Author's Note: Anyhone unfamiliar with the progress of the BG1, 2 and ToB games may want to avoid this story -- the plot of the game is very much a secondary factor to this; the relationships between characters (especially Xan and Nuila, obviously) is more important.

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It's a new dawn

It's a new day

It's a new life

For me

-- Nina Simone, Feelin Good

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Xan stared at his pale hands, clasped tightly together as they rested upon the table. The Nashkel Inn was warm and a welcome sight, even for him, but he felt uneasy and pensive. His rescuers had marched swiftly to get back here before nightfall, two aiding him when he stumbled -- nay, insisting on aiding him, despite his objections. Two half-elves, strong and noble; well, as noble as half-bloods could be. He didn't have anything against half-elves, really, but to know that the already dying line of Tel-Quessir was being diluted with the breeding with other… dare he say, lesser races… Well, it was enough to make him want to lie down and die. His foolish kin, who didn't realise the time of their people was on the wane, cared not for his sentiments. They told him that the half-elves had much to offer the future of the elven race and he would snort and roll his eyes. They could not, and would not, ever be like the full-blooded elves.

One of them, the woman, Jaheira, had tended his wounds with prayers to Silvanus. That, combined with the return of his moonblade, had given him enough strength to carry himself along, only requiring support when the terrain was uneven or the hillside was steep. The man -- her husband, Khalid, he'd gathered -- had darted off at the first sign of hostility, swinging two blades around with frightening accuracy while the others provided back up. Jaheira had given Xan a sling and some bullets, insisting he at least try to use it, and he'd been forced to accept it with a sigh.

The third member of the group -- a young, pink-haired human girl -- seemed to be a fair shot with her bow. She was also annoyingly happy and cheerful, bounding around as they went, whether underground, over ground, or rapidly approaching yet another enemy. She was the only one to try and coax him into conversation: Where are you from? Are you a mage? That's a pretty blade! Can you use it properly? He'd snorted and grunted at her enough that she eventually got bored, skipping back towards their leader, her light and excitable voice carrying over to him easily, making him wonder why they weren't drawing even more attention. He'd heard the yellow-haired girl refer to her as Imoen, and they'd called each other sister. He'd sighed inwardly -- one such irritable youth was more than enough to have to deal with, and if they were related…

It was only a few miles later that he realised the term was more one of endearment that any true heritage. The leader had introduced herself in the mines, but he'd failed to catch her quiet tone and failed to see a reason why he should bother learning it anyway, when their acquaintance would be fairly short. But Imoen had leapt past them, just as they emerged from under the final canopy of the forest, into the open lands once more, calling to her -- Nuila! Nuila, lookit this! What the pink-haired girl was so excited about, he had no idea; so caught up as he was with the newly discovered identity of his rescuer.

Nuila. An elvish name, filled with the thoughts of hope -- how ironic that he, of all people, would be discovered by her. His curiosity peaked, he glanced carefully over to her, letting his eyes settle on her form for longer than before while her attention was taken by her friend. He didn't know why he hadn't seen it before -- her soft touch, the slender form, the shining hair and eyes. She pushed back some strands to reveal the proof positive; delicately pointed ears betraying her elven heritage. Why hadn't he seen it before?

Then he realised with a start -- he'd assumed she was human because she acted so human. Her footsteps were heavy, her gait was careful but inelegant. She laughed loudly with Imoen, joked with Khalid, and tried her best to look abashed when Jaheira sternly reminded her about the dangers they faced. She had no air of pride in what she was, the blood she carried. Her robes flowed around her as she walked, her cloak drifting out with the breeze -- her form was hidden behind the looseness of them, pieces of rag that hung from her shoulders limply. No style, no grace -- no finery. He sighed at the sight.

