XX: Hold Your Ground, Bide Your Time
With blood trickling down his hands, Bishop contemplated life.
Or, rather, different ways to end one.
Bare flesh slippery against his fingers, he rolled the skinned rabbit in his palm, grabbing its backbone firmly, and forced the knife up, ripping the belly open and suppressing an urge to grit his teeth. Hells be witness, he hated skinning with this knife. The handle was too smooth, slipping in the grip when the blade tried to cut through something thicker than mere flesh. Even more irritating was that he had got used to his old skinning knife so much that was constantly forgetting he didn't have it anymore – right until it got down to skinning. And by then it was too late to curse himself for not finding a suitable substitute.
His lips curled to the side in a smirk when he pictured dragging the thrice-damned blade through the gullet of the swampgirl – where it would certainly get stuck in the neck-bone – and nodding at her dark-blue eyes widening in pain and horror above his hand clasping her mouth and stained with her own blood: See, princess, my former skinning knife would have done that quicker, cleaner and nearly painless.
It was stupid, he knew, getting attached to a piece of metal and wood – yet he had, during long years. And every time he was forced to work with another blade, he honestly considered the lost knife to be much more valuable than the sorry pale hide of his 'leader'.
On the other hand, the irritating skinning was his own choice. Rabbits were not really needed – the camp was supposed to be short, without any fire to kindle and, therefore, any hot meal to prepare. But scouting and checking the traps he kept in these parts was a wonderful mean of getting some fresh air after playing happy family with the freak circus. Not to mention that scouting was neither needed. The lands around Port Llast, so close to Neverwinter, had always been secure enough. And the road there, even the back-one they took to avoid the main, he could follow almost blindly. After all, the town was the most usual transshipment point in his smuggling routes between Luskan and Neverwinter. It has been a while since he had any job in that sphere, though, after Moire and her goons – his best customers – were dealt with in the Docks. Still, it was amusing in its own twisted way that now he was working for exactly the person who had done it. The person who had Luskans at her throat to the pile.
Never the one for philosophical pondering (not on sober head, at least), Bishop could still discern the irony of Fate when it was cocking a snook so blatantly at his face.
Amusing as all Hells, indeed.
Wonder if the wizard is as amused.
During two agonizingly long years of his living under the 'Flagon's roof, Bishop had more than enough of the pompous elven smartass from the nearest shop – and even in his nightmares he couldn't imagine he would end up being saddled with him on the road. It was not only about his imperious manners, which would have seemed rather pathetic coming from a skinny donkey-eared stick – would have, if it wasn't accompanied by some slimy slithering feeling the ranger had around him, some unsettling sensation at the very edge of his instincts, a sensation he learnt to trust more than anything. He knew a hornet's nest when he saw one, even if it pretended to be a humble shopkeeper. It seemed, the wizard did, too – so until this forced union under the banner of the swampgirl they had both done a great job of pretending the other didn't exist and kept away from each other, as if afraid to catch some incurable disease.
The ranger had his suspicions what that disease was. After all, Luskan stench was as clinging as smell of moss on their village-murdering half-breed.
Well, here I beat them – I have both.
Bishop smirked down mirthlessly at the rabbit, which stared back at him in blank glassy eyes, and twisted his knife, cutting the rabbit's bowel out of its opened gut with much more vehemence than was rightfully needed.
Not that the dead cared, anyway.
His eye caught a glimpse of movement at the tree-line, and soon enough Karnwyr padded silently towards him, limp meaty form of another rabbit hanging from his mouth, spine already snapped by the wolf's jaws clenched tightly around its neck. Dropping his prey on the grass near Bishop, he cocked his furry head, staring at the ranger, and the ranger gazed back at him, not for the first time realizing how blessed he was with a mute companion. Holding his stare, the wolf slowly tilted his head to the other side, as if mocking, and Bishop couldn't help but grin.
"Too generous, don't you think?" he murmured, putting away the rabbit he was finished with, and tucked the knife into the neck of the brought one, deep enough to lift it from the ground by the handle. Karnwyr followed the rabbit with his eyes, almost like considering whether, indeed, he should have eaten it instead of bringing, then sniffed dismissively and dumped himself on the grass, his languid laziness suggesting he was full already.
Still grinning, Bishop sliced the hide of the rabbit. Generous or not, to dry some meat in advance seemed like a good idea – would save him the risk of hunting and eating the things that inhabited Duskwood.
