For Elgun, Port Llast was both a paradise on Toril, and a gods-be-damned curse on his soul. It was a refuge from years of fear and weariness, but it was a hell because he had to lie through his teeth just to earn a pint. And pints were all he lived for these days. He would need to earn more than one from his falsehoods to satisfy his thirst.
Every morning saw the same routine. He would waken with a pounding headache, the curtains in his room, chosen for their thickness, drawn tightly shut, as he fully expected to fear the brightness of the sun. Eventually he always succeeded in dragging himself from his bed to relieve himself of the night's consumption, and to make himself look at least half-respectable. Respectability went hand in hand with plausibility, as it turned out.
The more stories he could tell, the better. The better the stories the more flagons of ale or beer he could acquire for free. It did not matter really if they laughed at him, or behind his back, or if they were utterly taken in – so long as he received money or ale for his trouble. And this disaster at Ember had proven to be his most lucrative scam yet, because even if they thought he had fled like a coward or stayed as a hero, they did seem to believe that he might well have been there. Ember was not far away, and it was true that he had been known to go out along that road, when he was sober, to trade the wares his wife made.
A few more people had been willing to listen to his tales this afternoon; a larger crowd than usual had huddled inside the inn from the wretched weather, to find hot broth or fresh bread, probably both. Not so many were willing to drink by that hour; Elgun certainly was, but no one had yet obliged him. Still, there was some fun to be had in the rapt expressions on the faces of the children who had come with their parents to shelter from the rain.
As he began to lead up to his tale about Ember, Elgun noticed a pair of travellers look around at him searchingly. Their vocation was evident from their scuffed, mud-stained boots and practical travelling clothes. The man, wrapped tightly in a dark cloak, had a pensive look and piercing grey eyes set in a pale, angular face. Clean-shaven, with black hair carefully swept back away from his face, he was unarmed and as well-dressed as a practical traveller could be.
Elgun wondered if he could wangle some coppers off him for 'extra details'. The man looked very interested on how this tale would pan out. As did the Elvish girl by his side, though a look at her sent a chill of worry down his spine – true enough, she was striking, with that lovely blue hair, all a-tumble down to her elbows, and her eyes were large and gold. True enough, she was beautiful, even with that thin scar running down one cheek, for it did not mar the rest of her face…or at least, she would have been a lovely sight, but for the anger she exuded. He would have to choose his words carefully, he told himself. She might be small, but she was armed clearly enough; a kukri on each belt, and daggers doubtlessly concealed about her person. And that look. The look of menace, rage…and a strange calculated air to it all, like one who has too much to hide. Elgun understood that feeling all too well.
"…I had just lined up my arrows on the deer when I heard a growl. I turned, and there was the biggest, blackest wolf I'd ever seen coming right at me! Lucky for me I had my enchanted dagger with me. With its jaws only inches from my throat I lunged, and with a quick thrust of my blade, I cut out the beast's heart!" Elgun was just announcing.
This was the prologue to his version of events at Ember, and the inn's patrons were 'ooh-ing' and 'aah-ing' with at least polite interest thus far. His inspiration had been the large grey dog by the fire, blinking back at him with those yellow eyes. It looked remarkably like a wolf, but who would keep an animal like that for a pet?
"I was understandably tired from this unexpected turn of events, so after all of this fun in the Duskwood, I decided to head to Ember to rest. It was evening by this time, and the deer about my shoulders was heavy, y'know?" a few understanding nods, even as a third adventurer, even meaner looking than the Elf, approaching the group around Elgun, "Th-that's when I smelled the smoke. I ran there as quickly as I could, and what did I see?" he was careful to embellish his words with his best horrified look, as if reliving the traumatising moments of witnessing such a massacre, "The village in flames! Indeed! The defenceless people were being heartlessly slaughtered by cruel, evil men. There were dozens of attackers, heavily armed, aided by foul creatures – demons, I think."
"What did you do?" a boy at the front of the group asked, wide-eyed.
Elgun paused a moment, noticing that the man who had just arrived had come closer. Tall and leanly muscular, with a dark shadow of facial hair and the cruellest eyes he had ever seen, Elgun did not doubt this man was with the Elf. Though he was simply dressed in a tunic and trousers, he had a longsword at his hip, his hand resting on the pommel. That gave the storyteller pause, and for a nervous moment his eyes flickered up to meet the other man's. It looked like Cyric himself lived there.
