Author's Note: It's taken a while, but now it's here -- and some more progress is made. We run into some old friends, manage to put off Cloakwood for a few more chapters, and realise that Nuila and Tiax aren't really what you'd call... compatible :D And everyone's favourite red-robed wizard turns up in an establishment whose name probably mirrors his favourite hobby (assuming it's not referring to him, that is :) )

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The world was on fire and no one could save me but you.

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.

I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you.

And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you no,

No, I want to fall in love. (This world is only gonna break your heart)

-- Chris Isaak, Wicked Game

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Another day had brought another fight. Their respite at the Friendly Arms had been short lived, and the trip south, back towards Beregost, had seen them encounter all manner of creatures and bandits. There they'd at least managed to stock up on supplies and sell off what they'd picked up from the bandit camp, earning a small profit that would at least see them through another tenday. Branwen was gifted a new warhammer, though she spent almost an hour examining it critically; the news of the iron crisis was making everyone worry about their weaponry. For once there was a benefit to having his moonblade, it seemed.

Nuila and Tiax argued heatedly about the gnome's role in their group, though the elven girl managed to win eventually. The result had Tiax threatening to garrotte Garrick with his new sling when the bard experimentally sang the first few lines of his new composition, apparently provisionally titled 'His Big Nose Can't Make Up For Everything'.

After Thunder Hammersmith, himself, had ejected them all from his smithy, Nuila had let out a sigh almost worthy of his own collection, then announced that she was going to find an inn. He was quite surprised by this; why, he wasn't sure, because he had absolutely no idea what her next plans were, anyway -- but he dreaded to think what they might be. The paperwork they'd found dotted around Tazok's base had spoken of another contact; a man named Davaeorn who was in charge of operations from a mine located deep in the Cloakwood forest. He was sure Nuila had been about to happily announce their intention to go there only yesterday morning, when the figure had come bounding out of the trees, dagger held high. Had he not stumbled and tripped on a remarkably large root from an oak tree, he might have got close enough to Nuila to actually injure her before the shocked expression managed to shift from her face. As it was, he was dazed and confused by the hit to his head, and to Xan's dismay, the monk insisted he was tied up and taken with them to hand into the authorities; at least, though, it had taken her enthusiasm away from finding Tazok's accomplice, for now.

That had led them to their destination of the Friendly Arm Inn, and their situation had been the main reason they'd almost been prevented access. The guards by the drawbridge were, quite understandably, hesitant to allow a band of unruly mercenaries entry when dusk had fallen -- more so when they actually have a captured prisoner, it seemed. But when the elven girl explained to them what had occurred, they were happy to relieve her of her captive; unfortunately, they were still unhappy about the prospect of letting them inside.

It transpired that Tiax had forgotten to mention the fact he was currently banned from entering the grounds of the inn for... well, forever, it seemed, after trying to burn several 'unbelievers' at a stake he'd erected between four trees in the fortress orchard during his last visit. Nuila pleaded with them for an age, assuring them that she would be personally responsible for anything he got up to while they were in the grounds, but it was only when the Guard Captain himself appeared that she had any luck. After taking him to the side and talking to him in a hushed voice, he eventually nodded. Xan was aghast -- who knew what trouble the foolish girl might get herself into because of the insane gnome!

But her plans became apparent enough. They were all herded, quite forcibly by her, into the inn's common room, and accommodations were sorted. She then insisted that they drop off their belongings, and so they had -- and as Tiax entered his room, Nuila had appeared by Xan's side and given him a fairly simple command that he was only to happy to adhere to. The sleep charm was quite basic, and it took a hold of the cleric quickly. Nuila smiled as she locked him into his room, leaving him collapsed and snoring upon his bed as she escorted the others back downstairs.

The gnome had been in a bad mood ever since, and the argument that had transpired in the smith was merely another demonstration of the vast gulf between his personality, and that of their leader. Less the enigma to Xan than she once was, he was still trying to work her out; her devotion to following laws and justice seemed as heightened as his own sense of duty, and he would probably have been less surprised to find that she'd found an affinity with the human god Helm. But no... she was a follower of Tymora, and running parallel to her duteous attitude was a mischievous streak that would surface form nowhere, and almost rival pink-hair's sense of devilry.

But the time when he most liked to see her -- to watch her, if the chance was possible, without the others seeing him -- was when she was meditating. For then her face became almost serene as she relaxed. She appeared less as a child and more as a woman; less as a troubled orphan on the run from various assassins, and more as a calm, controlled young lady of the People. If only he could find her a gown to befit her natural beauty.

He was broken from his reverie as they entered the Burning Wizard, Nuila deftly dodging between the patronage as she single-mindedly made a beeline for the bartender. Xan followed her, just behind Imoen. He knew the others were following -- Garrick's increasingly annoying voice was sharing some probably exaggerated tale with Branwen, while Tiax was still muttering to himself at the rear; the only gnome whom Xan knew that was able to mumble louder than the average human could exclaim.

