The old man stood before the fire, warming his hands as he listened to the quietening sounds of servants in the many halls of his grand Blacklake estate. Finally, after so many years, maybe there could be peace – or at least so he had dared to hope. It had not been such a hard price for them to pay, had it? For his silence. He always thought of this when he carried out his nightly ritual, when the darkness closed in and he could at once be glad for another peaceful day and begin the battle against his fear of the night…
"Dalren," a cold, harsh voice greeted from those dreaded shadows.
"Wh-who's there?" but the old man already knew. His time was up. There was nowhere to run – the first death had been yesterday, and this came as no surprise to him. For a moment he closed his eyes, shoulders slumping with the weight of his realisation, and then he dared to turn. He saw that figure before him, all too familiar, and began to look around the vast, richly furnished room with hopeless desperation.
"Lord Dalren now, I hear," the shadowed figure added mockingly, standing so still in the open doorway, utterly unconcerned. The whole house had crown quiet now, eerily so, and Dalren shuddered, knowing what that meant. "Quite a name you have made for yourself…on promises built from lies and swollen self-worth."
The intruder sneered at Dalren as he began to edge across the room, his hands fumbling along the mantelpiece. It amused him to see his old acquaintance as a cowering old man in the middle of a large, richly furnished sitting room.
"Please…I had no choice. I will – I will give you anything. And you…but you died, in the battle at West Harbour long ago!""
"Indeed," the newcomer responded, stepping more clearly into the light cast by the large fire and revealing a tall, straight-backed, robed man. His dark hood was pulled up over a face from which glowed a pair of white-grey eyes and lines of red and blue, veins of light pulsing across his cheeks and forehead, "Yes. My imprisonment was…most distressing. But how could I die when there is so much more left to do? You had no choice but to wait for a…death, and pray that it be quick, when you made your simpering promises and took your ill-begotten titles. You will not give me what it is I seek, though you are quick to promise."
"Will you…at least make it quick?" Dalren asked through fear-gritted teeth as green fire began to course down the other man's arms, along his veins to drip form his fingertips.
"I make no such promise," his doom replied, smiling coldly when Dalren tried to straighten up, to gather some dignity, "You will receive what is due to you. For your deceptions."
Green fire poured through the air, tearing through Dalren's body even as he crumpled to the polished floorboards, wondering at the unexpected numbness that fire sent through him after the wicked words of his attacker. Perhaps, he wondered as he struggled uselessly to focus misting eyes on the dreaded figure looming coolly above him, perhaps the price of silence had been too dear.
Isaviel realised she had been perhaps a little too hasty in allowing herself to feel relief upon opening the heavy, chipped old side-door of The Sunken Flagon. A blast of hot air sent her recoiling back against Khelgar, the smell of smoke and singed hair overcoming the even fouler smells of the night time Docks District.
"Please don't tell me this is normal, Isaviel," Elanee sounded resigned. She did not seem to immediately comprehend the seriousness of the situation, utterly out of her realm of experience in the busy, dirty city.
"Of course not!" Isaviel snarled, shooting her a startled look, "My uncle could be in danger!"
"Sound's like there's a battle ahead," Khelgar grinned, always ready for a fight, and never ashamed of that fact.
Righting herself and ignoring her companions' continuing comments, Isaviel forged ahead into the smog. Ahead, Duncan's voice could be heard raging with a string of expletives amidst the loud, incessant snarling of…a dog, was it? Amidst it all three high female voices slung insults at each other as if utterly oblivious to the inn owner's wrath.
The three new arrivals rushed inside the tavern area from the kitchens, the opening of the door allowing much of the smoke to dissipate. As they truly beheld the chaotic scene amidst the backdrop of several drunken patrons throwing punches across and atop the tables closest to the bar, a shriek rang through the room, a great tong of flame rushing forth, prickling Isaviel's skin and causing her to reel again from the unexpected pain. Fire had never hurt her before. This was strong magic – and she would brook no threat like that in her Neverwinter home.
