Qara had been unnervingly pleased to hear of her coming adventure, nodding eagerly though the Moon Elf had woken her at an early hour – ordinarily the idea of spending days with the likes of Casavir and Zhjaeve would have led to string of complaints and probably some abuse. Isaviel had the unnerving feeling that it was the promised presence of Ammon Jerro that had the girl in such high spirits. She probably thought she could gain more magical insights from him – something which sounded like a nightmare waiting to start.
Passing Neeshka's house as she left the keep and began a path through the bailey, Isaviel had paused in her stride momentarily, hearing the Tiefling's manic words quite clearly through the closed front door. It would seem that Mae'rillar had told her his intentions of his decision to stay, of the requirement that he travel to Neverwinter upon her return, and Neeshka had taken issue with his decision not to keep her company on her venture with Ammon Jerro and his unlikely band.
Bishop was already at the practice area when Elanee and Isaviel found Daeghun there, showing him a map and laying it over the top of a barrel, asking the Elvish ranger for the whereabouts of the Circle. Bishop watched Isaviel distrustfully for a long moment before stalking over to them and sneering down at the hastily sketched likeness of the Sword Coast. Elanee cringed from him, pointedly stepping over to Isaviel's other side.
In easier times, Isaviel would have found the subsequent interaction between Daeghun and Bishop highly entertaining. Both rangers, both marksmen, both expert trackers, they managed not to resemble one another at all. Their cooperation had been a tense affair – Bishop had taken it upon himself to attempt to rile the Elf before him, over whom he towered more than half a foot. But intimidation and gibes did not affect Daeghun as Bishop had expected, and the latter had been quicker to anger than his victim. However, they had managed to determine a route to the Wild Elf's last sighting of the Circle; on the northern outskirts of the Mere of Dead Men. To reach it they would have to arc around past the eastern stretches of the Neverwinter Wood, keeping well away from the High Road until it was absolutely necessary to cross it. Since these were not easy times, Isaviel was rather glad that her foster-father would not be joining them – Bishop's attempts at trouble-making would have only become worse on the open road.
As the hours wore on, Isaviel's lack of sleep began to pull at her consciousness. It had been Khelgar's turn to elbow her when she almost fell asleep into her soup in the banquet hall during their dinner. The Moon Elf had the grace to send him an embarrassed smile, rubbing at her eyes before surveying her other friends, tearing a piece of bread apart as she watched without eating a bite.
The room was bustling with people, most of them Greycloaks just relieved for the day or just about to go on duty. There were a dozen or so of the apprentice Many-Starred Cloaks at the far end of her particular table, one demonstrating a cantrip for summoning light while the others shook their heads doubtfully. Qara had been watching them with her lip curled up in derision, while Neeshka sat sullenly next to her, stirring her soup endlessly, ignoring Grobnar's happy chattering by her other side. Casavir was attempting to listen to the Gnome, but probably failing. The paladin was no expert in complicated mechanical functions, after all. Meanwhile, Elanee was chewing her lip as she watched Casavir eat, wringing her hands. It was not often that the druid undertook a mission without the paladin, who she clearly wished were always the shielding power by her side.
Sand, at Isaviel's other side, was discussing something about the Drow language with Mae'rillar, whose occasional, pensive glances towards Neeshka belied the argument he had undertaken earlier with the Tiefling.
Even Zhjaeve had joined them, and brought Aldanon with her, listening to his rambling with far more patient success than Casavir had with Grobnar. The Githzerai had even taken a piece of bread and was eating it steadily under her veil, watching the crowds of off-duty soldiers in the hall even as she responded to something her scholarly companion had just said. Of course, Ammon Jerro had not joined them for this farewell dinner, and all of them were glad for that, Isaviel assumed. She certainly was – not only had he killed Shandra for the sake of hasty, brutal vengeance, but he had known the truth of her mother and withheld it from her, preferring to let her consult with Mephasm. That reminded her of the book the Deva had given to her, and she wished she could find some time to read through it – but alas, yet another mission called her away.