"Wh-what did I do? Well, the only thing I could do," Elgun ploughed on now, "I attacked! I cut down two of them before they knew I was there, but the others, seeing what a threat I was, ganged up on me. I slew several before one of them snuck up from behind and knocked me unconscious. The enemy must have thought me dead, because when I woke, they had all gone and Ember was…nothing but ash and…well…embers all about me."
The less imposing traveller smirked wryly at Elgun's words, and the fraudulent storyteller watched him leaning closer to whisper something in the Elf's ear which made her smile slightly, her eyes meeting his levelly. She quirked an eyebrow at him, her anger apparently fading. It made him feel a little safer about his direction of the story. Maybe he was winning even her over? This other man, the one closer to him, however, remained unreadable. There was no anger in his expression, though doubt was evident in droves. But those eyes, they filled him with fear. Dark. Staring. Cold.
"And what about Ember?" the child asked now.
"Sadly I was too late," Elgun bowed his head, sighing dramatically, "Everyone was dead. There was little more I could do, so I returned to Port Llast."
The group of onlookers nodded and gave him their condolences. There seemed a general consensus among them that he had told at least some of the truth. A few pints of ale started appearing on the table by his elbow, and that brought him relief. Taking one up, he drank deeply, accepting the condolences offered his way and the pats on his arm as the group dispersed. But after his second draught of ale he put his tankard down to see that the familiar throng of patrons had gone, and all three adventurers had approached now. Their looks were hardly ones of those convinced.
"You saw the attack on Ember," the Elf commented flatly, and her tone suggested she meant quite the opposite.
"Y-yes, indeed. It was quite the traumatising experience, it would be most distressing to give you any more details…"
"You will receive no payment for your lies," the smaller, unarmed man told him coolly, shaking his head mockingly as he spoke.
"Then I'm afraid I cannot help you," Elgun responded, drawing himself up with a show of confidence and beginning to move past the group of three. For a moment he thought it might just have worked, maybe they were just a group of bullying ruffians and nothing more…but the cruel-looking man, a ranger from the quiver on his back, stepping in his way, catching him roughly by the arm.
"Try to leave without answering, and I'll hunt you down and cut your throat. Or maybe I will let you have a real fight with a wolf…and we'll see who wins," the ranger hissed.
Elgun heard an answering snarl. Looking down he saw the dog had come closer, its yellow eyes staring balefully up at him, sharp teeth on show. So it was a wolf. Elgun blanched and backed away, his hands up in surrender as he looked up to meet the man's eyes again.
"Got it?" the ranger demanded, and Elgun nodded quickly, backing up against a table. The confrontation had been too quiet for anyone in the rowdy, crowded inn to have overheard. No one seemed to be paying him any attention at all.
"Did you get a look at the leader of the group, perchance?" the Elf asked now, and her grim expression showed to him that she did not enjoy this as much as did the ranger, whose smirk was slight but evident.
"I-I did not…"
"And you say you were hunting deer in the Duskwood?" the less imposing man questioned languidly after casting the ranger a long, disgusted look.
"Yes, maybe I embellished it talking about that wolf, but yes. I have a family to feed."
"Funny that you say that, really. You see, it's a well-known fact in these parts that there are no deer in the Duskwood, and there never have been."
"And just how exactly did you get away from all those men? And demons? How did you manage to play dead for them? They could have smelled your blood, or heard your heartbeat," the Elf pointed out.
"I well…it was well away from the rest of the town. They must have moved far enough away to pay me no more heed…"
"I've heard enough," the well-groomed man sighed, turning away and putting a hand on the Elf's shoulder, utterly dismissing Elgun, "The man's a fool. I suggest we ask elsewhere, perhaps the travelling merchants. Mayhap one was going along the South Road as…" they both moved away then, and their conversation was covered by the noise of the busy inn.
Elgun made to move away now, reaching for another pint, but a rough hand grasped his shoulder and dragged him back with a startled yelp. A few people looked around curiously, but no one seemed too interested. Who wanted to confront the glaring ranger who appeared to have been so offended by the serial liar?
"If you keep on spreading your lies," the ranger growled, backing Elgun up now, around the corner to the currently closed kitchens, "Things will end very badly for you."
The door to those kitchens was padlocked, down a short, dark corridor, and it was against the hard, ridged frame of this portal that the cruel man slammed Elgun, a gloved hand gripping tightly around his throat.