Then they'd arrived at the inn, and he'd been seen to the table, a goblet of wine pushed over to him by the pink-haired one before his rescuers all disappeared to see to their own business. The half-elves, he'd managed to determine, had gone to visit the mayor to report on the outcome of their trip to the mine. Imoen had grinned in a very unsettling manner and declared to Nuila in a rough whisper that she was off to liberate the arrows from the store next door, ignoring the yellow-haired girl's protests. The elf had watched her go with a sigh, then wandered over to the counter to talk to the barman, disappearing through to the rooms with him shortly after.

And so he was on his own -- unsure as to what happened with them now. They'd freed him, and he was thankful, but he had his own duties to see to. A Greycloak of Evereska, his main concern was the iron shortage in these lands, which he had set off from his home to investigate. He'd stumbled and fallen when it came to exploring the mine by himself, but his work needed to continue. He was sure they'd part on good enough terms; they appeared to be fairly trustworthy, and he was positive they'd feel a sense of relief when he spoke of his intention to part ways.

But they had saved him. He sighed inwardly, the familiar feeling of honour and responsibility popping up, wrestling with each other. He couldn't just take his leave unless they wished it -- no, he'd have to talk to their leader and gauge her intentions, first. If all went well, she'd politely wish him well on his journey, and by the morning he'd be on his way again. Where to, he wasn't sure, but he'd be going there, nevertheless.

The door of the tavern slammed shut behind him and he cautiously looked around, noticing a woman enter, a frown on her face as she gripped her shield tightly to her, a spiked mace in the other hand. He turned back to his wine and contemplated on taking a sip from it. He was almost certain it wasn't poisoned, but could he really be sure?

Another sigh and he looked up, finally taking in his surroundings as the mass of thoughts going through his head quelled slightly. The inn was fairly small, but the town itself wasn't large, and since there was another establishment south of the river, Xan figured that there was probably usually plenty of room for the locals.

Usually, anyway, when Nashkel wasn't filled with Flaming Fist mercenaries who lined the bar, talking rowdily and lewdly whenever the serving girl wandered past. She was, for human standards, what they'd class as 'pretty', he thought. Slightly plump, with a round, jolly face and red cheeks. Brown hair had been pulled back into practical twist, and her white, laced blouse was almost completely covered by her plain red apron. Despite this though, she was drawing attention whenever she appeared, taking it all good-naturedly, her quick tongue bettering the men quite often, much to their obvious delight.

Elsewhere, locals sat in groups around the tables dotted around. He was, he noted dourly, the only person to be on their own, with the exception of the most recent patron -- the woman was waiting, impatiently it seemed, at the bar for some service. Farmers were discussing the weather in one corner; an older man with sand-coloured hair and bushy beard was loudly informing his peers on what would happen if they didn't get a good downpour soon. Xan was almost tempted to point them in the direction of the druid when she returned, but quickly decided against it, in order to prolong his further existence.

A small platform -- tiny by the standards of the inns in the cities -- in the corner of the common room had two small wooden stools atop it, currently being used by two young girls. Both were 'singing' along as the red-head also played a lyre. Their gazes were directed, dreamily, to the soldiers at the bar, who were failing to pay them any attention at all. Xan shook his head slightly; when would these humans learn?

The door closed once again, and instinctively he glanced around. The half-elves and Imoen had all returned, the pink-haired girl frowning heavily as the druid's hand gripped onto her ear with an iron grip. They began to make their way over to him, he noted with disappointment, and he averted his eyes to notice that Nuila was also emerging from the backrooms, accepting a key from the innkeeper and smiling happily as she also head in his direction. Suddenly he felt smothered, and his eyes fixed themselves once more to his clasped hands.

"Did you know what she was trying to do?" Jaheira was technically asking a question, but her tone demanded an answer. Nuila sighed softly.

"I--"

"I would have expected you both to have a bit more sense," continued the half-elf hotly. "We have just found ourselves in good favour with the town; are you so intent on destroying that already?" This one was directed at Imoen.

"No," replied the pink-haired human meekly. "I'm sorry."