"So, you see good Sir Paladin, with the appropriate tools and the right focus, I think it would be possible to animate the golem," Grobnar was saying, and the excited squeak of his proclamation had each member of Isaviel's group staring at him in confused silence.
"…what golem?" Isaviel asked tentatively at last, and Grobnar blinked at her with those large, bright eyes of his.
"Why, my golem of course!" he beamed, evidently elated that she had paid him some heed, "It is all but complete – just a few more cogs here and there, and an enchantment would have it walking and fighting for our war effort."
Isaviel was still struggling to form the appropriate questions through the tired fog of her thoughts when Qara stood sharply, looking more than a little annoyed by the attention the Gnome was getting. A moment later Neeshka did too, not looking at any of them, and they both left, evidently preferring to get ready to leave than spend any more moments with their long-time companions. Mae'rillar sent a pointed glance the Moon Elf's way and after a grudging moment of understanding, Isaviel nodded agreement with his silent request.
"Alright, Grobnar," Isaviel sighed as she stood as well, "You'd better show me that golem of yours once I'm back at the keep."
"Oh certainly Lady Isaviel, it would be my pleasure!" the Gnome cried heartily, but the Moon Elf was already stepping from the bench, heading out of the banquet hall in search of her friend.
She found Neeshka sitting on the doorstep of her own little wooden home in the main bailey, her pack by her side along with her weapon belt while she laced up her broad, fur-lined boots. The hood of her thick winter cloak was pulled up over her horns, concealing the markings on her hairline as well; had it not been for the faint glow of her pink eyes in the darkness, she might have passed for a human. As Isaviel approached she saw a small frown on her friend's face as the Tiefling pointedly did not look up at her, tugging on her laces a little harder.
"Neeshka…"
"I felt it when you summoned the devil," the Tiefling said sharply, flinching and pulling back into her hood when a cold flake from a new bout of snowfall landed on the tip of her nose, "Mae'rillar knows something, but he won't tell me. So I know it was you, and not Ammon Jerro."
"And why does that matter to you?" Isaviel demanded, hearing her friend's angry tone and instantly becoming defensive, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring right back.
"You think he's telling you the truth – about whatever it is you asked him. But he's a monster from the Ninth Hell, Isaviel," Neeshka shook her head in disbelief, standing and slinging on her pack, pushing back her cloak to fasten on her sword belt.
"The truth is sometimes more painful than a lie," Isaviel responded coolly, waiting a moment for those words to sink in, "I relied on that, not on him, and I was right."
"Oh right, yeah, fine," the Tiefling sighed, sarcasm suiting her high, normally cheerful voice poorly, "So you'll rely on a devil to tell you the truth, but you won't trust me to come with you. And you'll let Mae'rillar stay here…when he's just going to go straight to Neverwinter when we get back."
Ah, so that's what is really bothering her.
"Neeshka, you know I've never asked him to go with us when we leave the keep, and he's never shown any interest in it. He's been helping with the Greycloaks, though, more than I'd asked. I'm not going to stop him if he says he needs to leave for a while. Any help he offers me is help I will accept, and though I might ask, I'll never force him."
"You're missing the point," Neeshka whined, "You aren't taking me with you because you think the Circle and the Dwarves won't trust you if you have a Tiefling with you. A cruel ranger bastard with a bloodthirsty wolf for a pet, that's fine too. But not a Tiefling. That's too much."
"Neeshka," Isaviel sighed, shivering in the cold without her cloak, rubbing at her upper arms, trying to stop her teeth beginning to chatter, fully prepared to lie her friend's realisation away to keep her on side, "That's not it at all. Without you, those of you going to recover the shard will have no one more subtle than Casavir or Qara. I have a feeling Ammon Jerro will be just as…unmeasured if he is threatened. But…if you really don't want to go, and you'd rather stay with Mae'rillar..."