"I…I…" the storyteller tried to speak but his words only came out in a gasp and a few pathetic wheezes. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, imagined his face going purple, and one foot kicked convulsively, his hands pulling at his attacker's wrist.
"Shut up, you pathetic drunkard. And listen to me well," those dark eyes were blazing with rage and malice, though the grip around Elgun's throat had loosened enough for him to breathe, "If you dare to tell anymore lies about her, I will hunt you down – and don't you doubt that I can – and I will kill you. Slowly." He spoke each word carefully, dripping with threat, and Elgun felt as though his heart had turned to ice in his chest.
The wolf was prowling at the mouth of the corridor, teeth bared, and that was the last straw for Elgun. He knew this man was not lying. And he did not want to die. Unable to speak, chin quivering with fear, he nodded several quick, shaky times as best he could, and the man smirked a derisive smirk, turning even before he let go of Elgun's neck and sent him sprawling to the floor. Just when it seemed the ranger was leaving, he turned back, using the force of the movement to send a hard booted foot colliding with the crumpled drunkard's stomach. He laughed a coldly and left Elgun wheezing on the floor, hardly daring to move even in the seconds of silence.
"That was poorly done," a gentle voice told Elgun pityingly.
He had taken a few minutes to unfurl himself; to catch his breath and sit up. Now he looked up with a fearful start, into calm blue eyes and a welcoming smile, though the speaker's face was otherwise hidden by the low cowl of a dark cloak. They offered a hand to help him up, and when he took it the arm that raised him was strong and steady. Stronger than the ranger's; strong enough to protect him, he fancied.
"Who are you?" the storyteller asked cautiously.
"An ally against our common foe. That man's love did burn Ember, and he, or she, will try to kill you if you spread your tales. But we can help you. Side with us, and we can keep you safe."
Ember was a charred shadow of a town. It smelled disturbingly like cooked meat, and flies buzzed about those forms which were not so blackened as…others. Neeshka did not think too hard on that as she, Elanee and Khelgar picked their way through the ruins. She did not like to look too long at anything here. White ash drifted thickly in the pond by what had once been the town hall, the rest blowing in the chill wind, some settling in Elanee's hair. Everything was broken and peeling, most of the houses just broken cinders, skeletal posts and rafters barely holding up. All was still and silent; eerily similar to how it had been when the Giths ambushed them…only now no one was hiding in their homes. There was so much more to see, but nothing new to hear.
Neeshka and the others had been scouting out the area, searching through the Duskwood for clues with little success; Elanee's woodland knowledge was somewhat lacking, as a druid of the Mere, and it had been slow going. They had bypassed Port Llast but been as meticulous as they knew how to be before finally moving on to Ember, aiming to get there at around the time that Isaviel and the others should. Those days since leaving Neverwinter had been disheartening and fruitless…and now they must witness the horror of the town that had been burned. No, Neeshka knew, Isaviel would never – could never – do something like this. She doubted that even Bishop would.
"This…this is…beyond evil," Elanee whimpered at last, shaking her head and coming to a halt by the well. Only this construction, at the very centre of the town, had gone unburned. The same could not be said for the little hut that had once stood around it, but the frame holding up the bucket remained, the rope still hanging all the way down.
"We'll do what we can to make this right, lass," Khelgar offered, looking up with an awkward sidelong glance at the druid and patting her on the elbow.
Neeshka found his words to be empty ones. There was no hope in this place, and there never could be. Tears stung her eyes as she gazed around at the ruins, Qara and Grobnar looking oddly endearing together huddled by the broken sign to the town. Neither had been willing to enter the charred mess, both wearing unexpectedly similar looks of fear and disgust. Neeshka wondered if it were the power behind all those flames that had ravaged this place which Qara feared so much – there was no way she had Grobnar's compassion.
Behind the pair loomed the dark of the dense trees, the Duskwood's echo, the road leading back down the hill to the lower lands where the forest truly began. Everything beyond the cliff, to the north, was endless dark trees and rolling hills, and in the other direction lay the Crags and their barren foothills. This was a place utterly separate, connected to the rest of the Luskan lands and those of the Lords' Alliance by that one broad road, joining onto the South Roads at the base of the cliff. There was a steep way up, and a steep way back down – the road south towards the hills curved slowly, dying out all the way. That was a hunter's path – whether you were hunting for game or for Giths.