"…Just because it takes you a shoreman's hour to cast a cantrip! I'm the one with the real power. You're just…amateurs," a petulant, girlish voice rose above the din of the brawl, vying with Duncan's threats for dominance.
Isaviel looked to the centre of the room to the see the source of the unusual flames. Three young women, dressed in shimmering, sky blue robes which looked utterly out of place on the mouldering map-patterned rug, were standing in the centre of the room. One of them was nervously trying to pull her expensive skirts from the snarling mouth of a mangy, wild-eyed grey wolf, while the other two stood facing each other, the speaker keeping magical flames licking at her fingertips threateningly.
"We practice restraint, Qara," came the response, "We do not rely on showy displays to prove that we are the ones with real power."
"Showy displays?" the young woman with fires in her hands sneered, her accent, just as those of her adversaries, marking her out as high nobility, "I've not even got warmed up yet," fury flashed in her eyes and arrows of flame began to coalesce in front of her open palms, "So why don't you just run along back to the academy instructors and your feeble Cloaktower aspirations before I set fire to this sad tavern and the whole sad street…"
"Oh no you won't!" Duncan interjected, "Or I'm calling more than the watch down on you!" he waded fearlessly between the two sorcerers, looking quite ridiculous brandishing his old notched battleaxe whilst still sporting his stained apron. His eyes locked briefly with Isaviel's and he nodded firmly.
The furious sorcerer just laughed condescendingly, but her rivals, the younger of whom having now freed herself from the wolf for the moment, glanced nervously at each other and then towards the three mismatched adventurers who had just arrived. Taking this as her cue, Isaviel stepped forward, unsheathing her kukris, looking for Khelgar's support only to see him charging headlong into the brawl instead.
"There will be no contests here, not in, not near this inn," Isaviel said firmly, and found that she meant it.
"We don't want any trouble with you," the two more nervous girls glanced towards Duncan now as he hefted his axe with as much menace as he could muster, seeing Sal managing to douse the last of the feeble flames curling about a charred chair nearby.
"Get ye gone then," Duncan growled.
"Fine. You might have got away this time, Qara, but at least you've in the Docks where you belong, where you can peddle yourself for cheap coin. Come, Glena, we have wasted enough time here." And just like that the two vanished in a hurried flash of light, leaving the wolf to pounce at thin air and land with a startled yelp on its lower jaw.
"I didn't need your help," Qara snapped, "In fact, I've a mind to teach you a lesson for underestimating…"
Her words became a yelp as Isaviel hurtled into her, taking her hand and forcing it behind her back, ceasing the swell of fire there, and the young woman staggered back, wailing, wild eyed with tears streaming over her cheeks.
"You're going to break my hand!" she shrieked, but no one even considered caring about that.
"You threatened to burn my inn down, girl. Restrain yourself, and we won't have to do that to you," Duncan suggested.
Still, a new bout of flame tried to arc from her free hand, until Isaviel caught her by the throat, forcing Qara to back up across the room until they hit a table and the Elf brought a kukri between them, giving her no choice but to stay against the wood. A man dressed in worn travelling leathers sat on a chair barely a foot away, a smirk playing across his features, a gloved hand running over the wolf's fur as it came to heel by him, still snarling at Qara, who was now whimpering pitifully.
"Please, please, just get off me and I'll leave you alone...
"Get off you?" Isaviel heard herself laugh coldly. She could taste blood, a red haze clouding her peripheries, and her back ached horribly where her wings had once been. Something cold was running down over her skin there, but she hardly registered that.
"Bishop! Stop her, or I'll…"
Duncan's voice rang out clearly, and she felt a rough hand on her shoulder, pushing her with enough force to send her staggering back and Isaviel looked up at the unfamiliar man who had restrained her to see him laughing at her. He caught her swing lazily, twisting her hand until she hissed and dropped her weapon altogether, his other hand coming around to grab her braid of long midnight hair and yank back her head, hard.
"I think you'd better calm down, girl," he told her in a drawling voice that was more mocking than threatening.
