Once again, apologies for my slow posting time, I have been really rather unwell these past three weeks. But hurray, here's the next chapter! Hope everyone's had a wonderous Christmas/Yuletide/Saturnalia/Winter festivities etc.
And for those who might have wondered, I imagine Sand to look somewhat akin to Loki from Avengers/Thor 2, only less evil. It's something about the hair, and the wizard robes he's wearing at the beginning of the game ;)
When Isaviel had entered the never-before-used War Room, she had expected to witness new things, but new things of the kind at which one might roll one's eyes or even yawn with boredom at the tiresome pomposity of it all. She had not expected to enter the room – which was indeed furnished with all the expected trimmings; an enormous Duskwood fireplace, multiple hangings and displayed shields emblazoned with the heraldry of Neverwinter – to find an enormous metal golem standing proudly in the far corner. Had it not been for her multitudinous acquaintances, most seated around the large circular war-map shrouded table at the centre of the room, her hands would have reflexively gone to her weapons. As it was, she took the moment to truly try to comprehend what was going on – the confused expressions on her friends' faces she did understand, but why ever Grobnar might be standing in front of that golem beaming so proudly, with Aldanon at his side, was still beyond her.
The lord of Neverwinter sat upon the largest, most ornate chair, flanked by Nevalle and Kana, looming over the point on the war-map which denoted Luskan, while Sand, Casavir and Qara had placed themselves at various other points along the Sword Coast. Ammon Jerro, flanked by two armed guards, sulked across the table from them, looking in from the point marked as Triboar. Zhjaeve, wrapped in a thick cloak and with a cane by her feet, was the only member of the group to have sat at the southern end of the table. She had looked to Isaviel with the rest of them upon the Moon Elf's entry, but the Githzerai's eyes showed her pain, even if the veil she wore hid her full expression. It was a little unnerving to think that the recitation of the true names could be that gruelling – would it be possible to face down more than one Reaver?
"I believe for once I am in accord with our Knight-Captain," Lord Nasher's deep voice, disarmingly attempting to cut through the ringing silence with a hint of cheer, brought Isaviel's attention back to the current matter at hand, "I believe I am not quite comprehending what our Gnomish…associate is intending to impart to us."
"Perhaps put more succinctly, my lord, we are – for once – all in accord," Sand offered wryly, although his expression showed a hint of nervousness when his eyes met Isaviel's.
She regretted the shared look instantly, averting her gaze and feeling her cheeks grow warm. What was she supposed to think amidst all this turmoil when she had all but offered herself to him, only to be rejected? She had seen he wanted to kiss her, but his duty had pulled him back.
"Indeed," Casavir agreed, turning in his chair to face Grobnar once more, "Perhaps you could explain how you…acquired this construct?"
A look towards Grobnar showed that the Gnome was now regarding her expectantly, nodding his head, a new gleam of excitement in his eyes where there had been only teary sadness after Elanee's death. The construct behind him was impressive, some eight feet tall and made of jointed plates of ridged black metal which glinted with a silvery iridescence in the light, its two arms ending in enormous lightly curved blades. Its head consisted of a large spiked helmet, within the eyeholes of which shone a soft violet light.
"You made this?" Isaviel breathed at last, not sure whether to be horrified or amazed. Perhaps both emotions together seemed apt, "Does it…work?"
"Does it work?" Grobnar fairly jumped into the air, "Oh, yes indeed!"
"And so fine-tuned it could serve you wine in a crystal goblet," Aldanon offered helpfully, his gaze wandering, "But oh, only if you gave it some hands…"
"I can vouch for its reliability," Sand sighed at length, fidgeting nervously with the edge of the fraying map when Isaviel looked to him, her stare harder than it had been before, "I have had dealings with golemcraft before, as you well know. It should prove quite useful. Although why, Grobnar, you have thought to lead it all the way up here is beyond me."
"Why, to show our noble leader, of course!" the Gnome exclaimed, stepping aside freely when Isaviel moved past him, daring to touch a hand to the construct's cold metal while the others spoke amongst themselves.
Instantly, she felt a hum of power, and pain shot through the scar over her heart like the stab of a blade. Hunger. Purple lights flashed behind her eyes, and she snatched her hand away with a soft gasp.
"Everything alright, Isaviel?" Aldanon asked kindly, putting a hand on her arm when she twisted around in surprise – a cursory glance to the others showed that they had not been watching her – save for Ammon Jerro, who sent her a cruel-minded half-smile.
"…good of you to show up at all," Nevalle was commenting with a tone of such derisive sarcasm that Isaviel was distracted from her response to the concerned scholar at her elbow, and instead followed the gaze of the leader of the Nine to the doorway.