"There's nothing here," Neeshka groaned once her eyes had swept all three hundred and sixty degrees around, "Nothing. It's just ashes and death and dirt and boiled blood and flies. There's nothing here. There's no proof of anything except a murder." Oh what wouldn't she give to be safe with Mae'rillar back at the hideout!
"I wish I could disagree there," Khelgar's shoulders slumped with a clank of mail, "But I can't."
Not for the first time the Tiefling found herself staring down at his burly, gruff, armoured form and finding the sight of him at once infuriating, endearing…and ridiculous. He always donned his armour and battle axe when they left Neverwinter, but still maintained that he sought the path of the monk, a path which suited him ill. As ill as did his clanking armour.
"There has to be…" Elanee began, shaking her head, when her words were interrupted by a pull on the rope behind her.
"What th-" Khelgar wondered, and all three turned to look now, when a second yank set the metal crossbar screeching.
Elanee rushed to the edge of the well and gasped at whatever she saw down there.
"Are you alright? We can pull you up! Just hold on!" the druid cried, and when Neeshka reached her side she stared down the well to see a gangly teenage boy shivering in the waist-deep water, staring up at them with eyes that look violet in the dim light around him. He said not a word, and did not look afraid. He just stared, and pulled on the rope again.
"It's the boy – the one who took Bishop's knife…" Neehksa's words trailed away when she saw the body floating by the boy, face down, a cut in the leather armour on their blood-stained back.
"She's right lad! Just you hold on, we'll get ye out," Khelgar called, and the boy nodded, putting a foot in the bucket and wrapping his arms around the rope.
It took quite some effort from the Dwarf to turn the high crank to raise the bucket, and he was puffing and red-faced from the stretch by the time the boy was stepping blankly onto the brick rim of the well. Neeshka could breathe at last once his feet were on solid ground – the rope had begun fraying about halfway up, and she had feared it could not last. She had the strong urge to hug the boy, or Khelgar, or both…but refrained.
"Here, you look freezing," Elanee was cooing, pulling off her cloak and wrapping it around the boy's shuddering shoulders, rubbing at his arms to try to warm him up.
"Thank you for your help," he told them gravely, those strange eyes never once looking around the town, never once taking in the scene, "And in return I believe I can help you. This knife saved me from the man who fell in the well before me. His fall inspired me to hide down there. No one thought to look," he broke off abruptly, his eyes focusing past Neeshka, "You have returned," he said softly, but somehow the words carried.
The Tiefling looked around to see Isaviel and Casavir making their way through the town. The Moon Elf looked pale and oddly vulnerable, her eyes wide and staring at she looked around, her gaze lingering where Neeshka's had not dared to. Beside the tall paladin she looked small indeed, and Neeshka found it markedly interesting that he did not look horrified in the same way as Isaviel, whose manner in this place was somehow more naïve. He appeared…unsurprised. Angry. Righteous. And the prickling glow of his aura was growing with every step, making Neeshka's skin itch. It always did, warring with her Demonic blood, an invisible flood of Tyr's power that only she seemed able to feel.
"Isaviel! We have found a survivor – not all was lost at Ember!" Elanee called, and the Moon Elf looked ahead as if seeing her three friends for the first time. She blanched and rocked back on her heels when she saw the boy, but he offered a smile her way and she seemed to grow more cautious than afraid. Neeshka noticed that now she approached with her hands on her kukris.
"You have beautiful wings, my lady. I see them now," the boy complimented once Isaviel was closer, by Neeshka's side, and five eyes blinked at him in confusion. He seemed unperturbed, his focus now utterly on the Moon Elf, "Though the Demons cut them from you, their shadows remain. Grey and shining."
"How do you know that?" Isaviel demanded, and the boy's smile did not falter.
"I see things in my dreams, and sometimes I see things in waking. I can see your wings. I foresaw Ember's fall. And I could see that the one who led the men of Luskan here was not truly you. He was tall and broad, and his image flickered back and forth from his true form to yours."
"Luskan you say?" Casavir asked softly, "Yet you have spoken to no one of this?"
"No. I have hidden in the well, but the man who died there carried this ring. And before I escaped there, I found this, as well."
He opened his palm, and inside it he had been clutching a steel ring, decorated all the way around with pointed shapes, and a little vial, within which remained a small amount of white powder. Neeshka wondered at how he had managed to keep it from filling with water. Meanwhile, Isaviel had taken the two items gingerly from the boy, who now pulled Bishop's curved dagger free from his belt and offered it to her.