"Let go!" Isaviel snarled at the man, bringing her free hand to bear and slapping him hard on the cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. He did not move away from the hit, and his eyes darkened.
"Hit me again and I'll burn that blistered cheek of yours some more until it leaves a real scar," he did threaten this time, and now it was Isaviel's turn to laugh, attempting to hit him again anyway but soon realising her folly. A brief scuffle followed, but the man was laughing at her again, hardly trying and still easily fending her off.
"That's enough," Duncan's voice boomed with finality through the room, and the man let go of Isaviel, giving her a last push that unbalanced her enough to knock her to her knees.
"You're insane you monstrous bitch," Qara exclaimed, standing now, but backed up again quickly when the unknown man feigned a lunge at her, laughing heartily at her clear fear on his way back to his chair.
"By all the Hells, is there never a quiet night here…" Neeshka's voice sounded from the open front doorway and stopped with a gasp when she took in the scene.
"Take yer pick on conclusions," Duncan was saying as Isaviel dragged herself to her feet, looking around at her gawping Tiefling friend.
Duncan turned away from Qara for the moment to roar at the continuing brawlers, demanding they pay him back for all of their damage as well as throwing them out into the street with Khelgar's enthusiastic aid.
"As for you," Duncan turned on Qara again now after surveying the mess of shattered glass, overturned tables and scorched rafters, "You'll be paying for this too, girl!"
"I'm not paying you a thing," Qara spat, giving Duncan a disgusted look up and down, "You should have your little Elvish monster arrested for her attack on me."
The young woman was careful to keep Elanee between her and Isaviel, who retreated to the fire to let this confrontation play out without her, accepting Neeshka' hug of greeting distractedly. Her eyes wandered over towards the man Duncan had addressed as Bishop, to see his stubble-shadowed face still twisted in that smirk, and his eyes watching her intently as he kept a hand on the back of his wolf.
"Oh yes you will. Or that academy of yours…"
"But I left the academy…right after burning down the stables," Qara proclaimed almost proudly.
Khelgar let out a long whistle and winked at Isaviel from where he had taken up a place at the bar.
"Oh, sure. It's not like she wasn't encouraged to leave after such a noble deed as that, ha!" And for those words Qara shot him a truly venomous look.
Neeshka gave the ale-slurping Dwarf a disgusted look and redirected herself further from the bar, sitting on the only armchair in the room, on the other side of the fireplace from Bishop's seat, her tail swishing slowly over the side of the chair. He watched her moodily before standing with a grunt, stalking from the room with his wolf in tow. A new long-term resident at the inn, then? Duncan certainly seemed to know him, but Isaviel had never seen him during her previous thirteen month stay.
"If ye're not paying then ye're not leaving," the barekeeper was telling Qara heatedly, "Ye'll be cleaning tables here for me, ye will. And from what I've just heard o' ye' life story, you've nowhere else to go. Sal! Get this stuck-up little girl an apron. There's a lot to tidy here."
Qara, forced to sulk in silence by his tirade, flicked her heard petulantly and balled her fists. Fairly stamping her foot, she did not argue and allowed herself to be bustled away by the industrious Sal. Once they had left for the kitchens for cloths and mops, Duncan turned to look at Isaviel, and managed to smile brightly enough for a heartfelt greeting.
"I'm glad yer back, lass, and with some new friends, too" he glanced subconsciously towards Elanee in particular, who stood watching the tavern scene, having returned to the doorway to the kitchen she looking confused at best, fearful at worst, "And now we're all…calm again, I'll see that ye have hot baths waiting for ye soon, but first we have someone to go and see."
"At this time o' night? Khelgar exclaimed, fairly sloshing his second ale, which Sal had thoughtfully left for him before taking Qara away.
"He keeps odd hours," Duncan shrugged, "And he's currently holding my shard hostage – I am assuming ye have Daeghun's? Aye? Good then, it's settled."
"Oh, great. Please tell me he's really your best, best friend," Neeshka groaned.
