maybe even listen. And maybe we can get along. As persons. And is there a word untainted?"

"And daggers stopped flowing around you two for quite some time since the Marching Mountains, and I sense something else flying there instead. Butterflies, maybe?"

"Flies, more likely, attracted to all the shit. Maybe weeks in the volcano area crawling with fire giants did the trick. You know, all the camaraderie and eating from the same bowl."

"Eating's the most important part," Jan nodded. "And you call this complicated. Complicated was a story about my third sister's friend, she had a son who fell in love with a beautiful gnome girl, only to find out she's from the rivals family. Turnip market is dead competition, you see. And then he learned he killed her brother and their families are on eternal vendetta now."

"And have they got married and made you a dozen gnomish nephews?" she asks, lids heavy.

"No, she feigned death to run from her family, but he thought she died for reals and stabbed himself, and then she woke up and stabbed herself. Lots of tears, you know."

"Such a joyful tale," she mutters. "Why are you telling me this?"

The gnome hugs her slightly, looking older, concerned and warm.

"People find themselves drawn to each other in worse situations, my girl. Especially when they're persons."

"That's because people are stupid beings. And I am a sleepy stupid being now."

"I'm going to try and chase the man with the lizard-fishing device, before he falls asleep," Jan gets up, "but people can change."

"I don't. I'm inclined to keep the silly girl part, I like her the most."

She must have dozed off, because she wakes up when pulled by Viconia. Reila recognizes her by the scar on the palm, without opening her eyes.

"Are you still alive after eating all that or are you undead drow priestess now? Put me down, though, I'm not going anywhere."

The drow tries to pull again, but Reila resists, too sleepy to move and perfectly comfortable.

Viconia sighs.

"Are you going to get up? I have quite the selection of unpleasant methods."

"I am not. And if you want unpleasant, you can always eat some more of that hellish pepper. Now go away, I am fulfilling my geass to sleep in a barn."

"Carry her to bed, jaluk."

Of course he won't, whoever he is, Reila thinks and curls in a ball with her elbow as her pillow.

But in few moments of peaceful sleep she is lifted up and carried from her cozy little nest.

Reila opens her eyes to see Sarevok is actually carrying her to the house and protests.

"Stop squirming or I'll drop you."

"Can you drop me into a haystack? I can't be indoors in that heat, I'll vomit."

Irritated, he sighs but, to her surprise, turns to the left and places her on a huge bale of dry grass.

The haystack of her dreams turns out to be thick, itchy and tickling, but Reila is so sleepy she doesn't care.

"It's my way of saying "fuck you" to all the gods and destiny and shit. They made a tragic storyline and are dragging me through it, but I'll jest, dance and sleep drunk in a haystack, because these are things they can't foretell or carve into my fate. So fuck them. At least that I'll have and that's my own."

She is sure he's long gone and is surprised to hear his voice above her head, quiet and bitter.

"You must think I'm lucky to have a second chance then, free as you put it."

"I think you and I are cut from the same clothing. Cloth. Whatever. Maybe we are both persons and not destinies in flesh. At least I try to. Maybe you should give me tips about Abyss, you know, all the best places to be tortured eternally. But I'm luckier now. More lucky. I have danced my ass off and I have my haystack."

"Sleep, Reila."

Dozing off, she feels an insect bite her leg and then something covering her.

oxoxoxoxox

"Why are we always choosing lousy rocks against your pocket plane, remind me?"

"Because I like to visit places, sis. What is it that you're doing, actually?"

Reila stands looking puzzled at the scene.

Two tiny golems, red and blue, are pulling on a rope, trying to get each other cross the line drawn in the center of the "ring". Jan smiles affably at her without breaking his focus, when his golem – the blue one - knocks Immy's creature off its feet with a jerk and tries to pull it.

Boo jumps into the ring, sniffing the illusory golems, whiskers twitching.

"Boo, that's our golem, don't try to eat him," Immy focuses as she sets her golem back on feet.

"He's come to help and lift his spirit! Go, golem, now go and kick some butts!"

"I'm choosing the blue one," Reila waves her finger, giving the blue golem glowing blue eyes.

Viconia is sitting in the opposite corner, giving sharp comments from time to time, while they all are gathered in the common room of her pocket plane. Reila loathes having her own plane, but eventually gave up to Immy pleases and teleported them for the night.

Sarevok feigns disinterest, occasionally giving Immy tactic advices very carefully wrapped in insults.

Boo stays on the ring, making it now a game where the first illusionary golem eaten by the giant space hamster loses.

"By the way, the apples you bought suck. They are so sour it made my tooth ache," Immy comments when her creature narrowly escapes Boo's curious mouth.

"There are good ones, from Calimshan, look in the bags. I got the green ones for quarter the price."