And keep me on this nicely quiet and empty clearing for a bit longer…
He had enough experience with working as a scout for one bunch of travellers or the other – but it was the first time he recalled that he ended up being involved. Whether it was the bloody gnome who seemed to live to keep someone a company, the sorceress whining about something that didn't please her Tiny Majesty again, the tiefling and the dwarf arguing about this or that, the silent ever-present watchful gaze of the druidess – every thing constantly reminded him that there was a reason he usually preferred to work alone. There was something to say about the wench and her nerve, if she managed to put up with all of her horde on daily basis. In her shoes the ranger would have gladly fed at least the gnome to Karnwyr – though he had a sick suspicion that even during that the runt would be whistling merry tunes.
Or I can skin him, dismember and present as a game, - he mused. – Half of the imbeciles won't make one piece of flayed meat from another, anyway.
Generally he had no problems with ignoring anyone around, but even his indifference had its limits. And the more time he spent with the band, the more he felt like a victim of torture, the one who got small droplets of water dripping on their sinciput for days and, eventually, driving them crazy. More and more often Bishop seriously considered if his decision of casting his lot with the bunch was an attempt to jump higher than his head was.
Surprisingly enough, the two-coloured minx was unfazed, neither by constant bickering and whining on the way nor by the way itself, as if she had already cleaned her pretty hands back to their whiteness and got drunk to celebrate. Out of sheer curiosity Bishop even felt interested what had the wizard shoved into those little pointy ears of hers that made her so placid and confident. Like Luskans would give a rat's ass about some trial or its results. If they wanted her, they would get her. One way or the other.
But it was her funeral, after all. And if she wanted to trust her neck into the hands of Neverwinter, elven worm and their 'justice' – she was in her full right to be a cretin. Bishop was never the one to stop people from dying when they made so much effort. Besides, he was pretty sure he would take quite a pleasure from giving Duncan a condolatory pat on the shoulder.
…if she dies, of course…
All in all, Bishop didn't care whether the girl would end her life on the gallows or poked onto the point of assassins' blade. The thing was, he too much enjoyed getting to Luskans – and yet another possibility, even in the person of an air-brained wench, was never a bad thing. Karnwyr, too, sometimes lashed on the packs of stray dogs, those that hung in the alleys of the city, near the back door of a tavern, waiting for a serving girl or a cook to throw them some leftovers from the meal. The wolf chased them away, and it was never because of the scraps – it was the mere pleasure of not allowing filthy mongrels to have what they craved for.
Besides, - he smirked at the new thought, – these particular scraps owe me quite a gulp.
His smirk widened at the memory of her clawlike glare back at the Flagon, almost palpable chill emanating from her – the same that started to ooze through her mild patient façade every time she smelled the situation was close to coming out of her control.
He got her there.
Though, surely, Her Swamp Highness was too fucking much of a Highness to admit it. But he knew he hit the mark – he always knew when he did. Bishop could nearly hear the sound of an arrow plunging right into the bull's-eye.
But he didn't press the issue, letting her slip away for the time. After all, the farther one gets, the more painful it is when the leash is jerked back. Maybe he would even manage to strangle Duncan's dear niece with it.
Eye for an eye, Duncan, - smirk turned into a sneer. – Nothing personal, really.
Finishing with the rabbits, Bishop wiped the knife against the grass, sliding it back into the boot-sheath, cupped some salt from the pouch, rubbed it generously into the fresh meat, leaving enough grains in a thick lair on the surface to draw out blood, and then wrapped the rabbits carefully into the cloth. Making sure that there was enough of viscera staying around for Karnwyr to snatch if he felt like it, Bishop got up to his feet, swung the sack with the venison on his shoulder and reached for the flask. After taking a large swig of malt whiskey, he glanced up at the sky to figure how much time they had before the light would start to fade, rolling the liquid in his mouth, allowing it to pinch the insides of his cheeks and the root of his tongue before swallowing. As the drink burnt its way down his throat, he felt better. The spirits washed away the bad taste in his mouth he had got at the thought of coming back to the camp and listening to the exchanges of the band he was travelling with. The paladin alone usually left him with the feeling he had chewed an old moldy bast wisp.
But still, as annoying as the bunch was, he chose to sit on his haunches and bide his time for a while – seeing how potentially profitable they turned out to be. It took him just a bit of pulling some contacts and dropping some coin to find out. The demon-girl already had a bounty on her horned head, all set and wrapped up, put by one of the city thieves, Leldon or whatever. The redhead obviously crapped things up in her Academy enough for possibility that someone there wouldn't mind seeing her dead. Not to mention that their 'leader' had enemies swarming towards her like flies to a decaying corpse.