"As a matter of fact, I can tell ye that. But Sand is…wilful, and has a wizard's curiosity. When ye left, he could scry no more than he ever could of that shard, but it seemed to have more magic when you were with it, Isaviel. That could explain all the Bladelings coming after ye and suchlike."
"Sand. Alright. We'll go to see him – just you and I Duncan," Isaviel nodded wearily. She had never met Duncan's wizard friend Sand, but she knew that he did not live far away, and more than anything she wanted the cool night air to soothe her troublesome mood, and hoped it might quell the searing pain in her cheek.
The Docks District of Neverwinter had not changed at all in the weeks Isaviel had been gone. At night the side alleys crawled with mangy dogs and on every corner was a beggar or a scantily clad woman – either way, they wanted coin. More shadowy figures could occasionally be seen when one knew to look for them, but generally Isaviel knew that they would pose no threat. As a good employee of the Thieves' Guild she was afforded some level of protection from the thugs Moire hired to combat the scanty patrols of the under-manned city Watch. In the ten minutes it took to walk from The Sunken Flagon to Sand's Alchemical Supplies shop she saw one blue cloak for nine of Moire's men.
Off in the distance could be heard raucous, drunken laughter of sailors by the quays, or the sounds of a brawl or three. This was a place of many taverns, too, and lights glowed from numerous establishments still busy and full of loud, inebriated customers. The smell of all types of fish, of salt and rotting food and refuse dumped from above into the rarely cleaned drains was all-pervading. Amidst it all every other house still had smoke rising from its chimney, mixing an aroma of dirt and ash that was cloying at best.
It was a cool night, as Isaviel had hoped, with a clear sky showing the moon, Selune and her Tears. To her relief Duncan was an understanding companion, not talking overly much, knowing she would fill him in when they reached Sand. She wondered how he knew so certainly that his friend would be at home and awake at such a late hour. Though with the ceaseless noise in this place she also wondered how one could ever have slept there. A few weeks away in the quiet marshes and she had forgotten all about the grimy, busy, lively city, apparently.
Sand's house was not large, with no windows above ground level, narrow but well-kept for a house in this district, standing a little apart at the end of a street, close to the tall walls bordering the river, across which the more 'civilised' Merchant District would have been visible. There was indeed light visible through its two broad front windows, fogged as they were, as Duncan had promised, and the door opened as the pair started up the few steps leading to that portal.
"Enter," a nasal, carefully intoned voice called from within.
Isaviel wondered how the door could possibly have swung open by itself. That is until she stepped inside and saw the great, hulking, vaguely humanoid form of a golem standing holding it open with surprising care for one with such large, mitten-like hands. It had no eyes and no mouth, metal sockets showing at the joints of its clay limbs to allow movement. It put her immediately on edge as well – that was not easy magic, and the formation of a golem required time, no small amount of skill and a great amount of talent and power.
Inside she found herself to be within a long, cluttered room, part study, part alchemy shop. On the right wall and behind a counter covered in books and various tools; an empty scrying bowl, a pestle and mortar, were many shelves reaching up to the bare rafters of the ceiling, full of stuffed jars of ingredients. Powders, potions, leaves, preserved animals or various disassociated body parts of such were visible. On the other side of the room was a long workbench for creating potions and an array of locked cupboards covered in sparkling runes and completed wards. The power of the magic seemed to ring in her ears.
In the alcove shielded by the curve of the skeletal stairs leading up to a panel-walled mezzanine was another table, behind which stood several bookcases around a doorless arch leading to a small kitchen area. Upon following Duncan's approach of this area it became apparent that a preened man was putting away some books in a particularly snugly located bookcase. His back was to them, and she saw that his shoulder length black hair had been combed carefully back, revealing ears adorned with numerous glowing, doubtlessly magical gems and rings. He wore a dark grey coat stitched about the edges with silver thread, but she did not fail to notice that it was fraying at the sleeves and lowest hem. His black boots, too, were cracked and faded, his leggings almost unnoticeably moth- eaten.