"The merchant should have paid you to get rid of them. Come on, nobody really likes sour apples, people eat them out of desperation."

Reila creates the third golem - it looks clumsy, as she's not an illusionist, but breathes fire. She practically feels a pair of dark eyes peering into her, but does not turn.

Persons sometimes do something for other persons. Taint and doom aside.

"Ready to be bested, you two?"

"Clear the ring, Boo, let's give them an honest challenge! I'll cheer for you, Reila."

"We are the mightiest butt-kickers there is, Minsc," she laughs, as her tiny golem bows before his rivals.

Useless and good for nothing sour apples are gone by the time they leave. Reila doesn't ask where, though.

oxoxoxoxox

The waters of the lake are mirror black. Black sand is soft under her hands, as she sits by the edge of the water, looking at the shimmering ghosts standing above its surface.

The ghosts are her copies. A short haired redhead with coal-black glowing eyes without whites, her laugh reeking of madness, wearing a black robe with Bhaal's skull embroidered on her chest. Heavily scarred, broken girl stands on her knees, looking pleadingly, whispering she would give up anything to be dead, to rest in peace. A red-robed sorceress with a cold face looks at her with hate and contempt.

"You know you will end up the same."

"You know the end is near."

"We will all end dust."

Ghosts, ghosts, echoes and visions, and echoes of visions of ghosts. She just hates her plane. Not only she feels it, as if it's her who has the floor, and walls, and pools, décor that changes slightly to her desires and moods, feeling Minsc's heavy steps or Immy's soft hand on the wall as if a distant touch to her own skin, but her accursed visions flourish here.

Especially here, at the black beach, when she is too tired to block them.

"You should sing it. Make a chorus and sell tickets, "the doomy show of doom." You'll end up broke, though."

"There's no point in denying us."

"Give up."

"Give up and do what you must."

"Go fuck yourselves," she tells lightly, stirring up the water with her foot.

The ghosts crumble to dust, golden, then dark, then black, disappear, as she sits, head splitting from pain. She bends to touch the water, face sad, her alone face, only-for-myself face, pain crawling inside her head like a snake with a spiked tail.

The only good thing, the pain distracts her from feeling like a common room.

She touches the water surface, and a strange vision appears: a large burial urn, yellow and green, painted with sunflower field below the sky the brightest shade of blue.

"At least you're soothing," she tells the urn, caressing the water surface.

"I thought the visions of yours would be more... informative."

Reila heard, felt his steps long before he approached the beach room. He must have heard her bickering with ghosts, too, but she is just too tired to care.

Reila turns to him and tilts her head up to look Sarevok in the eyes. The man stands by the entrance, towel at hands, looking at her with intense interest.

"You've received all the exciting part, I told you that before. I only got this chorus. Boring song, you know, good old 'fuel the prophesy and die'."

"Yes, " he answers, lips pursed tightly, jaw clenched. "I was promised power."

She is silent, both from pain and unwillingness to deal with this subject again. Of all their fights (talks? Shouting sessions, where two stubborn persons try hard to stand their ground instead of listening?) the prophesy was the hottest one and the only one when she shouted at him, too. The one time she couldn't jest back or waltz out of this conversation, her own hidden anger and resentment busted out in hot angry words.

It was back in the Marching Mountains, and for some reason, after that talk they slowly started communicating and not yelling. He was urging her to seek their sire's power once more and she decided to close the subject once and for all and told him the truth. That the mighty servant of gods confirmed that she, Reila, has no whatsoever place in Alaundo's foretells and her role is to stop the foretells from becoming reality. She also told him, she thinks Sarevok was probably meant to lead this Five lot or at least be a part of it, at the very beginning of it all.

She is but a device made by gods to prevent undesirable outcome of Bhaal's plans, and they both have as much choice in these matters as dancing puppets. Perhaps, that is the reason he became aware long before the time was ripe and never met Amellissan, to be wiped out of the picture before the grand game starts. Perhaps, that is the reason she was placed at Candlekeep, as a pawn at the start of the chess match.

"Why are telling me this?!" his anger lashed, hot and loud, while she hadn't even flinched.

She knew the feeling well enough. One is lessened by even the suggestion they are nothing more than someone's handy tool.

"You think I need you to remind me of my failures?!"

"If I were you, I would rather think I was fucked by fate rather than I made my life a 'failure' with my own hands. This way, there's a chance for improvement at least."

"I don't care what do you think, you fool! You think I need petty comforts from you?!"