"Many thanks, my lady," he told her, those words so formal and precisely formed, "Your friend's knife was invaluable." Its blade seemed to shimmer with just the slightest hint of a blue sheen in the sun now.
"Don't call me that," Isaviel told him reflexively, but he did not flinch, and she took the knife from him too, slipping it through her own belt, "But…my thanks to you as well. It may be that you have given me a little more hope."
"Would you testify in her favour at a trial?" Casavir asked of the boy, who now looked to him with a long, long stare before speaking.
"I will, for I know she is not guilty. And you…you must stay by her side. There are those who would darken her soul."
Bishop had been gone all day, and Isaviel was beginning to wonder if he would come back. He had expressed an intense aversion to going anywhere near Ember and had instead spoken of looking through the Duskwood for clues. He was an expert tracker, and she had agreed. But she felt oddly unstable without his presence, even after the boy's words – perhaps especially because of them. She knew without any doubt that he had been referring to the ranger when he had spoken of 'those who would darken her soul'. Everyone had thought it, and everyone had seen her flinch. Casavir had just nodded dutifully, and they had avoided an awkward silence by hurrying from the town, bringing the boy with them and re-joining Qara, who had been joined by Sand.
Grobnar had been attempting to console a weeping Shandra by the wayside, but Elanee had soon ousted him and they had headed back down the road to make a camp. There was no way they could make the journey to Port Llast in a whole day with the light beginning to wane and the boy so desperately in need of a change of clothes and a warm fire.
Thus they sat, Shandra leaning her head on Elanee's shoulder as they both stared into the fire, the boy sleeping, now dressed in some of Khelgar's spare clothes. They were hilariously wide for him, and just that little bit too short as well. But they would serve until his other things had been dried. Elanee had washed them and they were tied to an overhanging branch of one of the trees reaching down from the outcropping over the fire. Sand had propped himself up against that slight rise, a cloth-bound book in his hands, with a conjured orb of gentle white light humming mesmerizingly over his head to allow him the luxury of reading.
Grobnar was sleeping, too, snoring softly and huddled about his lyre for comfort. Neeshka was lying down, but her back was to the group. Isaviel feared the Tiefling had been crying. Qara, meanwhile, was watching the flames with intensity unmatched by any of those other waking travellers. She had refused to speak to anyone since they had left Ember, and the small frown on her face had been unwavering from then on as well.
Isaviel was just heading back to the fire, Khelgar having relieved her of watch duty, when she noticed their group had an absentee. A quick look around told her that he was not in the immediate vicinity, and Sand's look, pale eyes peering over the top of his book, was just a little too close to a smirk when he saw her turning about in confusion.
"Casavir has gone to the stream, Isaviel," the wizard told her as she approached him, "I believe he wanted words with you after your watch."
"What kind of words?" the Moon Elf asked cautiously, staring at her bedroll longingly. It had been a long day.
Sand made a tutting sound as he followed her gaze just to his left. Although she had become more wary of him of late, she still tended to leave her bedroll nearer his than some of the others. There was still trust there…and he was far more bearable, with his thoughtful silences and insightful comments. Nor did he snore, and his perpetual calm and realism made him a stabilising companion – In a way that such among her friends as Khelgar or Bishop were not.
"I do not think it can wait," Sand told her when she glared back at him wordlessly, "I can see you are tired, but it would not do to have more tension than necessary hanging over those in your little band. Most of us heard what our young ward said. All among we who heard know what he meant – or at least we think we do. And that assumption, left unmentioned, could cause more trouble. I am sure you do not want more trouble."
"Fine, you're right," the Moon Elf sighed.
Now she knew where to look she could see Casavir's broad form seated on the rocky bank of the stream, almost out of sight around the hill's outcropping. Upon silent feet Isaviel trod the soft earth into the near pitch darkness of the woods, just inside which ran the stream. All the same, Casavir did not looked around or even start when she slid onto the rock beside him, watching the few strands of moonlight which had fought past the canopy playing on the tinkling waters.
"You wished to speak to me," Isaviel stated, looking around at his set expression.
Combining her unhelpfully monochrome night vision with the fragile moonlight, she could make out the blue gleam of his eyes, and the slight lines around them. Evidence of smiles – yet he gave her so few. None of those in her group would have described him as a happy man. He was calm, reliable. Not one for smiles. Not with her. Not with any of them.