A wave of something unfamiliar, like dread and shock together, travelled up Isaviel's spine when she watched Bishop stalk into the room, giving Nevalle not even the pleasure of sneer, though he spared one for Casavir. Could this feeling be guilt? When his dark eyes met hers across the room, she had to fight hard not to look away too quickly. He will smell my fear. So instead she arched a brow at him and moved to the table, like she had felt nothing from the golem, like she had no guilt at all over intending to kiss Sand earlier. There were more important matters at hand, she told herself, though her heart pounded in her chest.
"I believe we should proceed," Nasher was none too subtly pointing out, shifting in his chair as Isaviel approached the table and momentarily showing a hint of the thick bandages around his shoulder beneath his uncharacteristically plain wool tunic, "This is a war meeting, not a drunken discussion around the fireside."
"And there goes our accord," Sand sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking to the ceiling while Bishop stalked to the fire, Grobnar and Aldanon finally taking seats between Zhjaeve and Qara.
For her part, Isaviel remained on her feet, finding that her perusal of the map brought her to stand between Sand and Casavir, for it was at that section of the painted cloth that the symbols of Neverwinter and its vassal lands had been embroidered. Little blue flags had been pinned over the positions of each of the forts which were manned under the city's name, while black flags had been pinned to those places which the King of Shadows's forces had overrun. Highcliff was a notable example of the latter, as were a number of forts and towns further south, even closer to the Mere of Dead Men wherein the looming force of evil waited.
"Each of the key forts is under the control of one of the Nine," Kana explained, "And I can now tell you that Longsaddle has sent a force, which has been divided among those forts east of here, and we have had word that Waterdeep's reinforcements should be with us within the tenday. Mirabar has promised us a squadron of their famed Defenders as well."
"Have those posted with us," Isaviel stated immediately, her hand brushing over the flag which denoted Crossroad Keep, which lay at the furthest east point among the most southerly fortresses, those in the front line for defending the remaining lands belonging to Neverwinter, "I don't know much about warfare, but it's obvious that our enemy will not let us go unscathed before they try to go for Neverwinter itself. We are the most powerful outpost south of your city, after all."
She nodded to Nasher and Nevalle as she circled the lands she referred to, inadvertently brushing against Sand's arm as she leaned forward and forcing herself to hide her wince. Why now, of all times, was she so unsettled by his presence when she never had been before? Because when I was away, I realised how much I miss him. A glance over at Bishop showed that he was leaning against the mantelpiece by the fire, still dressed in his travelling leathers as she was, his dark eyes catching the firelight and blazing her way. Her heart jolted and started a veritable gallop. Who do you need more? The voice that asked her was not her own, a whisper across her thoughts that sent a shiver up her spine, and several of her companions looked at her curiously when she straightened sharply and stepped back.
"Is everything alright, Lady Isaviel?" Grobnar asked innocently, blinking at her when she grimaced his way.
"We only just got back from the Ironfist Clanhold," she responded automatically, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears, "I am tired from the road, but we must discuss this now. I'm sure everyone here agrees we need to get this out of the way as soon as possible," as her gaze travelled around the table, she at last noticed the absence of a certain familiar figure, "Where's Neeshka?"
"Probably off mooning after her Drow deserter," Bishop jeered, and Nasher's expression darkened.
"We have evidence to suggest he has not betrayed us," Sand put in quickly, "Though his departure does seem awfully convenient, given the approaching threat."
Isaviel just dismissed the conversation, confused by her own focus on the battle plans. When had she ever cared for strategy? She could see the surprise on Casavir's face most plainly of all, for he seemed pleased by it as well. Duty. The word still had a bitter taste to her, and she took comfort in that as Kana spoke up again.
"Sir Callum leads the garrison at the most southerly fort..."
"A valuable commander to risk losing, if you ask me," Isaviel noted, glancing pointedly at Nevalle.
"A good man…er…Dwarf to boost morale," the leader of the Nine bristled.
Isaviel was already shaking her head, and Casavir too.
"Our Knight-Captain is correct," the paladin put in, using his best steady-but-conciliatory voice, "It is a waste of our forces to spread them out so on forts that are not strong enough to withstand the might of the King of Shadows. Our most logical proceeding…"
"…would be to gather the majority of our forces here, at Crossroad Keep. We have the space, and the best defensible ground," Isaviel finished for him, her voice as hard as she could make it, "No one else but Zhjaeve and the warlock," she paused to send a sneer Ammon Jerro's way, "Have the power to stop the Reavers, which our enemy will surely send against the Neverwinter forces which cannot defeat them. Keep token forces at all of the other forts, more substantial ones at these two forts," she gestured to those which were just west and north of Crossroad Keep, "But the rest should be here, with us."
