Author's Note: if anyone is still reading this, I do fully intend to finish it! I know the ending and everything!
Whether it was the surge of strength the Wood Man had bestowed upon her, her ability to keep her food down, or that it was getting towards springtime, she felt much better as the witch boat docked itself in the port of Mulsantir. She skipped down the gangplank, whistling a tune, and made her way over to the Sloop to drop her things off. The troupe was rehearsing again. Their costumes had improved, the armor looking like armor and the actor playing Sand's ears much better crafted. The actor playing Casavir had been replaced with a taller, more handsome one, and the man who had played him before appeared to have been relegated to the role of Sir Nevalle. The actress playing Addie had traded in her wig, which sat beside the stage rather sadly, and had dyed her hair black. The real Addie sat herself in the corner of the room. It was midday, and with the exception of a few redfaced old drunks, she was the only one there. She sipped, more out of habit than anything else, and watched the the rehearsal out of the corner of her eye.
They had moved on to the second act. The first act, evidently, had been the one that ended with story-Addie being seduced by the villainous, traitorous Bishop. The second act, it seemed, was her redemption, her leading the armies to defeat the ancient Guardian, and her death beneath the Mere at the end. She had to admit, as she watched the actors stumble over their lines, it was rather well-crafted. The story itself, she felt, had been made a bit trite and meaningless, but the writer was talented and most of the actors too, and she felt herself almost really believing it, forgetting that the girl on the stage was supposed to be her, and admiring the character itself
After the rehearsal had ended – with Adahni and Casavir pledging their eternal love and then dying in each other's arms – the director approached the table, having doffed his elf-ears and wig. He was rather young, pale-skinned, and brown-haired, but he walked with the confidence of an older man.
"So what do you think?" he asked. Evidently word had gotten around, and he knew exactly to whom he was speaking.
Adahni chuckled, "You have a way with words," she said, "Master..."
"Nikolai," he said, "Or Niko, if you must. But what I was asking was what do you think of the story?"
"You almost had me believing that your version is what really happened, and that I had made up the rest." She paused, taking another sip from her beer, and knitted her brows, "Then of course that would mean I was dead, so I suppose it's not all that credible."
Nikolai chuckled, "You're a bard yourself, you should know better than to tangle yourself up in credibility. And you understand the importance of knowing your audience."
Adahni nodded, knowing the power it was to hold a crowd rapt, hanging on her every word. She wondered at the power it must be to direct others to do it for you, and soak up the attention that way. She imagined herself in a silly costume, on stage, or telling the actors what to do, and had to catch herself from shaking her head at the ridiculousness of the notion.
"I've gotten myself out of trouble many a time using that particular knowledge," she sad, nodding, "So tell me, why is it that you chose this version of the story? I know that it's the official word out of Neverwinter, but considering the tales we get fourth-hand from Rashemen are almost certainly overblown and subject to many permutations, I imagine that there must be many directions you could take this one in. Why make me a hero? Do the people of Rashemen really prefer all that swords and sorcery, good and evil nonsense?"
Niko looked a little put out, ostensibly at her calling his work, 'nonsense.' "We live in a place where the veil between the worlds is very thin," he said, "And everything is complicated, most of all morality. Can you not see the appeal of a more traditional tale? One where the innocent girl from Westharbor saves the world and dies in the arms of her noble knight?"
Adahni felt a little put out by this, remembering the reality of those years and herself quite differently, "I didn't think there was anything morally ambiguous about the real story. I was anything but innocent," she said, "You've got the tale backwards. It's not the story of an innocent girl defeating evil, not at all. It's the story of a young woman stooped by the world learning to cast off her burden." She paused, surprising herself with that bit of insight. That is what had happened. She'd run from Luskan, two years before, but she had not truly let her past go until that morning, rolling in the snow, broken leg and all, in the arms of a man who had betrayed her.