"I did," Casavir admitted, placing his hammer on the pebbles at their feet, its blue glow just about bringing enough light for Isaviel to see him clearly now in day vision – and it would certainly illuminate her for him, "I do not want the boy's words to trouble you."
"An interesting phrasing," the Moon Elf smiled wryly, shaking her head, "Is it not more honest to say it would do us no good to pretend he wasn't talking about Bishop? Of course he was. Who else could there possibly be? What do you care if they trouble me? Aren't you relieved that a seer agrees with your dislike of Bishop?"
"I am never pleased where dislike is involved, my lady…Isaviel. I take no pleasure in my distrust for Bishop…"
"Of course you do! No man maintains hate without taking some satisfaction in it. If nothing else it makes your honour shine all the brighter."
"And it dims yours," he told her, his voice suddenly sharp, "I fear there will be a day when you can no longer see Tyr's light in that hammer. Though he is a just god who takes no sides in good or evil, my order does. He has bestowed that light so that I can judge those I must judge, and that I can do it justly. Whether they are enemies or foes."
"But you can always see the light. How do you know if others can?"
His pause was a long one, and he watched her closely before speaking again.
"It is different for me, as the wielder of the hammer. But it is not for me to judge you, or any others. Not directly, unless Tyr wills it – when it is necessary. Ordinarily, it is for those who know what to look for, in themselves, from an outward sign like this hammer or otherwise, to judge how best to live their life. I would prefer it to be a path of honour, of goodness. But that is not always available, or possible…or wanted."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Isaviel demanded, biting her lip when she turned to see the paladin was much closer than she had expected.
"You are nervous," he noted softly.
Her heart flipped in her chest, and she wanted to turn away from that look. Yes, she was nervous – of him, of his judgement. Of those bright blue eyes and what they did to her pulse. She felt herself beginning to blush, and turned away quickly, veiling her face with her hair. But her eyes looked back to watch him, and when she did, she saw Casavir's smile – it was a slight one, but it was there. And it was a gentle look that reached his eyes and seemed to make them twinkle in the light. Something had pleased him, and it was as though he had read her mind.
"What do you think of what I have seen from the hammer?"
"I believe there is more good in you than you wish to admit. You do not need to fear to be kind, my lady…Isaviel. Goodness, and wishing to be good, makes you strong, and wins you friends…and love," his conviction was mesmerizingly intense, but she recoiled a little at those softly spoken words.
"I do not wish to be needlessly cruel," Isaviel corrected him, and Casavir shrugged in acceptance, maintaining that enigmatic smile, "But surely that's not all? Did you want to have a private conversation about how morally wrong I am or did you want to warn me away from Bishop?"
"Both and more, if you will suffer to listen to me," Casavir admitted, "It is no secret, the enmity between your ranger and I."
"My ranger?" Isaviel scoffed, and the paladin's smile was utterly gone, "He travels among us to spite Duncan. He seems to owe him some kind of debt, but…"
"I am not a fool, Isaviel. He would have us all believe that he is here to make Duncan feel uncomfortable, or that he wants treasure or misplaced glory or just adventure. All of those things probably come as added bonuses to him. His one redeeming feature is that which is most dangerous for you, and thus for all of us. We, the rest of us,follow you still because we know that it is safer for you to learn more of the shards you own, since you cannot be free of them. We have followed you here because Luskan's claims are cruel and unjust. I think that on some level he feels those goals as well…"
"What's his 'one redeeming feature' then?" Isaviel demanded, folding her arms and glaring at the blank-faced paladin beside her.
"His care for you. He might lie about it, or try to change the emphasis of his goals to other things. But he wants you. Perhaps he loves you. But his love is a stale thing, it hides a pervasive rot that comes from his soul. He knows he has power over you, and he will use it to justify his own cruelty. He brings out the worst in you."
That sounds familiar. Neeshka had told her the same thing, and the realisation grated. Yet Isaviel bit back her retort, reigning in her anger. That would seem weak, overly emotionally led – that was the last thing she needed when discussing Bishop with Casavir. She had watched him closely as he spoke, listened to the tone of his voice, which he tried so hard to keep even.
"You hated him before you knew him," she pointed out, and the paladin's expression flickered.
"He is a Luskan, with the accent and trappings of one. And he was far from welcoming to me when first we met. He spent his time attempting to divert you, and trying to undermine or insult me. Men who respond to a paladin like that are never good men."