"Ahem. We've come to see ye about the shard, Sand," Duncan said eventually when the man continued to file away his books.
"Ah, but of course," Sand turned, an unreadable smile on a pale, slightly lined face. His grey eyes took in Duncan's untidy form first, sniffing rather more disdainfully than Isaviel would have expected, before settling on her and briefly registering surprise, "This is Isaviel? You are…much lovelier than I had expected of any kin to Duncan, however much he tells me of your fosterage."
Duncan rolled his eyes and nudged Isaviel, as if she might need reminding after those words of what her real intentions in the place were. She winced, and unslung her pack.
"I believe you have Duncan's shard…and I have brought another. We believe there may be more to be discovered from them when they are together."
"Hmm… it is worth a try, I suppose. But I have been able to detect only the very faintest residues of magic from Duncan's shard. It hardly seems that there could be much to be found here…" Sand looked as sceptical as he sounded, but went over to a cabinet and extracted a cloth-wrapped bundle from a shelf.
Isaviel extracted Daeghun's shard as Sand placed the one which had been left in his keeping upon the small circular table at the centre of the room, inviting his new guests to sit there, closer to the fire and the brighter lighting in the room. The moment the two shards were revealed, glimmering like liquid silver side by side on the wooden surface, all three of those gathered around them saw that something was different. There was a new sheen to their surfaces, an additional glow, like a mist shifting and twisting just beneath their surfaces.
"Now that is odd," Sand admitted, eager curiosity alight in his narrow eyes as he leaned over them, peering closely, "They have certainly changed. Give them to me and let me determine what my keen arcane senses can uncover…"
"You'll not be touching them, Sand. Not both o' them," Duncan snapped.
"Very well," it was the wizard's turn to roll his eyes now, "But perhaps you should be a little more gracious, my ale purgative is the only things that keeps you from being interred into the Tomb of Betrayers; a traitor to barkeepers everywhere."
Sand smirked when Duncan fumed, and inclined his head to Isaviel when she could not help but splutter at his joke. Then before the half-Elf could retaliate, the wizard closed his eyes, his long-fingered hands hovering close to the surfaces of the shards and began muttering arcane phrases…
A great cracking sound, as of thunder, shook the whole house, which was momentarily filled with blinding white light as a wave of force rippled out from the shard. Both Sand and Duncan, who were seated opposite each other, were knocked back off their chairs to sprawl on the floor in perfect synchronisation. Isaviel, however, felt no such blast, though she saw it curve about her, and she was spared from the indignity, much to her bemusement.
"Well…they certainly seem to have some resentment to being scryed," Sand groaned, dragging himself up from the floor, hair now sticking up around his head at odd angles, forcing Isaviel to cover her mouth to hide her smile at the ridiculous sight.
"That is the truest thing ye've ever said to me, Sand," Duncan agreed, wincing as he too regained his place at the table, his chair now rocking dangerously. His eyes were fixed upon the gleaming objects, as blue sparks faded from their surface, the look there equal parts awe, horror, fear and amazement.
"But what can you tell me about them? I think it's fair to say that they have more magic than Duncan's shard did before, isn't it?" Isaviel demanded, now wrapping up both items in the cloth she had used for Daeghun's and housing them in her pack.
"All I can tell you is that…these objects are beyond my experience. I suggest that you seek out the scholar Aldanon – he lives in the Blacklake District, the richest area of this 'fair city'…"
"Ah. Tarmas told me as much. He is well known in his field, clearly…"
"Not necessarily," Sand admitted, shrugging, "His field is not well known, after all. But Tarmas and I go back…many years. Tarmas was an understudy of his in alchemy shortly before the Battle of West Harbour, and told me much of Aldanon's eccentricities..."
"That's all very well," Duncan interrupted, "But the Blacklake was closed earlier today, Isaviel. It won't be easy getting an audience with this Aldanon."