Thinking those words over, the Tiefling's anger did seem to subside, and her shoulders slumped in resigned agreement. Her eyes flickered up to meet Isaviel's and once again the Moon Elf noticed the sadness in Neeshka's look. Oh where were the days of the Thieves' Guild in Neverwinter, running the streets and laughing when the Watch could not catch them? It was her fault, Isaviel knew, as indirectly as it had been her fault that her mother died, but her fault all the same. Guilt was an uncomfortable and dangerously new feeling. So she breathed deeply and smiled as brightly as she could towards her friend, a look which Neeshka managed to emulate after a moment.
"Alright, yes, I'll go," Neeshka nodded, beginning to move past Isaviel now, "But Sand'd better look after Mae'rillar for me."
Isaviel snorted at the very idea of that being necessary, and the Tiefling's look brightened more as well. No one was better at buoying Neeshka's spirits than Neeshka herself. Her steps were a little lighter – silent, as they always were – as she moved towards the main gates, where Ammon Jerro was already waiting on his horse, several Greycloaks mounting up beside him. The Tiefling passed Grobnar, who was standing on the path up to the keep to wish the leaving band farewell, and ruffled the Gnome's hair affectionately. He blinked up in surprise at Neeshka, but offered her a smile nevertheless.
Ammon gestured impatiently to Neeshka as she approached, and she just stuck her tongue out at him childishly. Qara and Zhjaeve were not far away, Casavir a mountain of metal and furs at their heels. The Githzerai was more hesitant than Isaviel had ever seen her when faced with a horse, watching Qara intently as the sorcerer mounted up before making a clumsy attempt herself.
Isaviel was smirking through her shivers as she trod through the thinly falling snow, while Qara and Neeshka were not holding back their sniggers once the Githzerai finally got onto her horse, which was starting to toss its head indignantly. Tellingly the Greycloaks going with them, their wagon of digging gear and camping equipment ready, looked to Casavir and not to the more knowledgeable Ammon Jerro. The warlock did not fail to notice, and just shrugged, wheeling about to regard Isaviel and the others remaining for the night as they gathered behind her.
"Be watchful," Isaviel reminded the leaving group, "We expect the King of Shadows to send a force to stop you recovering the shard."
"Of course," Zhjaeve nodded, her gentle voice carrying in the still bailey, with only the distant clank of patrolling soldiers to compete with her words.
"We should be leaving. There are still several hours of travel available to us before we stop for the night," Ammon Jerro put in gruffly now, and Casavir nodded solemnly, rumbling commands to the Greycloaks while Isaviel gestured to the men on the gates to open the way for her friends.
Nodding to Isaviel and her remaining companions, Casavir, Zhjaeve and Qara all turned to leave, following the grumbling wagon the Greycloaks were driving with them, Elanee calling some druidic blessing in their wake. Neeshka lingered, in spite of Ammon Jerro's withering stare, and Isaviel felt a form shift to her right as Mae'rillar moved forward swiftly, somehow hooking a foot on the bridle strap of the Tiefling's horse. The Drow had a hold of the reins as well to steady himself while his free hand moved to the back of Neeshka's neck, pulling her down to him and meeting her halfway, kissing her for the whole company to see.
Sand chuckled to himself and turned back to his house, shaking his head, while Bishop, just joining them, let out a long whistle. Isaviel averted her eyes, approaching Ammon Jerro who stared down at her with eyes like cold steel as she came closer.
"You and I must have words when I return from the Ironfist Stronghold, Jerro," she told him grimly, and his expression did not waver, "You have been keeping things from me, and I have many questions."
"No doubt," the warlock gritted out, grunting in relief when he noticed Neeshka finally spurring her horse through the opened gates after their already departing friends. He said nothing else, turning his horse about so sharply that Isaviel had to jump back in surprise, galloping out with the gates beginning to groan shut just a moment later.