They converged around the bar, waiting for service as Nuila drummed her fingers on the counter, idly glaring over to the cleric. He had deemed her unimportant and not worthy of his time, and was now quite vocally expressing how Cyric would ensure she was given no greater honour than the chore of de-fluffing Tiax's feet each night while Imoen rolled her eyes and made faces. Once again, he wondered to himself about the company he was electing to keep.

Someone cleared their voice behind them, and Nuila turned around, almost immediately bringing herself up from her hunched stance to stand tall and graceful -- the way Xan preferred. He wasn't surprised, however; the druid and her husband had obviously been active in the area, and seemed to also be in search of warm lodgings for the evening. The looks they levelled towards Tiax spoke volumes about the unspoken questions he imagined they had.

"We meet again," Jaheira noted quietly.

"We do indeed," replied Nuila. Her tone was pleasant enough, but Xan could feel the tension in the air between the two women. The smile that the elven girl levelled at Khalid, however, appeared to be genuinely warm.

"You seem to have found... interesting companions. Do you have the time to sit with us a while and tell us how things have fared with you?" The half-elf finally managed to drag her eyes from the gnome to regard Nuila coolly. The elf nodded graciously, waving to a nearby table and instructing Imoen to help her get drinks for everyone. Soon enough they were all settled together awkwardly, the enchanter wishing they'd been able to secure rooms before this had happened so that he could have made his excuses and retreated. The conversation managed to remain polite though; Nuila recounted their meeting with Tranzig and their trip to the bandit camp while Jaheira nodded impassively and Khalid remained silent. Then the druid spoke of their intention to visit a halfling village to the east, to solve the troubles they were having with creatures from the nearby ruins.

"You would do worse than to accompany us," she noted carefully. "Though you have faced some battles since your departure from Candlekeep, you are still remarkably inexperienced. You would be ill advised to press onwards to Cloakwood so soon."

Xan screamed internally. He had realised that if there was anything that was likely to make Nuila do something, it was giving her the impression you didn't believe she could achieve it. And to his dismay, her chin began to jut out and her eyes glinted. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable.

"You're right."

He swallowed and began to choke, causing several pairs of inquisitive eyes to flicker over towards him. Imoen began to thump his back, seemingly bored with the conversation, while he looked at Nuila in amazement. She gave him one cursory glance -- was that amusement shining from her eyes, now? -- and then turned back to the druid to continue.

"And I welcome your offer, though I am reluctant to take it. Both Khalid and yourself are very experienced -- highly learned within your fields and more than capable to take out such a small matter on your own, I'd wager. I think... I think Imoen and I, and our group, would benefit more from tackling something by ourselves."

There was a long pause. Then, slowly, the two half-elves nodded after exchanging a quick glance. "We will be returning here when we are done," Jaheira said, slightly friendlier than she'd appeared to be before. "In the interim, there are outstanding bounties available to claim in Nashkel. Perhaps they would give you a chance to exercise your abilities and find your cohesion as a group." Her green eyes twinkled as she looked between Tiax and Nuila and the elven girl grinned to her.

"Stranger things have happened, have they not?" she asked playfully, standing up as the two older adventurers rose. "Thank you for the advice -- we will head there tomorrow morning and seek out the work. With Tymora's luck, our paths will cross again soon enough, and... well, the fates shall have decided where we will go from there."

The druid nodded. "Silvanus guide you," she said, bidding a good day to the others as she turned to go.

"G-good luck Nuila," smiled Khalid, warmly shaking her hand. She gave him a delighted smile that made Xan feel strange. He wished it had been directed at him -- but without him having to leave the group to gain it.

And then they left -- Nuila arranged rooms and handed out keys -- she was not cruel enough, it seemed, to force Xan into sharing with either Tiax or Garrick -- instead she'd decided they would bunk down together, as would Imoen and Branwen. The final room would be shared between her and himself, which she announced as airily as she did the food that Imoen had ordered for them. He felt the colour rapidly rising to his cheeks as Garrick openly glared around and Branwen gave a deep throaty laugh.

"The mageling is turning as red as the robes of the stranger who cannot seem to keep his eyes from you, my young friend," she remarked to Nuila loudly. They all, as one, turned to look over to the counter, where a dark haired man in a bright scarlet cloak and crimson robes almost fell from his stool in his haste to turn his gaze from them in a feign of innocence. Imoen sniggered and Nuila offered him a friendly wave when he ventured a quick glance around to see if they'd lost interest. He almost knocked over his drink as he leapt from his barstool, pushing his way through the patrons as Garrick loudly sang a verse from a song about impossibly large tomatoes.