"I take it you have a plan regarding the defeat of the King of Shadows himself? You clearly intend to meet his forces in a staged battle, to force him to meet us here away from the city rather than allowing him to pick off our defences bit by bit. But you must understand that his army is fuelled by his personal power, and only through destroying that can we hope to defeat him lastingly," Nasher sounded…not doubtful, but confused, his eyebrows raised in evident surprise as he regarded the Moon Elf in a new light which she had a creeping suspicion was very new indeed, and probably not her own.
In spite of herself, Isaviel could not help but smile, a look which held no mirth.
"Oh, of course. I'll let Aldanon inform you of that," she stood straight from the table, trying to ignore the stares of her companions, "But first, we need to learn how to reforge the Sword of Gith, or what we have of it," her gaze moved to the newly embroidered point of Arvahn, across the table far to the north east, amongst the eastern foothills of the Crags.
"I can use magical means to speed you on that path, Elf," Ammon Jerro gritted out grudgingly now, as if insulted that no one had thought to ask him first, "Though you will have to make your own journey back. The restless spirit that dwells amongst the ghosts of Arvahn will take no time to hear your pleas when I am present, take my word."
"For what it's worth," Isaviel finished for him sourly, though she gave a curt nod in acceptance of his offer, "Fine then. The way is set."
"Oh indeed, but what a way it is that we must walk," Sand groaned, the horror in his voice at the thought of going so far, in the shadow of all they had done, almost making Isaviel laugh aloud. When he looked up at her, his intelligent grey eyes catching hers, she had no idea what to think, but she had to smile.
"My lord Callum, the gates to the bailey have been breached!"
The boy sounded so frantic, so unprepared as he reached the blonde Dwarf who was already striding purposefully across the hall to the shuddering gates, his axe in his large, gloved hands. There were scant men gathered to hold that door; he had to reach them and he was single-minded in his goal.
"Yes," Callum of the Nine agreed, stepping aside as a priest hurried past them, wild-eyed with blood staining his robes, "There was nothing we could have done."
"B-but what can we do now, my lord?" the boy demanded, taking the Dwarf by the arm as he made to head towards the din of battle, breaking all protocol in his fear, wincing as a high scream tore through the icy air rushing through the splintering gates, "Surely we cannot just…just…"
"You listen to me, boy," Callum spoke calmly, but firmly, prying the shaking hand from his arm, meeting those eyes with his own steady blue gaze, "You follow my lieutenant here," he nodded to his second in command, who took the boy's shoulder, already understanding the plan, "Stay together, and fight your way to the north wall. There is a stable beyond; he will show you how to reach it. Ride for Crossroad Keep; go on no matter what you see, no matter who calls for aid. You must tell them that this fort has fallen. That the dead walk in their thousands and will be upon them not two tendays hence."
"Y-yes, my lord," the panic seemed to drain out of the boy, just a half-armoured Greycloak, newly recruited, replaced by a kind of fragile acceptance, his eyes glazed over with the doubtful hope of a goal to fulfil.
Callum nodded once to his lieutenant and turned away, making once more for the men at the gates, well prepared for the slaughter he knew he would see once the wood broke apart and the overrun inner bailey was made visible ahead. Very likely he had just sent that boy to his death, but two would-be messengers gave surer hope than just one. They would need each other to fight their way to the passage in the north wall, and where one might fall the other could go on.
Just before Callum reached the gates they broke asunder, sending the men skittering backwards across the tiled floor which was already slick with melting snow and blood and unburned oil. The blizzard of hail and snow that poured through the newly made void smelled thickly of death and wizards' spell reagents. The groans of the dying – and the walking dead – and the screams and screeches of battle were audible as a great wall of sound ahead now, even over the wailing of the wind.
Stepping up to the centre of the ruined gateway, the men behind him only just picking themselves up, Callum looked upon the red and white horror of the bailey and ramparts ahead. Everywhere he saw the bloated, discoloured forms of dead men clambering inexorably over the walls, aided by other, more evasive forms, who flitted up over the ramparts in a shadowy haze to deal swift death to the guards of the fort. Vampires, ghouls, liches. What hope was there now? There was just a great seething mass of darkness and evil creeping across the bailey, and the men of his fort were hopelessly drowning in its tide.
The sun was setting, a brutal red backdrop against the cruel slaughter, and Callum almost felt regret. But he gritted his teeth against the cold and the discordant song of battle, hefting his axe, and rallied a battle cry, gathering his remaining men about him. A hard grin came to his face as they answered, reaching his side even as a tall, withered form turned to face him, dressed in ragged red robes with eyes like twin flames. He gave his actions no thought, but ran headlong for the lich before him, raising his axe over his head for a mighty swing. Death would be swift, but at least they could stall the army for a little while longer, and the war might yet be won even if this battle was surely lost.