"Well, that wasn't half cryptic," Khelgar noted with uncommon insight, earning him a disbelieving raised eyebrow from Elanee, who was so well swaddled in her cloak that Isaviel felt herself shivering more from the thought of warmth.
"No one's more cryptic than Ammon Jerro," Isaviel denied, pulling the wine bottle Bishop held straight from the ranger's unsuspecting grasp and taking a long swig as they all moved back towards the keep, Grobnar humming a tune by Elanee's side.
"So this is our unlikely band, is it, Captain?" Bishop sneered, taking back the wine bottle with a less than gentle tug, "A Dwarven fool, a whining little girl, and a useless halfman?"
"And a brutish drunkard," Isaviel smirked up at him, tapping the bottle he held pointedly, skipping out of his reach when he made to grab at her as possessively as he had his wine, "Don't even think about it, ranger. I'm going to bed. And I plan to sleep until the moment we must leave for the Mere."
Neeshka had never been so underwhelmed by any mission in which Isaviel had suggested she partake. The most trying things over the two days of travel had been the cold, unrelenting snowfall, and the increasingly insufferable company which she had been forced to keep. At least Ammon Jerro and Qara had ridden up ahead, alternately raining fire down destructively upon the deep snow blocking their path, but Casavir and Zhjaeve had proven to be dull, untalkative riding companions. There was not even any scenery to keep her distracted, because the falling snow filled the air, when they were not flanked by endless, dead white forest. She already missed Mae'rillar terribly, and Isaviel too. More than anything, she missed a real bed and a warm fire.
Behind them the wagon rumbled, groaned and sometimes shrieked worryingly in protest along the disused, frozen path they took south to the location of the shard Aldanon had promised was buried somewhere along this road. It all seemed a little too convenient to Neeshka, but she did understand that uncovering this last vital piece of the Sword of Gith was just as important as Isaviel's mission to seek the aid of the Mere and the Ironfist Clan. But it was certainly far less entertaining, with far worse company, and for two long days the Tiefling road through the cold, biting snow between a heartbroken paladin and an enigmatic Githzerai. Her legs were numbed and tired all at once, and she wished she could bring herself to ride a little closer to the pair ahead of them who conjured those delicious, warm flames. But the idea of spending more than a few moments in the company of Ammon Jerro and Qara meant that she hung back, and the only hint of the fires they flung ahead was the occasional wisp of smoke and the slosh of melted snow and ice beneath her horse's hooves.
At the end of the second day, Ammon Jerro finally held up a hand for them to halt, and Neeshka could empathise whole heartedly with the relieved grumblings of the Greycloaks behind her. The previous night they had stopped to make camp far later than this, and knowing Ammon Jerro's unforgiving mind set, that meant they must have reached their destination. But no one bothered to tell Neeshka anything.
The Tiefling did not want to endure the misery in Casavir's eyes long enough to find out, so she eased her tired, frozen body from her horse and left the Greycloaks behind her to deal with the animal as she slipped into the snowy woods ahead. She could hear the groans of relief as her fellow travellers also dismounted, while she paused amongst the deathly still trees by the roadside to shake out her stiff limbs. Pulling her cloak tightly about herself, Neeshka winced against the icy wind cutting through the snowy forest, not even bothering to look up at the featureless, cloudy sky. She could not remember when last she had seen direct sunlight, and was looking forward to the fire that would soon be crackling warmly in Ammon Jerro's chosen camp…
An explosion of flame shook the ground beneath her feet, accompanied by a few yelps of surprise, and the Tiefling froze in her solitary position as a ripple of hot air rushed through the trees, shaking the snow from their gangly leafless bows. She was about to reach for her daggers when she heard Ammon Jerro's raging voice competing with Qara's.
"Are you insane, little impudent girl?" the warlock was roaring at the sorcerer as Neeshka approached the newly blasted area, just a little up the incline ahead and beyond a pair of large boulders typically left to mark out a distance to the nearest settlement.