Xan watched them all with a mixture of bemusement and horror. Did none of them realise that the man's robes -- eye catching as they were -- were more a badge of honour than bad fashion sense? He didn't doubt the priestess and bard would be ignorant of such things, and the mad gnome was still consumed by his irrational temper. The two young girls, however, betrayed no realisation of the identity man they'd just been involved in mocking, and he made a mental note to educate them about Red Wizards of Thay.

Before he could, though, they were served with platters of food; much more than they were actually due, Imoen announced with a sly wink, which caused Xan to pause mid-bite and wonder what exactly he was consuming -- or rather, whose it was. He wasn't given long to dwell on this particular dilemma, though, as they were rudely interrupted by a gangly man, a mass of black hair hanging down around his bony face, and cold blue eyes seeming to bore into Nuila as he stared at her. The enchanter wondered if they were helping themselves to his supper.

"Embrace death as it wraps its arms around thee," he said in a chilling voice, "for I am Nimbul, and I have come for thy soul, upstart."

As his knife plunged down, Xan felt a sickening feeling plunge through his stomach and he thought there was a very real possibility he might be sick. He grabbed a handful of components from his pouch, barely registering the movements of the others as he fought past the relief washing over him when he realised Nuila's instinct had kicked in, and she'd deftly avoided the attack. Rapidly he murmured the words to his spell, trying to block out all other activity. The table was between him and the attacker, and so he took a chance, closing his eyes in order to concentrate more, to finish the spell faster. It was one he had not tried before, one he'd only just tried to learn, having received the scroll from the treasure in Tazok's tent. He could only pray that it worked.

The assassin was off-balance as he opened his eyes -- Tiax having slung a magical stone at him that caused scorch marks to his arm just as Nuila had stumbled in the cluttered battleground, falling over Branwen's misplaced shield. A green flash erupted from Xan's fingertips and an arrow shot towards Nimbul, striking him in his exposed neck. Almost immediately he staggered backwards, gargling as he clawed at his throat, pieces of flesh seeming to melt away as the acid took effect. Imoen gasped -- Xan wondered if it was shock or horror, and Branwen roared her appreciation. The enchanter was aware of the sudden silence as Garrick's hastily sung battle song abruptly ended, and he stole a quick glance over at the shocked young man.

Then he moved past the others and over to Nuila, helping her to her feet as she watched the disfigured corpse continue to bubble gently where the magic continued its work. "Come," he said softly, pulling her gently away from the scene and towards the stairs, intent on taking her to their room. To his relief, they got there without incident, and she sat down on the bed silently, looking up at him with widened eyes.

"You never told me you could do that."

"I'm a mage," he shrugged. "What else do you expect me to be able to do?"

"You saved me."

He felt uncomfortable. "I delayed the inevitable," he muttered. "But I am sure you would have survived the encounter, even without my assistance. The others were moving in to attack and you do offer your following to Tymora..."

She smiled weakly. "I doubt that'll be enough," she mused. "I really need to keep my guard up, don't I?"

He sat down beside her. "You do," he nodded. "You could die any moment -- if not in one of the many battles we'll invariably face, then to one of the hundreds of assassins who have been hired to end your existence. How does it feel? Does it thrill you or frighten you?"

She seemed to ponder this for a minute. "I'm scared, I guess. But I don't have much choice but to go on."

He sighed. "That is close to what I feel about the endless chain of our battles. It can break any man, given enough time. Were I alone, I would probably consider closing my eyes and waiting for death to come; but I have a mission, and now I have companions I have sworn to protect." Her smile seemed to become stronger at his words and he was gladdened.

"I appreciate your loyalty," she said. "It... it's nice to know there's at least one of my companions I can rely on, who isn't Imoen."

He raised an eyebrow. "You don't feel the same about the others?"

She coloured at his statement, much to his curiosity, and avoided his gaze. "I, um, no... I can honestly say I don't feel the same about any of the others as I do about you. Even Imoen." She gave him a sideways look before adding hastily, "But I trust her, and I trust you. Even with your prophecies of doom!"

He relaxed slightly. "I... thank you. But I fear that soon the unceasing chase we have to endure would get to you, as much as it has me." He leaned forward leaning his arms across his legs as he gazed down to the ground. "You cannot yet imagine the years upon years of facing deadly perils, of narrowly escaping death at every turn. Eventually, you will be forced either to become a merciless killing machine, or to lose your will to live."

He knew she was shaking her head, even if he couldn't see her. He just knew. "We know the Iron Throne are involved with this now, from the documentation we found in Tazok's possessions. Once I deal with this Davaeorn and whoever else is behind this, and avenge Gorion's death, then I'll be able to move on. I'll settle down, find somewhere nice to live, someone... someone nice to be with, maybe."