It had been impossible to stay in that empty, silent house any longer. The paperwork which the leader of the Thieves' Guild inevitably had to dole out – or, Tymora forbid, actually deal with personally – was tedious and quite the opposite of a distraction. Sat in that building on her own, listening to the swish of her own agitated tail, Neeshka had even started to forget how beautiful she had always found the shimmer of the gold coins strewn across the table. She just could not understand why Mae'rillar had left so suddenly, without a word or any apparent personal expectation of the event. The way he had kissed her when she left to help the others retrieve the final shard had not been the kiss of one who intended to abandon her. But he had, and without him she was paradoxically unable to turn to anyone for comfort when it would have been only from him whom she could have found any comfort. Isaviel had not been to see her, so preoccupied with keep business, and the Tiefling had eventually found herself so restless that she had pulled on her winter cloak and boots, white to best disguise her against the snow.
No one had even noticed her slipping through the busy main bailey and out of the front gates, which remained wide open in the continuing organisation of the Neverwinter army encamped in the area. Soldiers and priests were still rushing back and forth, tending the wounded in the temple and main hall who had been brought back from Highcliff, shouting commands, performing drills, dragging supplies back and forth. The snow was trodden hard underfoot where the sludge and the ice were not already waiting to send some heavily armoured fool tumbling to the frozen ground, and the Tiefling had watched it all with scorn as she slipped past. She narrowly avoided getting caught up in the middle of an army drill just outside the walls, and at last she escaped the chaos of soldiers for the all but untouched snow on the northern path up to the woods.
There were two pairs of hoof prints just filling up with snow on this way, along with a smaller set; Karnwyr. Isaviel, Bishop and Grobnar had obviously ridden that way not long before, but the thought just made Neeshka's eyes sting with angry tears. Where were the days when she and the Moon Elf – with Bishop and indeed Mae'rillar – had run the streets of Neverwinter, making light of all the world, but particularly of those armour-shining knights with whom Isaviel now had to spend so much time. She could not help but resent her friend a little for that, especially at her time of personal pain over Mae'rillar's betrayal. She could not remember when last it was that she and Isaviel had spent any time together, as they had in the days before.
Neeshka had never liked the cold, or the wilderness, and once she had been wandering in this state of miserable indignation for a time, the sun sinking far below the horizon and plunging the silent forest into darkness, she began to regret her hot-headed decision to leave the keep. It was freezing out here, where the snow fell silently all around, and often the Tiefling would jump at the sound of rustling branches nearby, only to discover that it was more snow, falling from the skeletal boughs. As time passed, her nervousness increased with the darkness and the chill. Her night vision was flawless, her hearing and smell far better than any human's, but her hands and feet were numb from cold and every half-seen distant tree trunk could just as easily be a waiting enemy.
"They have wronged you."
The voice rose up from the darkness with a soft hum of magic, deep, gravelly, and full of power. A chill colder than the freezing air swirled past Neeshka and she span around, her blades flashing into her hands, searching the empty forest of dead trees for her addressor but there was none to be seen.
"Who's there? What do you want?" the Tiefling hissed, eyes darting all about but all she could see was the cold forest and darkness beyond.
"They do not understand your pain," the unseen man spoke again, sounding so very sad for her, "They cannot, wrapped up in their own selfishness. You resent her, your 'Knight-Captain'. She is the reason for your sorrow, ultimately. Had it not been for her, you would yet be in Neverwinter, safe in the Guild you love, without any of the tiring responsibility of leadership."
"H-how do you know all this about me?" Neeshka demanded, her voice higher than it should be, shaking just a little too obviously, her heart pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears. For a moment her rage towards her friends had swelled, but now, looking into the darkness all around her, it seemed more prudent to feel afraid.
A long silence followed, and Neeshka's skin crawled – not just from the cold, but from a familiar feeling of a presence, a dark presence. It did not fill her with rage as a Devil's aura might, nor did it irritate her like a paladin's. Instead a wave of panic washed over her, and with a cry she darted back through the trees. She knew very well indeed what that presence meant, though she had felt it only once before. Reaver.
"Why do you run from me, Tiefling?" still, that voice rang with sadness, following her like a shroud as she ran, "I speak but truth to you. What hope can you have with these grovelling creatures who run themselves in circles of duty? They are weak and blind. They have taken everything from you. Everything."
The words seemed to graze against her skin and she skidded to a halt, gasping, doubling over from the exertion. Which way was the way back to the keep? The forest was so dark she could not make out anything but the trees around her.