"That's awfully judgemental," Isaviel agreed, narrowing her eyes at him, "But not very just. You do not judge Neeshka so quickly, though she hates your 'aura'. And she is Demonkin, surely a more grievous threat than being born in Luskan or its lands?"
"She was not born in the Abyss."
"I believe she was, Casavir."
The paladin flinched, looking away, staring up at the silver-speckled canopy. She could see her words unsettled him – it was too easy to pick out inconsistencies in a faith so hopelessly idealistic as his. As it always did between them, silence had descended. If they were not passing judgement, or arguing over who they passed it to, it seemed they had nothing to speak about. That realisation gave her an odd sinking feeling, a little rush of sadness, perhaps regret. But she had to win. She had to feel safe in her choices, and Casavir seemed only to fight against those.
Wordlessly the Moon Elf stood, and the paladin did not move to stop her – he did not look around at all. She had taken several steps back into the darkness between the blue beacon of his hammer and the camp's bright fire when he spoke again.
"We both know that is different. Neeshka's heritage makes her distrust me, but my instincts make me distrust Bishop. She inherently fears me; I understand that we should fear the ranger. He is not to be trusted…I do not like the way he looks at you," he did turn now, and his expression was imploring where she wished it were frustrated, "You are twisting the truth to escape its hold on us all. Neeshka may have been born in the Abyss, but she was not there for long. We both know she was brought up by priests of Helm – and however much she has scorned their doctrine, and the law as well, she cried for the dead tonight. Her caring makes her a worthy friend at your side. Bishop would not cry, he could not and he would not…"
"He brings out the worst in me, and on and on and on. The boy claimed to have foreseen the destruction of Ember, and somehow he knows I am not responsible. Those are things he knows. And these have been proven. But how do you know he isn't just saying those things because he wants to affect some other future he has seen somehow? He won't even give us his name – how do we know he really has our best interests at heart? And he might not have been referring to Bishop at all, though you are so quick to assume so."
Even as she had spoken those words, she had heard the denial as surely as Casavir did, and Isaviel swallowed the taste of defeat. She flung her hands up in frustration and started to turn away, but the paladin was standing, and caught her gently but firmly by the arm before she could make her escape. Looking back around, she saw no judgement in his eyes, not for her, and he let go of her before she could think to pull away. His smile was a sympathetic one, and it made her heart ache…and her soul revolt.
"Please, think on what I have said," he requested gently, bowing his head a little to speak to her, as close as they were.
Staring up at him, Isaviel paused for a long moment before re-finding her composure, forcing her face to become a mask for her emotions once more. Stepping back from him, she put on a smirk and just shrugged, something which made him raise his eyebrows expectantly.
"It is of course up to you, my lady," Casavir agreed now, turning away and heading back to the rock, to sit quietly by the stream by his glowing hammer.
Isaviel felt the weight of his disappointment acutely, but knew not what else she could have done. So with a sigh, she closed her eyes and reached out to the shadows, finding solace in her lack of corporeality and letting the darkness pull her to her bed. But once she had lain down and sleep had taken her, the dreams swiftly turned to nightmares. Flames, and death and burning, burning, burning. The tearing pain of a jagged knife down her back and her wings dropping to the ground, limp and bloody. Casavir's cold, hard armour digging into her back as he held her tightly, to restrain her before she could…before they would…
"Isaviel! Isaviel!" Sand's voice woke her, and she sat up with a gasp, her forehead almost colliding with his as she did so. His hand was on her shoulder, his voice urgent but whispered. His eyes were anxious as he stared down at her.
"What is it? Is something wrong?"
"No, no," he gestured to the camp, where embers alone remained smouldering in the remains of the fire, all of her friends sleeping now, and the boy too. Casavir had taken up the watch at some point; she could see the gleam of his armour in the moonlight over by the road.
"Then what is it?" she looked to the wizard with confusion, but her heart was still racing, and she knew the fear of her nightmares still shone in her eyes.
"Your dreams. You were thrashing in your sleep, muttering and cursing. I feared you might yet wake the others," Sand admitted as they both moved back to lean against the embankment behind them, "I know you would not want that – if nothing else, they would worry."
The Moon Elf nodded at that, her eyes large with the fear that made her too vulnerable in that moment for her own liking. She could feel tears stinging her eyes, and saw Sand's expression soften even more. He brought up a hand to brush aside the first drop that touched her cheek, and she let him put an arm around her shoulders and pull her to him. Such calm, unquestioning comfort felt alien to her, and it was all she could do to hold back more tears when he kissed the top of her head.