Wherever you look from, there's plenty of reasons to keep her alive for a while.
So it didn't really matter how much of his nerves the idiots plucked – as long as he could always make it up for himself in something much more tangible and solid.
Metal.
With barest of smiles he closed his eyes so that his vision in no way overlapped other senses, and sniffed the air, thick with sea-salt mixed to forest scent. The rain was coming, that he could tell. Hopefully, they would be able to get to Port Llast before that.
Casting last look at Karnwyr, whose whole appearance showed that he was not coming with him, Bishop grinned at the wolf and started to mount the hill, inwardly wincing every time he came across the traces of their previous movement. Luckily, the girl had heeded his advice and left the horses behind, not to leave an obvious trail. But it appeared to be in vain, as the dwarf had a habit of cutting down the bushes and overgrowth that got in the way with his axe.
Maybe she'll take another reasonable advice and ditch some of her retinue in Port Llast.
Eh, wishful thinking. When it comes to the misfits, 'reason' disappears from her vocabulary.
Echoes of voices began to reach his ears soon enough, and almost involuntarily he strained his hearing, trying to discern the lilting drawl of his beloved squire, but she was silent. Instead he suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of steel on steel, sword grinding against the sword, and instinctively reached for his bow – but his hand froze in the air as the clanging was accompanied by the frustrated breathless groan of the blond farmwench, followed by the burst of laughter from the dwarf:
"Keepin' ya on yer toes, eh, lass?"
Bishop snorted, resuming his way. Another round of 'training' it was, obviously. Her Swamp Highness wasn't going to give up on a helpless cause anytime soon. But sliding between the trees, Bishop stopped in his tracks, seeing that it was the paladin this time who sparred with the farmgirl, both iron-clad figures rounding each other in a circle of trampled down grass.
A shame. He enjoyed watching their half-blooded princess doing tricks with her blade. Whoever trained her was surely worth their payment.
Not like she managed to pass it to her pupil, anyway, - he mused, following the swish of the farmgirl's sword with his eyes. – Well, at least, blondie doesn't look like she's trying to mow hay anymore.
He briefly scanned the band, everyone in place, all the soft spots of their leader. The dwarf was sitting in the grass, his back on the tree, watching the fight with evident delight – Hells, everything that included swinging weapon made him ecstatic. The tiefling and the druidess chatted about something in hushed voices. The mad runt, blissfully silent for a change, fiddled about with his lute. The wizard's eyes were also on the training, but he looked more like he was thinking… or sleeping… or even dying. The hot-headed backfisch tried desperately to rub away some dirt from her boots, taking place thoroughly aside from the elf.
One bloody happy family, indeed, - he smiled darkly to himself. - Such a nice target practice it could have been…
Ignoring a short acknowledging glance his arrival received from the wizard, Bishop came up to his belongings thrown under the tree and unwrapped the rabbits, tying them to the lower branch to dry-cure the meat a bit. The sorceress eyed the still dripping game, and wrinkled in disgust:
"What is that?"
"Your future dinner, tot," Bishop answered, wiping his hands from the blood and adjusting the gloves.
"And it's vital to put this bleeding muck in everyone's eyes?"
"What, eating their roasted corpses is alright, but seeing them butchered isn't? Now that's hypocrisy if I ever saw one."
If the girl flinched more, her whole face would have probably crawled inside her empty head. "Keep it up," she warned him, "and you'll get more roasted meat on yourself than you can handle."
Bishop chuckled, but did nothing to dissuade her. It would have been pointless, anyway. The brat was too drunk on her own power. With any luck, he hoped, she and the wizard would fry one another as a result of their occasional gnawing and save him the trouble.
Keeping away from the blonde, who was slowly retreating and fighting off the steadily pressing paladin, Bishop aimed an unhurried lazy pace to the large moss-grown tree a bit aside from the rest, where the Princess of the Mere took their royal lounge, her scraggy frame leaning against the trunk, arms crossed casually over her chest, eyes following every move of the fighters. As he came up to her, she flashed him one of her trained silky half-smiles that left no illusion she was glad to see him and returned her attention to the sparring pair.
"No bloodthirsty deadly enemies around?" she wondered absently, her eyes narrowing briefly at some obviously unsuccessful lunge the farmgirl made.