"I won't listen to you," Neeshka denied tremulously, flinching when the darkness directly ahead of her deepened, beginning to spark with purple lights, keeping pace with her as she backed up, her blades between them, "I'm not smart like some of my friends, but I know what you're trying to do – you're trying to turn me against Isaviel," the Tiefling drew herself up, "She's the only person who's ever stayed with me. I can't just…can't just betray her for something that's not her fault…"
"You disappoint me," the man, the Reaver sighed, biting off his last words sharply with suddenly audible rage, "This is such a pity. Still, let it not be said that I did not try to win you willingly."
Neeshka did not have time to run, nor even to scream, before the magically summoned blade slashed forth, and blood welled.
A shadow of tiredness had started to settle over her once Isaviel had returned to her rooms. The discussion had flown by quickly, and it had been far easier than she had expected to organise the troops and win Kana, Nevalle and Nasher over to her way of thinking. The leader of the Nine had been angry with her logic, but his lord had seemed pleasantly surprised. Ammon Jerro's sneer had only grown as she had lead the conversation and settled the defence plans. He knew just as well as she did, it was clear, that this new penchant for strategy and logic was not really her own. It had been tiring, far more tiring than the road, to maintain her controlled façade. There had been a satisfaction to be found in her new ability, but that had only made her want to weep. But she had taken that sadness as a good sign – because it meant that despite what Sand clearly feared, she was still herself. She did not want to be Akachi, though his influence on her thought was stronger than it had been.
It had been a relief when the meeting had ended, Nevalle helping Nasher away, Casavir saluting with newfound purpose and belief, eyes shining as they had not done in tendays it seemed. Qara had left without a word in Ammon Jerro's wake, oblivious to everything but her own lack of a contribution. Isaviel just hoped she could mollify the girl with a promise of lots of enemies to conflagrate. Grobnar had proudly commanded his golem out, skipping after it with Aldanon by his side, chattering away happily in their mutual intellectual stupor. Eventually that had left Isaviel, leaning on the table, staring at the pieces they had laid out to represent their battle plans, with Sand lingering nervously by her side and Bishop glaring at them from the fire. When it had become obvious that the ranger was not going to leave before the wizard, Sand had mumbled something uncharacteristically unintelligible and pressed the final shard into the Moon Elf's hand. It was large and sharp, silver and shining like all the rest, but with a red jewel glimmering at its heart as only one other had. He had not looked at her after that, but fairly fled the room, and Bishop had eyed her carefully for a few more moments before following the wizard in departing.
Isaviel had fought her tiredness a little longer, and once she reached her room, she had poured all of the silver pieces onto her bed while the servants prepared her bath. Gathered together at last, jagged in form and liquid in the light, they glinted and hummed with a mesmerising magical energy. As if in a trance she had aligned them, one next to the other, until they formed the skeletal semblance of a longsword, arcing just a little at the tip. The two central pieces were those which each held a red gem in their centres, and the crystalline pommel of the hilt shone like a red star.
Pleased with her work, Isaviel had knelt by the bed and stared awhile at her creation, running her fingertips over the smooth, cold silver surfaces and wondering at how it might have looked whole, as the Greatsword of Gith long ago. An image had flashed before her eyes, of a great grey battlefield, of an army that stretched on and on, of how it felt to hold aloft the unbroken sword of Gith, gleaming without a sun to catch its facets, light as a dagger and bright as a beacon. Her – no, his! – wings had beaten the air then long ago, a war cry in her throat. A sword meant to kill a god.
One of the servants had broken her from her reverie and she had been quick to cross the room once she was alone, at last freeing herself of her travelling clothes and slipping into the warm water. Those memories had not been hers at all, but Akachi's, and no amount of soap and scrubbing could free her from the crawling feeling on her skin at that thought. She had always been quick to anger, but now her rage was near constant, so affecting that it made her want to weep with its burden. Sand feared that she had lost her soul, but she knew it could not be so simple. She might be seeing the current City of Judgement as if her spirit were trapped there, and perhaps to some extent it was, but she still felt her own emotions warring with those of Akachi, her grandfather. His memories, his losses, rages and fears were hers to endure, but so was her fear.
Leaning back, bone-weary at last, Isaviel watched the steam rising from the warm water doing its best to soothe her and sighed. She could still see Sand's rueful expression, the way he had held her so inadvertently close as he sought to reassure her, and how he had let her go even as she wished he had not. She had wanted nothing more than for him to hold her and make her fears go away – she had wanted to kiss him just as surely as she knew he had longed to kiss her. She dared not explain her feelings to herself then, but she could at least see that she needed him, for he gave her strength. And how she had missed him! The lone voice of reason in her chaotic life.