"He speaks truly, I'm afraid," the wizard nodded, "Anyone in the Blacklake area is now trapped there. No one in or out, no messengers in or out, even for the nobles who live there. Quite cryptic…fascinating, really. A Lord Dalren was murdered just last night…the third in a string of similar attacks, and the Watch is careful with its nobles if not with the rest of the city. As I recall, a customer told me just this morning that the Cloaktower mages of this-oh -so reputable Neverwinter are said to have been involved."
"That means sorcery or necromancy," Duncan grunted, running a hand through his thinning hair, enough frustration visible on his lined face for both himself and his increasingly disgruntled niece, "Still, it's better than the Hosttower at Luskan. Might be they'll keep a few too many secrets, but they at least have some kind o' doctrine to follow." His eyes turned pointedly, a little accusingly, on Sand.
"I never would deny that," the wizard responded a little irritably, and Isaviel made a mental note to ask Duncan about his relationship with Sand – and how the latter and Tarmas were so well connected with each other and Daeghun too.
"There must be a way in though," Isaviel frowned, leaning back in her chair and looking past them both, straight into the flickering flame of the fire in the large, ornate hearth ahead, "The Watch must have control of the lockdown, even if the Cloaktower commanded it, am I right?"
"Well, yes," Duncan started, looking a little bemused even as comprehension dawned in Sand's eyes and an almost wicked grin spread across his face.
"If there were some way for you to gain influence with the Watch then you could probably acquire a permit from them to get into Blacklake. They are corrupt and lax lot – I do not think I have ever seen them doing much more than yawning at their posts while murder and theft runs rife in the cities all about," Sand nodded, "I would suggest…"
"There's always Marshal Cormick at the city Watch – he's a Harbourman, stationed with some Captain Brelaina in the central administration at the Merchant Quarter," Duncan put in, "He's been having his men put up posters for new recruits all year. With your skill, and those of your friends, it shouldn't be hard for the lot of ye' to get to speak to Aldanon with a bit o'…" he paused, seeing Isaviel's disgusted expression.
"Or you could seek an audience with the Thieves' Guild, if the thought of dealing with an ill-equipped bunch of corrupt scoundrels does not appeal," Sand suggested, not even bothering to emphasise the irony of his words, "And there is a third option…" he seemed to deliberately avoid continuing, throwing a wink Isaviel's way when Duncan was not looking. What did he have in mind?
"Daeghun had Tarmas tell us in absolute terms that you were to go to his old friend Cormick," Duncan blurted, and Isaviel's head snapped around to send a vicious glare his way.
"What makes you think I'd ever do just what he tells me?" she demanded furiously, "Tell me!" she demanded when she saw her uncle's look turn guilty.
"I'm sorry lass, I understand yer pain…" Duncan nodded patting her shoulder awkwardly, "But I can't go against Daeghun, he's yer father, foster or no, and…"
"What?" Isaviel growled.
"And Marshal Cormick is a friend of Daeghun's," Sand finished, "He witnessed our conversation with Tarmas. I'm afraid you are already expected and at least on some level you have no choice." There it was again, that suggestion of something more to his schemes.
"Come now lass, let's get back. Ye'll have the night to think it over," Duncan suggested, pointedly standing, "Remember it's just a way of getting to yer answers. Don't need to be anything more n' that."
"Fine," Isaviel frowned, glancing at Sand and still not standing, "But I would like to stay a while yet, Uncle. There are supplies that I and my friends sorely need."
"Wha- Now? Ye've only just got back. Not planning on getting into more fights just yet, are ye?" Duncan asked.
"No," Isaviel laughed bitterly, "But trouble has been following me all the way here from Meredelain. I want to know we will have the supplies to heal us if another surprise attack comes from the Bladelings."
"Alright. Have it your way," Duncan agreed, starting to move towards the door, pausing there while the golem opened it, clearly used to the shop's set up to an extent that he was leant an uncharacteristic acceptance of the magics therein, "I will see ye back at the tavern. And there'll be a hot back waiting for ye."
"It is almost like he deliberately did not understand," Sand smiled when the half Elf had left.