He looked up to her, but she'd looked away again. Her feet were shuffling slightly and her hands were holding onto the edge of the bed as she shifted. He found himself smiling softly while she wasn't paying attention. "Perhaps... perhaps, in the future, you indeed may forsake this self-destructive course and live a long, happy life, as you should."

Her eyes darted back to him and he immediately reverted to his familiar, gloomy expression. She regarded him with mild surprise. "That sounds strange, given that you've been adventuring... for how long? And you do not intend to settle down anytime soon, do you?"

The question felt loaded and he immediately felt himself tensing slightly. There was something he'd been meaning to broach with her, and now the opportunity had presented itself. He almost wished he could avoid answering it... And if... if he allowed himself to hope that she had any interest in him, which was, of course, foolish, then what he was about to say would kill it off before he was even made aware of it. But perhaps... perhaps that would be a blessing. He took a deep breath. "A moonblade wielder cannot escape into quiet and solitude, however they might wish it. Even as I hold the sword in my hand, it judges each and every of my deeds, demanding that I continue to protect my land and my people. I am the champion of the lost cause, summoned forth to fight hopeless battles, left without a choice, and, indeed, without a future." He sighed heavily, turning away from her. "I am so tired of facing this side of life, and it alone..." he added in a whisper, more to himself.

The soft touch of her hand on his shoulder made him jump slightly, and he looked round to see her smiling to him sadly. "I am quite ignorant of your status," she admitted abashedly. "Tell me more about your blade... if you will?"

He sighed, but obliged, filling her in on its history, on what it meant. She listened intently, nodding on occasion but not interrupting him at all. Eventually he reached the most difficult part, and he paused, unsure as to how to progress.

"And then what?" she asked. "It passes onto someone else in the family?"

His mouth felt dry. "It does... but you know of Arvandor, the place where all elves may go when they pass from this plane?"

She nodded, a happy smile adorning her face. "I read about it in Candlekeep," she said; he was sure he could detect some pride in there. "We are reunited with those we love, and we take on the age of our inner self, regardless of how old we were when we passed there. We become our inner being."

He smiled at the crudeness of her words... her human way of phrasing it. He would educate her on the finer points one day, but not now... now he had to continue with his original tale before he lost the courage to do so. "A moonblade wielder is not guaranteed to reach Arvandor, perhaps until many years have passed; perhaps only centuries, if I am lucky."

Her eyes widened. "But why?"

"The sword I wield has a cruel tale to tell," he sighed. "It has originally been forged to choose a royal family, but now it is only a symbol, albeit an important one. The blade is thousands of years old, and it has passed through many hands, eventually ending up in mine. The previous owners are not simply dead, but their spirits are trapped within the moonblade; a terrible price to pay for using its abilities. Only when the blade's magic is no more are they allowed to travel to Arvandor. A similar fate awaits me in the end."

He'd expected her horrified look, but it was brief as she visibly tried to control herself. She straightened her seated position and nodded to him. "It is your duty," she said, somewhat hoarsely. "Regretting it will only make it worse."

"But I do not have the heart to follow my duty, Nuila," he admitted. "It used to be my source of inspiration, but now there is nothing but sorrow and regret. Sometimes I wonder what would have become of me, if I had never come by the blade. Perhaps my miseries started on the day I had acquired it... but that is a story for another time."

She reached out and took his hand, causing a strange sensation deep within him. His worries about the revelation lessened; she valued duty so highly, he should not have expected anything less, really. Though she seemed sympathetic for his fate, her very nature had taken the information, processed it, and understood it. She understood.

"It is late," he announced, standing suddenly. "Though I must admit, I am slightly... puzzled as to your decision regarding room allocation." The realisation that he was to spend the night in the same room as her suddenly struck him, and he moved away quickly, trying to put as much space as he could between them. And I sometimes think that she is a child... he chided himself.

She nodded brightly, patting the bed beside her. "I thought we could lie down together," she said simply. He boggled at her, then opened his mouth once or twice but failed to find the words. She paid him no heed, busying herself with the bedcovers. "I promised that I would repay you allowing me to share your reverie," she reminded him, turning back and noting his flabbergasted look. She blushed intensely and looked away again. "I, um, thought I'd try tonight, since I seem to have learnt how to enter a reverie by myself -- and I assumed you'd be able to tell me what I had to do to let you join me."

He felt both relieved and disappointed, changing colour to match her own shade of pink as he realised how presumptuous he'd been in assuming what she'd meant. "I, ah, would like that very much," he stammered, scratching his head nervously before he moved over to the bed, lying down tensely beside her. Their hands met, and soon all the awkwardness disappeared as he calmly and softly explained what she needed to do to allow him into her memories. It took a few attempts, but eventually he felt himself being drawn into her past and a building that was both familiar, and not, loomed before him.

Welcome to Candlekeep, he heard her commune.