Sighing again, Isaviel let her eyes slip closed, satisfyingly weightless in the water even as the world slipped away…
"Oh good Lathander, cast your eye upon us, your humble servants. Bring us peace and the light of your presence, relieve us from this barren plane wherein we wait…"
"….Chauntea, let us find rest at last in your verdant lands…"
The chorus of voices went on and on in this grey place where all eyes that had hope were raised to the sky. Helm, Lathander, Tyr, Tempus, Chauntea and many other gods besides were cried upon the lips of the souls who wandered the Fugue Plane, some gathered in circles to pray together, others beseeching alone. Some wandered, muttering, while others wept and could not be consoled. Some sat, some lay, and some just stood and stared. All moved and endured in the shadow of Kelemvor's vast fortress city, so enormous that it could have held a hundred Neverwinter's within its might grey-green wall. And that wall was the Wall of the Faithless, the souls of those who could not find a god to love in their mortal life and were thus condemned to be mortared together amongst seething greyish moss and barbs, to suffer until such time as their souls were consumed and more Faithless replaced them.
If Isaviel listened closely enough, she could hear the wailing coming from the wall, the agonised, hopeless screams of those who knew they could find no mercy in the immovable god who dwelt in that city, an unseen presence atop his crystal tower. The thought made her blood boil – how unjust it seemed, to suffer so greatly for something so simple! No one else seemed to pay the city any heed, too caught up with their own longing to leave the place, or perhaps too afraid of that awful wall and unwilling to look upon it – to really look up and see its horror.
But Isaviel was not a soul awaiting her god, and the longer she stared at the City of Judgement the more she felt the need to see it for herself, as if by looking upon its wall and its crystalline tower she might dare Kelemvor, god of death, to answer for the punishments he permitted. Pushing through the throngs of drably dressed souls, all pleading with their gods, she reached the edge of the mass of people, where the ground began to slowly slope towards the mighty city. The distance was immeasurable in a place so huge, without landmarks or a horizon, but she imagined it was still several miles away.
"Isaviel?" a distant voice cried her name, and for a moment she could hope she had imagined it, but it came again, stronger, and a chill ran up her spine.
She had hoped not to be recognised. For to be recognised meant...
"Isaviel! This cannot be!"
The Moon Elf turned slowly to see Sir Callum of the Nine pushing his way toward her, appearing just as he had when first she had met him, only now he was dressed in the same grey robes as everyone else. He had a group of men, tall and burly – probably soldiers, then – following his purposeful lead, and an incredulous look upon his weathered face. That expression of surprise was fast turning to horror as surely as was her own.
"Isaviel Farlong, I had hoped not to see the likes of you here," he told her fervently, and that made her smile with anything but mirth.
"I had hoped not to be recognised, Sir Callum," she told him sadly – what use was wit and sarcasm to those who you knew were lost? Instead she felt such loss, such guilt… "But I am not one of the dead here. Not yet. I am a…sojourner."
The Dwarf's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, a deep frown showing on his face as he regarded her closely, nodding to himself.
"Then I hope your stay is not prolonged, girl. Death is not for those as young as you, though war makes old men of us all, it is true."
He reached out a hand and squeezed her arm, offering a gruff smile. His touch was cool, like all things in this place where no life remained.
"I will tell the others of your fall," Isaviel offered feebly and he nodded agreement, "I hope you are not here when I return."
"As do I, Isaviel Farlong," the Dwarf nodded with a grim smile, "There is not much time left before your keep must face battle, Knight Captain. You must be ready."
"Sir Callum," the Moon Elf's grin was fierce, "I will be."
Isaviel's eyes flew open as the earth seemed to whirl beneath her feet and the grey mists of the Fugue Plain receded. Once more she found herself in her bedroom in Crossroad Keep, dimly lit with candles, the fire still crackling heartily nearby. The water in her bath was still warm; she could not have been asleep long. The salty taste of tears was on her tongue, and she could not remove that desolate feeling even when she pulled herself impatiently from the bath, splashing her face with cold water from the decanter nearby, drying herself with distracted confusion.
Gathering the shards and their hilt together once more, she dressed hastily in a plain tunic and leggings before donning her winter boots and cloaks, taking her gloves from their place by the door. She knew that she could not sit still, no matter how weary she was, and she would find no comfort alone in that large bed. She had half expected Bishop to have been sat there, watching her, and perhaps she had simply hoped so. But he had been quiet and distant of late, seeing the changes she was undergoing without any understanding of them. Of course he distrusted her. And more than anything, she needed trust, especially when she found she could no longer trust even herself anymore.