"But... it's more traditional," the director said again, "Of course there will always be the women who say she should have chosen Bishop, but all in all, Casavir is the more popular choice, among those who like the story."
Adahni felt a bit vulnerable, to think that people in a land she'd never laid eyes on a month or two before were discussing her personal life choices from nearly two years before.
"What do you mean, popular choice?" she asked.
"Well, one in three women who hear the story will say, 'Bishop sounds much more interesting, she should have chosen him,' while the other two will say, 'Oh, how romantic, how I would love to meet a man like Casavir.'"
"That's fucking creepy," Adahni said, "He was a man. Both of them. Just men like the ones the married ones go home and sleep beside, like the one that maidens get their arses pinched by. Just men..."
"But here, they are the men that exist only in the imaginations of women... and a few choice types of men of course," Niko said.
"It's strange," Adahni said, "To think that a person of flesh and blood could become something like a canvas, and empty book, something for people hearing their story to paint their own imaginations on."
"You don't understand, Adahni," Niko said, "They're not talking about you, they're talking about a character in a story. When I brought the tale here from Bezantur last year and began telling it in the bars here, I tweaked it, I told the versions that got me the most gold and invitations to perform at banquets."
Adahni was about to protest that it was not his story to tweak or make a profit from, but then paused. She'd used real people in her own inventions so often. In her story, they had marched together against the Dragon at Mount Galardrym, and while Helvynn was gravely wounded, it was only when Khelgar offered to lay down his life to save hers that Chauntea had heard his prayer and healed her wounds. She imagined that bar patrons from Kuldahar to Athkatla and all the way up the Wash believed firmly that Khelgar Ironfist and Helvynn Hammerforge were alive and well and sitting on the granite thrones of their ancestors, hand in hand, while their children played around their feet. That Khelgar was not a crushed and crumbling skeleton beneath the Mere and Helvynn not ashes on the wind that blew across the moors around Crossroad Keep. She had rewritten the romance of Airon of Vania so that fair Vania committed suicide on Airon's graveside rather than marry the aged Collector (and then leave him to marry Casavir.) She'd told those stories so often that she almost believed sometimes that that was actually what happened. She'd sang the sad song that she had Vania sing on her dead lover's grave so many times that it had moved her to tears, forgetting that she had actually not liked the woman very much. It would be a bit hypocritical for her to be taken aback at this young Rashemi man doing the same to hers.
"Well I hope that the one in three women might take comfort in the fact that real Addie chose Bishop, and that no man like your fictional Casavir exists in this world or the next," she said, "He was a man, like any other. He was a good man, but he had his failings."
Niko nodded, "He's not a man, he's a character. To tell you the truth, I always found the character of Neeshka the Thief to be much more interesting than Adahni. But no, everyone wants to hear about the heroine without the tail."
"Neeshka is much more interesting than I," Adahni said, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she's gone straight. She's the Lady of Crossroad now."
Nikolai laughed and clapped his hands, "Of course!" he said, "A fitting end."
"So have you ever found yourself the subject of an epic tale?" Adahni said, "I have to say it's very strange, to having told them your whole adult life and suddenly, you're the one the bards sing of."
"I have not," Nikolai said, "And I should hope I never do. I prefer to keep my nose clean."
"You're lucky that that opportunity has been afforded to you," Adahni said. She glanced over at the stage, where the actors had broken character, and were standing around chatting. The one playing Casavir, in particular – his voice had risen half an octave and he was gesticulating wildly, describing the young man he had been seeing. She looked back at the director, remembering that there was no more truth to the story they told than the many she had, over the years, and nor was there supposed to be.
The troupe returned to its rehearsing, and Adahni to her ale. When she felt the need to stumble back to her bed, she channeled her old companion Neeshka. Strolling by the stage casually, she hooked her pinky around the hair of that wig that the actor portraying her had cast off, and snagged it. She continued walking, as though nothing were amiss, back to the room she was sharing with Safiya. Safiya had acquired a thick novel, and was curled up in bed, devouring it by candle light. She looked up sheepishly when she saw Adahni come in, evidently embarrassed to be caught in such a state. Adahni looked at the cover of the book, and saw with amusement that it was adorned with an entirely too-detailed portrait of a young woman swooning in the arms of a musclebound, long-haired, man.