"Unfortunately," Bishop deadpanned, propping himself against the tree. She didn't shift, didn't move away, but her shoulders drew back ever so slightly, nestling a bit tighter up the trunk - an instinctive attempt to secure her back as much as possible. Clumsy as dammit, princess. He bended his arm, leaning on his elbow to test how much more of invasion into her personal space she could take, and lowered his voice. "But with all the clanging out here, I'm sure, somebody in Amn will soon hear and catch up."
"Eh, I never slaughtered any Amnian ships for them to bother," she answered in the same light offhand tone, and Bishop smirked. Just wasn't able not to.
"You sure? Or we'll wait for some knight to come and inform us that you did?"
Her smile stayed, but the corners of her lips tightened, deepening the little dimples on her cheeks. So we have a nerve there, don't we, my pretty lady. "Gods, Bishop," she purred without looking at him, "two days on the road, and you still have the strength to be an ass."
"Not only for that," he returned suggestively.
That drew a chuckle out of her, a sincere one, though quiet and mixed with a sigh: "My, what a man."
And she still didn't move, not willing to surrender any inch of the tree to him, her eyes fixed on the spar, her expression smoothly neutral. Something told Bishop that even if he started sucking at her earlobe right now, she would manage to keep that face straight. Hells, he could probably slam her against the tree and screw her right here – and she would watch the fighters above his shoulder with the same distant look.
Or not.
But finding out was not worth the risk of getting a holy sword or a dwarven axe through the guts, that's for sure.
Though it's probably worth seeing the face of a paladin…
He couldn't help but snort quietly, turning his gaze towards the sweet sparring pair, the paladin too busy with the farmgirl to notice how Bishop defiled their fair leader with his presence. What there was in the blondie to keep one so occupied was a question. To Bishop it took only a few moments of watching to pick out all the lapses – the wench was still not completely comfortable in her new chainmail… got used to sparring with a left-hander… was pushed into defense without any pains… and, yeah, the damned paladin was going too easy on her. Made Bishop wonder if the man ever got fucked up because of his own chivalry.
Plenty of times, I'll bet, - the farmer's blade ducked low, but the paladin batted it away without much effort, leaving the wench pathetically opened. – Now was a damn good time to slam the shield into her face and end the battle, halo boy. The hardest way is the quickest.
Apparently, he was not the only one to notice – as the moment the two stopped to catch their breath, the dwarf shook his head disapprovingly at the paladin.
"Heh, lad," he grunted. "Ya'r not fightin', ya'r courtin' her."
"Yeah?" the blonde breathed out heavily. Her face was flushed, almost making her look like she and the paladin indeed had a nice tumble. "Think you can do better?"
The dwarf chortled into his beard: "Nay, lass, I'd've cut ya down to the right height first," he swished his palm through the air for the picture. "Right under yer knees."
"It is merely training," the paladin answered in his usual even unfaltering tone, that made it hard to tell whether he was explaining or chastising. Anyway, it all tasted like a bast wisp to Bishop. "I do not think it would be wise to seriously damage Shandra during it."
"What makes you think you would?" the princess suddenly grinned. "She can do better than that."
He looked back at the blonde: "Can you?"
The farmgirl scowled in mock severity, instantly coming on him in a whirlwind of slashing, and he backed off with a soft chuckle, parrying her thrusts with tedious orderliness.
"Did he ask for an honour of killing her?" Bishop murmured, fetching his flask.
Her Highness shrugged. "She needs it."
"Being killed?" he snorted. "I'll say."
"Being trained," an undercurrent of irritation flowed into her voice, but she banished it, glancing at him shortly, and Bishop smirked at the ice behind her iris, taking a sip from the flask. For a second the wench looked like she was going to turn away again, but stopped, her eyes suddenly widening in something close to hope. "Is that alcohol?" she asked, nodding at his flask.
"Yeah," Bishop took another sip and clicked his tongue in appreciation. "And a good one at that."
Her lips formed another of her smiles, this time a sweet and beguiling one. "May I?"
"You said you are through with strong drinks."
"Well, it appears I lied, then," she answered lightly, making him wonder if indeed the girl lied as naturally as breathed. "…Please?"
"And what will I get in return?"
"My immense gratitude," she arched her brow in a jibe. "Or what, should I blow you for it?"
Bishop stared at the woman, not really positive he heard what he heard, then choked over with a startled snort which broke free and grew into a full laughter that he made no efforts to smother. The sound predictably drew the glances of those unoccupied, but he gave little crap about that.
Hells, you are wasted on Neverwinter, little bitch.