Isaviel had seen the soul of someone she knew in the Fugue Plain, and though she had not known him well, there was weight over her heart where there had not been before, slowing her steps as she moved through the keep. No living soul should meet the dead in their own lands. She shuddered despite her warm clothing, and endeavoured to set a brisk pace for herself, ignoring all those who came by her on her path. She needed air, cold air, and reassurance.
The Moon Elf found Kana where she had expected to find her; wrapped up in army regulation furs just outside the front gates of the keep itself, overlooking the main bailey at the change of the guards for the night. The lieutenant gave a start when Isaviel stepped up beside her, silent as always, and then a frown creased Kana's already severe features.
"Knight-Captain," she greeted warily, "You look tired. You should rest – your journey back from Arvahn will be a long one, and you need to keep up your strength."
"I'm fine," Isaviel denied sharply, staring ahead into the fire-dotted darkness, breathing the cold air deeply before expelling it in a long puff of white before looking down at her hands, fidgeting with the silver stitching of her mother's deep blue cloak, "Have you heard word from Callum's post?"
"Sir Callum of the Nine, my lady?" Kana sounded rightfully confused, "No. We were going to have the wizards contact each of the forts to relay your commands at first light tomorrow, as agreed. Is there something you were expecting to hear?"
"I…" the Moon Elf paused, seeing her lieutenant blanche at her empty expression, "I fear bad news may come. Have the guard on the walls doubled tonight. Tell those in the forts you contact tomorrow to be extra vigilant, to exact our plans to the letter."
"I will my lady," Kana sounded surprised, almost…admiring. That was just as painful as the knowledge of losing her soul. Why might Isaviel Farlong, lieutenant of the Thieves' Guild, scourge of the pockets of every nobleperson in Neverwinter, care one bit about the lives of Lord Nasher's soldiers? I need them. A shiver ran up her spine and she turned away without another word, her eyes fixed on Sand's house in the bailey below.
"My lady!" Kana called after her, "I will send word to Callum's fort first tomorrow. Hopefully your fears will be proven wrong." She meant to sound positive, or perhaps even consoling, but Isaviel paused with a grimace, not turning back.
"It will be too late," she sighed softly to herself, and move for the light of the wizard's little cottage just ahead, the only beacon of hope she could comprehend.
Sand called for her to enter when she knocked, his voice muffled by distance but still evidently unsuspecting. She knew him well enough to understand that he would be less than comfortable with facing her, Isaviel Farlong. She did not care. She had to see him. He would understand.
"What is it you require?" he called from the alchemy workshop when she allowed the door to fall shut behind her, banging loudly with a gust of icy air, "Does one of the priests need another ointment? I tell you, I could just give…"
The wizard voice stopped abruptly when there was only telling silence, and he stepped into view through the wood-framed archway at the opposite end of the book-cluttered sitting room, dressed just in his white shirt and black trousers. His voluminous sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his fingers stained with some alchemical substance, and his eyes were full of a disturbing amount of fear.
"Isaviel."
"Nice to know how glad you are to see me," the Moon Elf noted dryly when the wizard looked about himself in a moment of flustered confusion. When he failed to find whatever it was he was looking for in amongst the bottles of ingredients and multiple pestles and mortars, he wiped his hands self-consciously on a towel by his side, leaving bright blue and green marks behind.
"I…" he paused, watching her now with narrowed eyes.
Sand's scrutiny took in her still-wet hair, her tired face, no doubt judging her bearing. His gaze lingered on her lips for only a split second too long, but drew a rueful smile from Isaviel. Her mocking expression seemed to clear his head, and he drew himself up, pulling his embroidered tailcoat from a peg by the archway as she approached, raising an eyebrow curiously at her silence. She watched him in her turn as he slipped into his coat, seeing the glitter and shine of the many enchanted rings and studs decorating his pointed Elvish ears, matching the rings on his fingers. He was a handsome man, she had always seen it, but that was not what made her watch him so wistfully. In his sharp grey eyes there was understanding, and a sort of clarity which she could not find elsewhere. She saw those eyes, how they watched her, and she felt safe.
"You'll help me," she did not realise she had spoken that thought, but he heard her conviction, and it drew a smile to his lips too.
"I will. In any way I can," he agreed softly, daring to touch a hand to her shoulder, concern clouding his expression, "I was going to say that I had feared we had parted rather awkwardly before. Sometimes it helps, in stressful times like these, to air one's genuinely ridiculous social encounters honestly, you know. Helps alleviate the…" he paused when she stepped closer to him, rocking back on his heels, close enough that she half fancied she could see her eyes reflected back to her in his, "…tension." His voice was barely a whisper.