"I believe so," Isaviel nodded with a smile, "But I would rather skip the pleasantries. These shards have attracted Bladelings and Githyanki when separate. A group large enough to leave most of West Harbour in ruins went after Daeghun's. They have far greater power together, as we have seen, and they keep calling me 'kalach-cha'. I need answers, before these attackers of mine get lucky and you learn of my death," she leaned forward intently, her elbows on the smooth, rune-bordered table top, "If you know of a…better way for me to get into the Blacklake...if there is anything more that you can tell me now that Duncan is gone, I would be most grateful."
"Ah," Sand looked thoughtful now, "Kalach-cha. I have never heard that word before, but it must be a Gith word, a title if you have understood their usage correctly. Perhaps they have mistaken you for someone? Or perhaps you are that someone. Do not think that I have failed to notice how these shards individually display greater power when you touch them. Or that you were not affected by the blast earlier when both Duncan and I were..."
"Alright. I thought as much," Isaviel nodded, "And your third suggestion?"
"There is some serious trouble afoot at Old Owl Well. A band of Orcs has come closer to that outpost than ever before, and they seem better and equipped and more powerful than they have any right to be. What is more is that they have kidnapped a Waterdeep emissary, Issani. For a ransom, or political leverage, something dull-wittedly concocted. Regardless, the Neverwinter army would be a better place to acquire trust. Help them with Old Owl Well's troubles and they will reward you – the Watch need never know that you are selling all their secrets to Moire, because you will be beyond their ranks and into the Blacklake far too quickly. Ask Marshal Cormick about it and he will not be able to refuse you."
"A better plan, it's true," Isaviel's smile was growing now too, and she did not bother to even question the wizard's assumption of her Thieves' Guild connections, "Although you are suggesting I walk the line of double agent here. As well as day-saving hero."
"Of course," Sand shrugged, "I have already heard of your exploits at West Harbour, and you said yourself that you have fought Gith and Bladelings alike. I think you have it in you. You are going to need to if this is to succeed."
"I'd rather dunk my head in scalding water than work with those hounds," Isaviel sighed, staring up at the cobwebbed rafters of the long washroom, blistered feet propped up at the other end of the deep, circular wooden tub in which she floated.
From the other end of the room Neeshka mumbled an otherwise contented affirmative. Still, at that moment upholding the law – or at least pretending to – seemed a small price to pay for cleanliness. Isaviel envied her friend's choice to stay in Neverwinter while she had left for home. Revelling in the generous depth of the water, Isaviel allowed her slight, snowy form to drift up from the backrest, closing her eyes in relief as several of her pains ebbed away. Only the stinging of the blisters on her slightly burned cheek, from one of Qara's bouts of flame, along with the returned dull ache of the scar on her chest remained. At the thought of the latter her eyes flew open again and she traced the line with one delicate finger with its slightly pointed bluish nail. The scar ran diagonally from the centre of her chest to the base of the ribs on her right side, and its aching had returned following Sand's attempt at scrying. Almost as if the action had awakened it somehow.
"Maybe getting into the Watch isn't so bad after all – especially if we're not there for long, and if we're keeping with Moire," Neeshka said suddenly, rolling over in her tub and resting her chin on the edge to grin at Isaviel, her tail curling up into the air, sprinkling water droplets as it swayed slightly, "It could also be pretty useful, learning how they work, the Watch I mean. For when this is all over."
Surprised by those words, and startled by her own lack of optimism, Isaviel shifted slightly, settling back into her bath and looking towards her Tiefling friend. She regarded Neeshka quizzically, careful to keep her waist-length cascade of midnight blue hair in line with the heat of the fire behind her as it hung over the edge of the tub to brush against the floor, dripping onto the furs around her basin.
"So you intend to stay and help? You don't need to get caught up in all this mess about the Astral Plane and shards and stupid anti-Orc patrols."
"Hey! Of course I'll help. You're actually nice to me and you help me. And besides, it's so much more fun to double cross the Watch than avoid them!"
"Alright," Isaviel grinned, "Exactly what mischief can we make while we're 'in' the Watch?"