Probably assuming she paid her price in her tongue, she snatched the flask from his hand and, praising him with another fleeting smile, slumped her spine back to the tree, turning her eyes off him to the spar. "Elanee says the rain is coming," she remarked before taking a gulp.
"Not in the nearest three-four hours," Bishop answered, deliberately not following her example and still staring at her.
She nodded vacantly, whether satisfied with his answer or not really caring at all – Bishop couldn't tell.
The paladin finally surrendered at the farmgirl's discretion, ending up that joke of a fight, and lowered his blade in appreciation. "I have to take my words back," he said. "You are indeed improving rapidly."
"Thanks, I hope so," the farmgirl returned with a flattered grin, trying to recover her breath. Hells, like a puppy that got a rub behind her ear for a pretty trick.
"But the attack can be even better," the princess pointed, trailing her lower lip absentmindedly with the thumb of her hand clasping the flask.
The farmgirl flinched. "The longsword is heavier than I'm used to." She sighed and jerked her shoulder, adjusting the mail, "And this chain is Hells." Looking back at the paladin, she shook her head, "Don't even know how you manage to pull along a full plate all the time."
"If you ever need help with removing it," Bishop smirked, "just say."
That was enough to make the paladin's face darken like a stormy sky, while the blonde cringed, setting her jaw defiantly. The ranger knew that the wench barely tolerated his mere existence – knew it just as well as the fact that she wouldn't be able to hold back an answer. She was pushed into defense easily not only in battle.
"Even if I ever consider help – you will be the last person…" she didn't finish, seeing his smirk widen:
"Come on, sweetheart, I only suggested. Don't act like I insisted very much."
Her face flushed, and the paladin took a threatening step forward, as always ready to shield any poor damsel with himself – but before Bishop could taste holy wrath, his side burst with pain, dumb and sudden, just under the ribs. Clenching his teeth, the ranger turned his head, glaring into the narrowed cobalt eyes. She didn't say a word, keeping her fist deep in his side where she slammed it, only moved her brow a little in warning.
So this is how you want to play, princess?
He bared his clenched teeth in a sneer, when suddenly her fist pressed even further into his side, at the same time easing itself – and even through his leathers Bishop felt that it was not only the fist there. Dropping his eyes, he saw his own flask in her grip.
"Thank you," she cooed, opening her fingers, and Bishop barely managed to catch the flask before it fell to the ground. As he looked back at her, the smile was already on her face, soft and gentle, with only a barely visible gloating curve to it.
It was beyond him, how anybody could buy that smile of hers. The same smile she slit the gith's throat with.
Smirking, he inclined his head mockingly:
"Always a pleasure, m'lady."
Without an answer she left him be, pushing herself off the trunk and wandering towards the farmgirl and the paladin, stretching herself lazily, and draped her arm around the blonde's shoulder, dragging her away and twittering something about the training in the most smooth voice. Tracing his finger along the neck of the flask, the ranger lifted it to his mouth and took a full-hearted draught, wondering if he could make out her taste left among the whiskey.
He could feel the paladin's look, lead-heavy with disapproval and suspicion, but didn't bother to assert it.
Chin-chin, holy bastard.
Hanging the flask back to his belt, Bishop folded his arms, leaning against the tree, watching the wench, his gaze dragging along her back, her behind, her legs that seemed long enough to wrap twice around a man's rear – at least some nature's triumph over the flat front and unspeakable hair - and not for the first time thought that, perhaps, this particular horse was worth a ride after all.
And with her temper… Hells, he could probably race her into gallop.
…A flash of light flooded the cave, followed by a deafening clap of thunder, and Adele opened her eyes, sitting up in her bedroll and blinking slowly. She wasn't sure if it was the storm that woke her up, a bad dream or she just slept her fill - but it didn't really matter that much. Rubbing her eyes, she looked around. The campfire had already died, and figures of her sleeping companions sank in the obscure shades of the cave, making it hard to tell one from another. Adele smiled inwardly, being able to discern at least one thing – Neeshka's bare feet freed from soaked wraps, pale blots in the gloom, peeking from under her blanket. As the gust of moist wind burst into the cavern, she saw the tiefling shiver, curling up her toes from the cold. The chill was notable, indeed. Almost made Adele wish she borrowed Bishop's flask for the night – catching a cold and coughing herself to death was the last thing she needed.
They'd been merely in couple of hours' way from Port Llast already, and almost everyone was for reaching the town, be it even in the dark – but then came the rain. Not even rain, but a real pour, northern, freezing, biting.