"I don't really care about our 'awkward parting' earlier. You wanted to kiss me and I wanted to kiss you. We didn't kiss," she shrugged, forcing herself to sound unconcerned, smiling more when he raised his eyebrows at her candour. It amused her almost as much as the ease with which she found that she could distract him physically, "I didn't come here because I thought you were fretting about that. I knew you were, anyway. I came here," she sighed, and her amusement drained out of her, "Because I dreamed that Sir Callum of the Nine is dead. I spoke to him in the Fugue Plain. The first fort has fallen…"
She told Sand of her fears as he guided her to the table in his sitting room, making them each a drink of hot, herb-and-spice flavoured water. She explained how much Akachi was beginning to impinge on her consciousness, but also of her hopes regarding how much of herself she retained. He sat opposite her, sipping his drink from a wooden mug, his elbows resting on a thick, dog-eared book, his eyes intent on her as she spoke.
Once she had finished, he set his empty cup down and reached across the table, taking one of her hands in both of his, smiling just a little, searching her face until she matched her expression.
"You think you are being weak by confiding in me, but I know you are not," he promised, "It takes a lot more strength to realise there are those who you can trust. Those who…care about you." And those who do not. Where had Bishop gone, anyway? And Neeshka – what had kept the Tiefling from the meeting?
"Nasher has blackmailed me to work for this keep, or the Lords' Alliance will hunt me down. It's either that or Luskan 'justice' for me. There is a war coming, not two tendays from now, and I need to reforge that sword for all of us. I need allies in this," Isaviel admitted. I need you.
"Yes. I am glad you have learned this," he rolled his eyes, "Would that you had learned a little sooner. But Isaviel, you need to rest. When did you last sleep properly? I can give you a potion to help you sleep, something to calm you. I cannot promise that you will not…dream…of the Fugue Plain again, but it may still help…"
The wizard stopped when she gripped his hand and shook her head, expression resolute.
"No," her heart betrayed her, and beat away her confidence in the moment, so that when she spoke, her voice broke just a little, "I want to stay with you. I…" Gods, what are you doing? "I need you…to stay with me."
"That's a nasty cut you're sporting, Tiefling," Bishop noted coldly when at last he found her, slumped against a tree on the very edge of the forest by the keep, shivering pitifully, clutching her left arm to her chest, blood staining the snow by her side, just visible in the fragile moonlight.
"Bishop," the demon-girl fairly snarled his name, "You followed me. You shouldn't follow me, they'll…"
"What are you talking about? Who? What will they do?" he could not help himself, he sneered down at her pathetic state and felt a surge of satisfaction.
He knew how it felt to be alone, suffering and wishing for death. It was a balm to his soul to watch others enduring that state of being while he yet lived on. He did not care how she had got in that state – whatever had attacked her was evidently long gone. No tracks were visible, not a broken branch in sight. Seeing her pink eyes glowing back at him with distrust, he realised that it was probably going to be necessary to drag her back to the keep with him, distasteful as that seemed.
The coldness crept over him so quickly, he almost did not register the change in the air. Instantly, his bow was in his hands and he hissed at Neeshka, gesturing for her to be quiet and stay still. She shook her head violently at him, panic rising in his eyes, but he quelled her protests with a threatening jerk of his bow. There was something out in the woods after all, and he was not about to let it escape him. It would be a very bad idea to turn one's back on a foe one could not see, so he stalked ahead into the trees, wending a path, looking all about himself, accustomed to making do with what feeble light he had available to him.
"You are strong," a voice noted softly, and the ranger tensed, knocking an arrow, glaring into the darkness, "We could make you stronger."
"Garius," Bishop did not need much time to deduce that much, though the Reaver remained concealed from him, "Well, aren't you a coward. Impossible to kill, and still you hide in your shadows." He spat on the ground, "Pathetic."
"Hardly," the Reaver laughed, and without warning a dark form coalesced before the ranger's eyes, "But feeble taunting aside, I have an offer for you, ranger. I know enough to understand that you are a man of…personal logic. You do not like the confines of that keep any more than your Tiefling friend. How would you like to be free of…obligation?"
For a long moment, Bishop glared into the skull face of the Reaver, gritting his teeth, his rage seething. Why do you offer this to me now? Strangely, he thought of Isaviel. She had been far from forthcoming over the last few days, drawing in on herself, golden eyes which had once been so full of mischief and irreverence going blank for hours on end in a way he had never known. She had made him see into her, made him want her, need her, made him want to save her. Obligation. Sentiment. It made him sick.
With a grunt, the ranger lowered his bow and looked back up at Garius.
"What exactly are you offering, Reaver?"