Jaheira looked over to her husband and sighed in exasperation. "You deal with them. I shall arrange for some food to be sent over to us."

She walked away as Khalid turned to the two young girls, his face much softer than his wife's had been. "N-now, you b-both know she only gets upset when she's d-disappointed--"

"Or angry," interrupted a muttering Imoen. Khalid's eyes twinkled slightly.

"O-or angry," he agreed," b-ut it's because she c-cares for you both."

"We know," said Nuila gently. "We appreciate it, don't we, Im?" She nudged Imoen viciously, causing the girl to yelp and rub at her side. "We'll try not to do anything else to annoy her."

"You're b-both young and excited," noted Khalid, sitting down beside Xan. The enchanter found himself shifting almost subconsciously. "T-time will help you t-to settle down."

The girls also took seats, smiling and chatting to the warrior; they seemed to see him as a fatherly figure of sorts. By the time Jaheira had returned all disagreements were forgotten about, and she too entered the conversation with ease and a hint of teasing in her remarks. Xan found himself feeling more and more out of place, and he didn't realise they were addressing him until Imoen poked him in the arm. He raised an eyebrow.

"Nuila was asking what you plan to do now," declared the girl loudly. Xan froze; partly in surprise at having to face the question so suddenly, and partly because he noticed the woman with the spiked mace suddenly spin around to look at them, ignoring the barkeeper as he continued to speak.

"Well?" asked Imoen insistently, as he watched the woman walk towards them. It seemed to be in slow motion -- her eyes had become fixed on Nuila and the knuckles on her hand had turned white as she fiercely held onto her weapon, raising it slowly into battle stance. He swallowed hard, his mouth felt excruciatingly dry -- maybe they had poisoned him. Or maybe he just hadn't been drinking enough to combat the warm effects of the fire…

"Nuila, eh?" came the woman's voice as she loomed over their table. The companions looked up to her with puzzlement. "How convenient that you should be in the very place I decided to rest at."

The next thing Xan noticed as he leapt back, stumbling from his chair, was the speed with which the woman corrected herself after the swing of her mace connected with nothing but thin air. He looked around, his eyes searching for the elf, and saw her standing a little away, crouched somewhat and tensed, preparing for more conflict. The half-elves had pulled free blades and clubs, clambering over chairs as they tried to catch the woman before she caused any injuries. The guards at the bar had been alerted by the sudden commotion, and they too were preparing weapons: Someone's 'avin' a go at the 'eroes that saved the mine! The farmers were shouting for the soldiers to do something, the woman was muttering sinisterly as she advanced on the elf.

Nuila just stood there.

An arrow flew across the room, hitting the woman squarely in the neck. She gave a gargled cry as she reached up to wrench it out, her mumblings disrupted. Xan watched, mouth slightly agape, as Nuila moved forward with a speed that astounded him. Her hand caught the woman's arm, forcing it away from her neck, wrenching it round behind her back, causing the attacker to cry out in pain. Nuila's other arm grabbed the woman's head, forcing it down until the woman was on her knees, immobilised by the strength of the seemingly small elf.

It wasn't long before she was led off by the mercenaries, the singing girls leaving shortly after with much sighing. The common room became quieter and the group settled back down at their table, though Xan watched them cautiously for several minutes until he felt he could relax again. The druid had found something in the woman's pack and asked to keep it when the Flaming Fist came to collect her possessions. After a quick glance at it, they nodded grimly and took their leave. Now both she and her husband were staring intently at the elf.

"This is not the first one?" Jaheira sounded surprised -- worse than that, she sounded surprised when she obviously felt nothing should surprise her any more.

Nuila did nothing but nod meekly.

"Tell us, child," the druid said, drumming her fingers on the table. "Tell us everything."

"Well," sighed Nuila. "First things first." She placed a key on the table and slid it over to Xan -- he looked at it suspiciously. "A room for you for the evening while you decide what you're going to do. As for everything else… this might take some time."