"You said we needed to clear the area!" Qara was yelling right back when Neeshka reached the bickering pair.
The sorcerer was standing amidst an impressive host of fallen, smoking trees, gloved hands on her hips, pouting petulantly as Ammon Jerro approached up the incline, passing between the two boulders to reach her. Wisps of smoke were drifting form his own fingertips as his anger flared, along with the orange glow of the tattoos over his bald head, unprotected against the bitter cold. The Tiefling snickered at the pair as she jumped up onto the nearest boulder to watch the show, a few Greycloaks approaching from the adjacent road more cautiously.
"I did not tell you to blast a crater in the earth which our enemies will be able to hear – and see, no doubt – miles from hence!" the warlock finally managed to grit out through clenched teeth, waving an arm towards the south, "Or have you forgotten how close our enemies truly are? Ten more miles down that road and you will find that the snow and the cold are the least of your problems. The sky will turn black, and the air will smell of death. Must I have the holy warrior tell to you the story of Highcliff's destruction? The dead walk!"
"And I will burn them all," Qara responded imperiously, drawing herself up straight, eyes flashing, but it looked to Neeshka like the sorcerer was holding back a grin, and that frown was all for show.
Ammon Jerro's back was to the Tiefling, so she could not make out why it might be that the ordinarily angry Qara might respond to his raging like that. Whatever it was, the warlock did not respond, and rather gestured for the Greycloaks behind him to make haste. They quickly set about gathering up the fallen wood, which had been dried and not destroyed by the blast. Ideal for firewood, which was much in demand at such a time of year. Neeshka could not help but wonder if Qara had been more in control of her sorcerous actions than everyone assumed.
It took until the fall of darkness, early as it was at that time of year in the Frozen North, for the soldiers to set up camp fully, with Casavir to aid them – Ammon also took to hammering in the tent pegs with the rest of them. Qara just sat on a fallen log at the centre of it all, waiting to light the fire. She looked more than a little put out when Zhjaeve placed herself cross-legged on the ground beside her, the Githzerai closing her eyes and beginning to chant softly.
"What in all the Hells is she doing now?" Qara complained, watching the back of the Githzerai's head with disdainful green eyes, storming over to Ammon's side as he stood from his newly raised tent.
"As much as it pains me to say it, she is performing a necessary service," the warlock admitted, not looking at the young sorcerer by his side but rather pulling open the flap to his tent and moving to pick up his bedroll from the ground nearby.
"What important service is that?" Qara demanded, fairly stamping her foot at Ammon's evasive words while the warlock vanished inside his tent to lay out his bedroll and drag inside his bag, which had been brought along on the wagon. It looked to be full of books, which the sorcerer sneered at.
"She is determining the exact location of the shard's burial, so that the digging may begin tonight," Ammon responded at last, stepping back into view and sending a precise streak of flame right past the sorcerer's shoulder and into the newly gathered logs at the centre of camp.
"I wanted to…" Qara began to whine at the sight of the crackling flames quickly spreading into a large, warm fire, looking back to the warlock and finding him entirely disinterested in her words.
Neeshka, for one, headed straight for the fire, kneeling right by it and rubbing her hands together, fanning them out as close to the heat as she could get. Casavir soon joined her, dressed in simple travelling clothes and furs now, divested of his armour which he laid out in front him to try to dry out its frozen straps and frosted joints.
"It is a cold night," the paladin offered blandly with barely a glance towards Neeshka's recoiling form.
"Ugh, and now you've gone and made my horns itch, too," she complained, scratching at her hairline pointedly as she stood and he sent her a mildly apologetic look, without offering to move.
In spite of his increased grimness, his aura still prickled the Tiefling's skin uncomfortably and she hastily shifted elsewhere, watching the Greycloaks hopefully as they pulled a pot up the hill to start readying a warm meal.