"I never had the opportunity to read stories before," Safiya said, "It was always just magic texts, day in, day out, and when I was through studying for the day, I never wanted to read anymore, it just hurt my eyes."
"Don't be embarrassed on my account," Adahni said, "What the hells kind of stories do you think I tell? The only difference between you and my audiences is that you're literate."
Safiya chuckled, "Still," she said, "You'd think I ought to be reading the history of kings or some such shit."
"Perhaps," Adahni said, "Though I imagine that young lady about to get plowed on the cover of the book is much more realistic than history."
"Probably," the red wizard agreed, taking a look at the cover again, "It's a bit silly, of course, but it's a nice thing to think about. Some handsome devil on a fast horse coming to take you away."
"I think we've all had that thought at some time or another," Adahni agreed, "Like I said, people like listening to it, why wouldn't they want to read it?"
Safiya looked at the cover of her book again, "Do you think this was actually written by someone named Devera Swayne?"
"I bet she's trapped in a tower somewhere because she's too fat to make it down the stairs," Adahni said, "The more a writer lingers on how perfect her heroine is, the uglier she probably is."
"Never thought of that," Safiya said. She fingered her scalp.
"Oh!" Adahni exclaimed, suddenly remembering her successful pilfer, "I got you a present."
She took the wig out from behind her back, shook out the curls, and tossed it to the red wizard.
"It looks like a dead cat," Safiya said, examining it. She found the cap under the hair and stretched it over her bald head. She didn't have much experience arranging hair, evidently, but managed to sort it out eventually. She got up, putting her book down, and examined herself in the looking glass, "That's a strange sight to see," she said, "I don't really look like myself, do I?"
Adahni shrugged, "If you think your most salient feature is the top of your head, I suppose not. I think it looks decent. You will want to make sure it's better fastened before wearing it in any kind of battle."
The two women looked at their reflections side by side. "I look like you," Safiya said, chuckling, "Strange... we could be sisters."
Adahni, too, had noticed the resemblance, which was even more marked looking at the two faces side by side. It was a bit eerie, she thought, but certainly not entirely surprising. The two, after all, had similar complexions and features, the major difference being Adahni's nearly yellow eyes and Safiya's bald head. With the scalp hidden away, they really could have passed for some kind of relation. Adahni wondered, for a moment, whether this had something to do with all the strangeness that had occurred in her dream beneath the Moss-stone. The red woman, who was Safiya but not Safiya, was tangled in all of this. Perhaps she had been mistaken for someone, she thought.
Safiya took the wig off and placed it carefully on the dresser beneath the looking glass, "That was strange... it's odd to imagine what I would look like if I were a normal girl and not... me."
"You're you no matter what you put on your head," Adahni chided her, "You can't lose track of that."
"Well thanks, mother," the red wizard said sarcastically, but then slung an arm around the bard good-naturedly, "I appreciate the gesture. If I have a hankering to play a fine lady, that will serve me well. But, to be quite honest, I feel like the head scarfs are a much more reliable option."
"Suit yourself," Adahni said, "One of these days I'm going to doll you up in a fine gown and face paint."
"So I can look like a Luskan hooker?" Safiya shot back, "Not on your life."
"Watch yourself, you're getting mightily close to a line in the sand," Adahni said, but chuckled. There was a time when such an insult – even in the friendly ribbing way that Safiya intended it – would have been met with fists. That time was long in the past, and as the two women went about the business of sleeping, she felt at ease and oddly proud of herself that the flames of anger had not risen in her breast at the very mention of it. To this thought, she turned her head into the lumpy wool pillow, and closed her eyes.