"Comfort?!" she laughed, then, staring him straight in the eyes. "I envy you. All of our so-called siblings, and you more than anyone. You know the difference between bending a sapient being to your will and just putting a collar on your dog? You may think someone is lesser than you, yet you will at least try and persuade them, lure them in, give them an illusion of choice. When you were owned by the taint, you didn't feel the slave collar around your neck, you were at least able to call it your ambitions. I'm being dragged in this shit fully aware, that's far more humiliating. I am stripped of every illusion and I was told plain and straight I was created to stop the prophesy and I will, even if I decide to leave for Rashemen tomorrow. And believe me, I am promised no power or ascension, nothing to sweeten the deal, only orders and tugging by the collar! Maybe that makes your life a failure, but mine, then, is but a joke. And not my joke, fuck, I hate it."

"It was my choice and mine alone. My ambitions led me to a failure and to death in the end, but of this I assure you, every last bit of my plans were designed by me and not gods, and if I had a slightest chance to claim our father's throne now, I would do it," he almost spitted the words to her face.

"Because you, you all I mean, were lured in, enough to believe there's actually something to fight for, but all I got were whips on my back. Although, what's the difference how sweet all the promises were, if all you get in the end is a fine grave, doesn't it? At least I know what I'm dragged into. You know what that shining lady called you? Fuel. Your siblings fueling the prophecy, she said. At least I'm not having illusions it's my choice to be a human-shaped log!"

The conversation ended up as he walked away, fuming, and they avoided each other for days. She regretted the words she didn't want to spill and he didn't want to listen to, and didn't like the fact he had driven her that far out of her usually good self-control, but meant them nevertheless.

She would have preferred to keep the words to herself, as she usually did, but still thought it might do him good to try and see the truth.

Still, he is smart man (despite being an idiot). He saw them in plenty in Saradush and later in their journey, young, brawny and sure of their immortality; same speeches, and same cravings, and same death.

Like a fly who is sure it was her own choice to die in the flame.

Maybe, without the taint it was harder not to see them.

They have never touched the subject since, but she watched as days went by how his anger faded out to bitterness and then became anger again, to finally settle into a mixture of both. She put on her usual jesting face and avoided further escalation. He started to ask her, what is it she craves for, if not power, and seemed to be trying to listen. Reila focused on the little things, not willing to stir the hidden depths of her own wounded pride and anger anymore, and still doesn't understand why this conversation was the turning point towards an improvement and not a grave.

Not long ago, she heard him telling Viconia, that after being a servant to the taint in the past, he will never give up his will to whims of another being, be it a deity or mortal.

"What is it your visions tell about then?" he asks now, expression flat.

"Death," she answers simply, looking at the urn.

For a while they are both silent, as she tries to compose herself and get up, and suddenly he asks, calm and composed.

"Are you afraid of it?"

"Not eager, but I've seen visions of it far too often to be afraid anymore," she gestures to the ghost urn above the water. Sarevok comes near, looking at the urn with eyebrows frowned, tense and calculated.

"What is that?"

"My urn," Reila tells him casually. "Don't worry, I'll take it with me as I go, you can have your swim without my ghosts."

"Your... urn?" Sarevok's gaze darts to her, and he must be truly stunned, frowning even deeper.

"My burial urn in Athcatla graveyards, yes. I wish it could be Candlekeep, but I take what I can get."

Sarevok just stands, looking at her, apparently at a loss of words. Whatever he could have expected, her having a burial urn painted with sunflowers was not amongst the list. She would have laughed, had she not been this tired.

She actually managed to leave this man speechless, after all the hard effort.

"You know there's no really telling if all those "die-die-die" visions are true. Maybe I'll win my fight for a right to walk away, maybe they are true and then I'm pile of dust in some dragon's maw. But, worst come to worst, at least I got my losing option to be done my way. So, I bought the nicest urn, paid a local artist to paint it - I think it's so good it should be exhibited somewhere, by the way - then bought a nice place at the graveyard, facing east. You can't rent it, you know? I thought maybe I could rent a place, but one can only buy a burial site, maybe that's because you're not supposed to move once you're resting there."

"It wouldn't matter to you, once you're dead," he states, not tearing his eyes from her urn, still not able to comprehend the fact she actually bought herself a burial urn.

"It wouldn't," she agrees. "Yet, that way even my worst outcome is done in style. My way, at least in something. My urn is great, you should visit it sometime, I highly recommend it."

And with that, she leaves the room, taking her ghosts, and her urn, and her headache with her.

English is not my native language, but I hope it turned out not that terrible.

It will contain 10 chapters, I hope to finish it soon, if life allows me

I'm mostly focused on the point when all three obligatory talks with Sarevok are already done (the moment when he starts to think and rethink and the alignment change might happen), because I can't do them better than Aeryn or vanilla game. I'm not going to make Sarevok change alignment per se, mostly because I think people don't change that much and Reila is not in the bad or good guys team, she has only one team, her own. There will a lot of party members in the later chapters, because I love them ) I hope I managed to find a balance between sweet and funny and dramatic in this story.

Oh, and there might be some lore alterations, for no reason but (hopefully) better scenes. And lots of talks with little action )