A few hours later, when Zhjaeve finally opened her eyes and stopped chanting, explaining to the huddled company in general that she had discovered the shard's location, Neeshka would rather not have left the camp at all. The multitude of tents looked so inviting – even if she did have to share with Qara, who tossed and turned noisily in her sleep, muttering about fire and power even in slumber. But for all her wishing of a warm blanket and a sheltering tent, Ammon Jerro had soon denied her the promise of rest. He had insisted that she, Casavir and Qara, now having eaten their fill of hot food, join him, Zhjaeve and a few of the other Greycloaks in reaching the nearby location of the shard. He seemed to be expecting an attack.
So it was that while five Greycloaks' spades crunched into the frozen earth amidst the trees, Neeshka perched on one of the sturdier branches of an overlooking tree, just above Qara. She made it her goal to shake as much snow onto the sorcerer's hooded head as possible before the girl looked up at her warningly, and something other than flames flickered menacingly in her palms. Her fun spoiled, Neeshka huddled against the cold tree trunk, wrapped in her cloak, and watched the Greycloaks and Casavir, once more armoured, digging into the ground by the light of a flickering fire nearby. Zhjaeve had marked the spot very precisely, and no one had bothered to question her, not even Ammon Jerro, who now stood across the little fire from her. They made a strange sight – both dressed in clothes that were far too thin for the cold weather, and neither shivering or complaining at all…
Neeshka's eyes were beginning to close when she felt the air change, just before one of the spades clanged against something hard and metallic. The Greycloaks were otherwise distracted, bright-eyed and hopeful, bending down to pull free a heavy metal box, perhaps no more than a foot in length. Casavir had stood up, though, his eyes shining blue in the matching light of his hammer as he pulled the weapon free, looking about himself with stoic vigilance. Ammon Jerro grunted, and flame began to drip from his fingertips. Zhjaeve called for the Greycloaks to make haste, and Neeshka remained crouched in her tree, still and silent, listening to the nothingness, feeling the creep of the air, how thick it had become, crawling over her skin even through her winter furs. It felt wrong. It felt evil. She heard an involuntarily hiss escape her lips, and pulled her daggers free in a flash, comforted by the warmth of her vicious, enchanted mainhand weapon. It would turn a living man to a seething mass of red – could it do anything so dramatic to the forces of the King of Shadows?
Qara was cursing beneath her as the Greycloaks scrambled up, pushing the newfound box to the space between the sorcerer and the Gith, pulling free their swords with a unified ring, forming up around Casavir. Few words had been spoken, but they all understood now, and they all looked to the south, where the pull of evil was strongest, and the darkness seemed to writhe and grow blacker still.
"Hells," Neeshka breathed when she saw the spark of blue flame within that darkness.
Casavir let out a growl and the air about him seemed to brighten, giving strength to the men around him as they faced the monster gliding out of the shadows towards them. Behind the Shadow Reaver, now just metres away from the fighters, came half-seen forms, shambling, twisted, groaning. Undead.
The Reaver paused as it came into clear view, an ugly, rotten sight, dressed in robes of darkness, blue fire flickering inside its otherwise hollow skull. It let out a low, grating chuckle, but did not bother to speak. It understood that it brought terror with it, and no words could lessen or increase that fact.
Neeshka felt her teeth chattering from fear, not from cold, and involuntarily reached her tail down to pat Qara on the shoulder. The girl looked up at her in surprise, swatting the tail away as she always would have. There was a small frown on her face…and then she grinned, just as she might have with Ammon, and fire crackled from her hands in a sudden rush, engulfing her entirely with a little roar, leaving her untouched. Breathing deeply, the Tiefling looked up to face their foe, gripping her daggers tighter as Casavir and his men charged , Qara and Ammon unleashing their spells, and took courage from the fearless fervour of the teenage sorcerer unleashing fiery fury beneath her.