"These dreams will not leave me alone," she told him after a deep breath, finding the rhythmic beat of his heart guiltily comforting, "Every night since the battle I fought in at West Harbour."
"They will in time. We all suffer them, those of us who care. Though West Harbour was not good to you, it was your home; the place of your birth. It was the first place where suffering mattered against you, though I know it is not the first place in which you killed. Take solace in how much you care, though you pretend not to. And that the Giths are gone. And one more thing…"
"What's that?" she sensed his smile, though she could not see it.
"The items the boy gave you – they are blessedly useful. A Luskan ring, and alteration powder. Regarding the latter, that is the medium by which one may alter their appearance. If the boy will speak for us, and present the items before a jury…you may not need to fight the trial by combat at all."
The swamps smelt of evil, and the shadows were so thick this far into Meredelain that Daeghun could feel them resisting his steps, even when he doubled back, fearing he could become lost. This would be his last journey through the Mere, he feared. Such pervasive corruption was all too familiar to him, even after the decades. It reminded him of death, and the clash of steel. It was in these swamps two and a half decades ago that he had first felt the terror of the King of Shadows, and he had hoped it would also be the last time. Alas.
The archer's steps were ever more hurried as he trod the soft, mossy ground, expertly avoiding the sinkholes and hidden pools from some forty or so years of practice. It was not fear that spurred him on his path, however, but rather determination. He had seen the blue fires, out there among the ruins, as he had dreaded that he would, and he knew what that meant. They were here; they had returned. And West Harbour was doomed.
Daeghun's heart grew cold as he thought on the death that must surely follow. He had begged Tarmas and Georg Redfell to leave, to abandon the rebuilding of West Harbour. But the wizard was too hopeful, and the mayor too stubborn. They could see only the greener moss, the re-emergence of the fish and the birds – even the sightings of prowling marsh leopards had pleased them. They took them as signs that the poor harvest had been just a part of the usual cycle of life; a bad year made a farmer's life a hardship, but they could survive it. Neither Tarmas nor Georg saw what Daeghun could, because they did not want to. No one wanted to admit that the shadows were returning, that the ancient threat, decades gone, had returned. They were optimists, not realists. Daeghun was a realist. And if West Harbour would not listen, then he must find one who could.
The Elf's strides turned into a run when he heard the first distant shout, followed by a great crash as of a door being smashed down. He could not see through the thick night-time fog, his own steps barely illuminated by the moonlight. But he could hear the destruction, reeling to a stop when the wails became a great, long chorus. He was too late. West Harbour was lost. All of it; lost.
Steeling his nerve, he began to creep closer, down the hill at which the swamp-proper ended and the town's confines began, past the first wooden palisade, beyond which stood one of Retta Starling's prized apple trees, withered and barren from the pestilential year. The sounds coming from the village were gut-wrenchingly painful to hear, and still he crept on, up to that tree, leaning against its cracked, diseased bark as he notched an arrow and looked ahead, here where the fog thinned…to see death flooding the village. A tide of amorphous darkness seemed to be surging through the streets, coalescing into tall forms, some more human than others, armed with serrated swords and cold evil. The dead came with them, ancient and rotting corpses, twisted and shambling, and skeletons too.
"Great Chauntea!" Daeghun hissed, seeing the blue fires springing to life in the eyes of each of these creatures, seeing them knocking down the hastily barricaded doors of those he knew so well.
He saw Retta Starling and her children dragged out from their home, butchered along with all the others who had tried so hard to rebuild the town. Georg Redfell roared in great rage, only half-armoured, and swung at the village's attackers with his greatsword. One arc of the blade took out one zombie, but another soon replaced it. Another swing cut through one of the shadows…only for it to reform, and reach for the man, whose eyes had gone wide now in fear. Though he could not touch it, it could surely touch him. Its hand closed around his throat and snapped his neck like a twig.
Daeghun's simple arrows would be no good here. He watched in horror, in anguish, as the life of the town was pulled apart, and watched as Tarmas died, but his arrows did no good, and nor would his rage. He had to leave, and it must be now. If no one could warn Faerûn, then everyone would die. With a heavy heart, he took up his bow and turned away from West Harbour, vanishing into the swamp.