Bishop took them to the closest safe (and dry) place he knew – this deep cave in the hill that dug its way almost underground. Luckily, there was enough room for everyone, and even some left for the fire, near which they were able to hang and lay their outer clothing, boots and armor to dry it up a little. Adele wouldn't have given voice to it, but she was glad of the unplanned delay. It was good, she figured, being on the road, the starting point left behind, the reaching point still way ahead. Nothing to worry about apart from lifting one foot and placing it in front of the other. Nothing to carry on her shoulders apart from the pack. She had a sickening feeling that in Port Llast she'll get much more.
Gods, you are a wuss, Delly.
Smiling at her own inner grumbling, she combed her hair back with her fingers, redoing the tail, careful enough not to wake Shandra who happened to sleep beside her. At least, she was sleeping – unlike the previous night, during which the woman tossed and turned, haunted by the thoughts and sorrows Adele saw in her eyes from the moment they heard about Ember. Her calculations were correct, it seemed, for the trainings wore Shandra out enough to present her with a deep peaceful slumber.
But not you, huh?
As meaningless as walking was, it was better than stops - made her feel that she was doing something, and doing enough to keep herself content, not minding all the discomfort, and constant baiting, that happened every time one of her companions opened his or her mouth. Even Qara at once forgot her previous complaints about Neeshka and Khelgar's arguing – now that Sand was along. Somewhere on the way from Neverwinter mages came to mutual conclusion that field of magic was too small to contain both of them and weren't missing any opportunity to try and push one another out of it to the wayside ditch – Qara with her usual all-conquering overweening disregard, Sand more of a skilled torturer plucking tiny but sharp needles in painful places with the most placid face. But somehow it were exactly those squabbles that made the point – Sand was… accepted, taking his place in their motley group, as if it was always there, meant solely for him.
Adele, on her part, found herself mostly in the pleasant company of Grobnar, only the two of them seeming capable to get along with everyone – or, rather, to ignore enough to get along. The gnome indeed pried her for every detail of her vigil, but she discovered it easy to come up with some details without revealing the whole truth and at the same time not lying to him straight on – because lying to those excited gleaming eyes seemed the ugliest thing she could muster.
Half of the way she expected Bishop to edge his way into the exchange. He didn't. Another half of the way she suspected that he would jump on her every time she was alone, cooing that she owed him, with a feral sneer and, maybe, even a trail of spittle running from his mouth to add to a scary image. He didn't. The ranger disturbingly did nothing apart from leading the way and being his usual irritating self. Much to her dismay, Adele appeared almost disappointed by that – perhaps, because she had spent some time steeling herself for Bishop's anticipated charges. But son of a bitch made it useless. And if there was something Adele hated, it's doing something useless.
The wind came from the outside in another wave of merciless thorny drops-filled air, and the woman clutched at her blanket tighter, making up her mind to try and get back to sleeping, when the lightning again scourged the night sky, its blaze outlining the figure standing near the exit of the cave.
Casavir.
He was just standing, keeping watch, his hands clasped behind his back – with only a slight blur to the perfect soldier-stance as his shoulder was propping the stone wall – and peered outside. Adele got to her feet, taking her blanket with her and, wrapping it around her shoulders, padded quietly towards him, also looking out trying to understand what got his attention.
Nothing but tight jets of rain whipping the trees and hazed grass.
And only then, glancing at the sky, at the stars blinking scaredly through the gaps in the clouds, Adele realized what it truly was that got her up.
"Someone hadn't woken me on my watch," she informed the rain in a low confidential tone, and Casavir, becoming aware of her presence, immediately straightened himself, shifting his unearthly blue gaze to her. Adele arched her brow at him. "Any idea who it might be?"
"…You need your sleep," he said, by that admitting his guilt – but not really looking guilty. A skill Adele hoped one day to develop for herself. "You are being through enough."
"Yeah, I like that excuse, too," she smiled, as usual a bit amused by the confused look in his eyes as he was trying to get if she was serious or not. Honestly, Adele sometimes couldn't say herself if she was serious or not. "But since I'm already awake, might as well take the watch," she glanced at the sky being torn by another lightning. "Besides, don't think anybody would peek his nose out to attack us."
"There is always a possibility," Casavir mentioned. "Do not trouble yourself and get as much rest as you need."
"Like my conscience would allow me to have my beauty sleep while you are freezing out here instead of me."
Casavir went silent for awhile, then suddenly shook his head slightly, that motion somehow easing his formal posture, even his shoulders lost a tad of their stiff angle. "You seem to always know a way to corner me," he admitted softly.
Her smile grew wider, now, that formalities seemed out of the way, and the woman leaned on the opposite side of the cave-entrance, tucking up her blanket around her in a fashion that kept her warm and at the same time provided something soft under her back. "I never really thanked you," she pointed, "for talking to Grayson about me. Don't know what you said, but it surely gave me a credit."
"No gratitude is needed. It was the least I could do."
"Still, thanks… It must not have been the easiest thing – since you… left," she glanced at him, knowing that there was a swampy ground ahead.
His stare travelled away from her eyes - more than enough proof to her thoughts – and turned back to the rain. "Such things do not matter when something greater is at stake. And Grayson is one of a few people who… perhaps… had not fully understood my leaving, but at least felt my need to do so."
"…Need?" she probed, at the same time wondering if he remembered about the 'shut-up' thing. Something told her that even if he did, he would never resort to it.
"Yes," his voice was back to its blank depth, revealing nothing of his thoughts, while his eyes searched the rain.
"Well, I still don't get why they would even hold a grudge in Neverwinter because of your leaving."
He shrugged, as if the answer was obvious: "I betrayed my oath to Neverwinter. And never informed them of my decision to leave."
"So? It's not like you've left to march towards Luskan gates and offer your service to them. After what you've done in Old Owl Well… gods, they should be thanking you, not condemning," she wrapped the blanket tighter, a little more briskly than the blanket deserved, and Casavir glanced at her, his expression unreadable in the gloom. Adele sighed, trying to suppress the annoyance. It seemed that, despite her bravado, the weight of what happened to her was catching up. Besides, she felt the approach of that specific time of month when every woman wished she was born a man – and Neverwinter and its politics looked like a fine target to lash out at. "Don't know, maybe I'm naive or something, but I always thought that when you are demanding devotion from somebody – be kind enough to give something in return. Appreciation for what is done, at least. Instead that Nevalle guy stood right beside you and pretended he didn't notice your presence."
The paladin looked at her for a fracture of moment, then shook his head again, easier. "I do not need their appreciation," he said calmly. "Even less that of sir Nevalle personally. I did what I had to do. In the eyes of many the will of Tyr and that of Neverwinter's is one and the same. One day I simply understood that it is not. And there was no place in the city service for me anymore."
"Still… it's not like you left to meet some selfish ends…"
"You understand that," Casavir nodded. "But the rulers… Nasher, too, is concerned about Neverwinter and its people, but he is a politician. He has to be careful. He has to weight his every decision on a global scale. And because of that, sometimes, those for whom it is done – should be done – are lost in the shadow. I thought that, perhaps, even alone I would be able to do something. It was an impulse decision – and, maybe, not the correct one…"
"Why? I mean, why do you think so now? You did help. Those in Old Owl Well. Us."
"…Yes, I see it now. I see that a greater good has been accomplished. And I'm grateful to you for it."
"…To me?" she blinked at him. Whatever he said about her cornering him, it was he who never failed to drive her into stupor. "What for?"
"You… reassured me. In your face I saw that there are worthy people in Neverwinter's service still. If there were more of them – maybe, lives of others would have been better."
It was her turn to stare at the rain.
Hells, now it's awkward.
People like her? What, hordes of those who wanted to get into Blacklake and thus jumping into the Watch? If there were more… how much more warehouses strewn with tens of thieves' corpses would have been left behind? She would have been a liar to say that it bothered her – those who lifted their weapons on anybody surely had to expect that they could be brought down just as easily. It was only some part of her, her ever-present dry and distant observer that chalked down every death she caused. Without judging or justifying – simply taking note.
Perhaps, there was some poetic justice or unhealthy god's joke that, after cutting down countless enemies and being praised for that, she ended up accused of the one thing she didn't do.
Casavir's hand suddenly came down on her shoulder, and Adele almost gave a start, looking up at him. His face seemed older, but at the same time softer in the rare pale light of the storm and shrouding darkness.
"You are worthy," he said quietly, his blue eyes fixed on hers. "And for that I am grateful."
…Oh, darn you, - she thought helplessly, - shut up…
"You shouldn't be, really," Adele answered aloud. "I mean… I'm glad if I did something, but… you do much for me, too."
"Can it be any other way? You steadied me in difficult times. It is a great debt, a debt I cannot repay in any other way if not with my sword. I…" she averted her eyes, and his voice trailed off, his hand falling off her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I seem to make you feel uncomfortable. I didn't mean to. I am just trying to say that, whatever happens, I am by your side – and would do anything to aid you. Do not doubt it."
"I don't," she looked back at him. "Really, I don't. And Neverwinter's loss is our gain." She smiled, "I'm glad you are with us."
"…It is... good to hear," almost on impulse, Casavir glanced back, at the rest of their companions. Khelgar gave a grunting snort, rolling to the others side in his sleep, and the paladin couldn't hold back a smile. "I think I am glad I am with you, too."
"Then… please… don't say a thing about some debt to me or owning or any of that crap," she flinched. "It's Bishop's line there."
"…Alright," he moved his gaze back towards the rain, but it didn't escape Adele how a frown creased his face.
"Something wrong?"
He was silent for some time, probably picking up words in his mind, then frowned deeper:
"This man… Bishop…"
Adele had to purse her lips not to grin – it seemed no one could muster so much disdain in one word as Casavir when saying ranger's name.
"You don't like him," she nodded in understanding. "Well, really, no surprise there."
"It is not about that. Or, should I say, it is not only about that," he corrected himself, and Adele smirked despite her efforts. But he regained his seriousness quickly. "I do not trust him. I do not trust people like him. Scavengers. Jackals. Those that will stop at nothing. Those that feel nothing."
"Eh, let him be," Adele moved her shoulder indifferently. "As long as he can find the way through the forest," she stared at clouds. "Besides, if to put aside his attitude, he is… "
…is what?
Am I defending him? Now that's a bad sign. A really bad one.
Casavir waited for her to finish, but when she didn't, his face seemed to darken a little. "Do be careful around him, Adele," he said quietly, and she had to nod again, wondering inwardly how many times she'd have to drop her head down and up and down before people would start to get that she was well aware of the problems Bishop could cause. "I do not like the way he looks at you."
The woman's head stopped in mid-nod, her eyes widening as she stared up at the paladin. Alright, that was unexpected. "…Huh? And how does he look at me?"
He didn't say a word, but something in his expression made her remember Georg, the old militia leader at West Harbour, when he was warning her about the 'threats' of the big ugly worlds outside the Mere, especially about men. She had nearly chuckled that time – and barely held herself from it again.
"Oh," was all she could manage. "You mean like that..."
For good or not, but she thought she had already crossed the age-line when someone would alert her about some questionable glances of men. Besides, she could hardly aspire for a title of Virgin Queen of Faerun, and had more than one direct witness and participant to that - perhaps, even a bit more than a girl who grew up in a small secluded village should have got. But nevertheless, apart from Georg, Adele couldn't even remember last time anyone showed this concern for her female inviolability. It suddenly made her feel warm inside. After all, she never had an older brother as Bevil did – so she allowed herself to enjoy.
…Casavir as a brother, Elanee as a mommy, Duncan – a wonderful uncle… - her inner voice counted acidly. – Compensating, are we?
"Don't bother," she waved her hand with a smile. "Let him look, that's what eyes are for."
He cleared his throat: "I understand that it is of no concern of mine, but I felt… compelled to warn you."
"It's alright. Always good to know someone's looking out for you," she knitted her brows in feigned anger, "But if even after this you are not going to go and have some sleep, then I'll never forgive myself. Do you want that future for me?"
He smiled, making a step back, deeper into the cave, and bowed his head: "No, of course not."
"Then good night."
"As to you."
Following him with her eyes and making sure he truly was laying out his bedroll not far from the dead fire, Adele turned back to the entrance – but her gaze unwittingly lingered on the ranger. Bishop was the nearest to the exit, sleeping in a nearly sitting position, leaning his back on the stone wall, his arms resting over the blanket, free to grab the weapon thrown by his side within reach. His wolf curled himself into a ball right beside him, placing his head on the ranger's lap. The woman watched them for some moments, realizing that it would have been very much like Bishop not to sleep but listen to her conversation with the paladin. But judging by the way his eyes moved slightly under his lowered lids, he was sleeping after all. Adele smiled, almsot relieved - but still couldn't banish the feeling of being watched in return. Blinking several times to awake a bit of her darkvision, hoping that no lightning would blind her, she finally noticed – even though being curled up, the wolf gazed at her from under his furry brows, watching her closely, guardedly, from Bishop's lap.
"…Sleep, you beastie," she whispered with a grin and turned back to the rain…
