SPOILERS FOR CRITICAL ROLE CAMPAIGN 3 EPISODE 14!
IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN, GO BACK!
AWAY WITH YOU!
THERE WILL BE TEARS!
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FINAL WARNING!
Later
The trip had gone by much quicker than he had thought. But that didn't make the ache in his heart feel anymore the lesser.
Beneath them, the rolling waves of Ozmit sea gleamed, and in the middle distance, the dreadfully familiar spires of Emon sat, awaiting him.
Another challenge awaits.
He had known for some time that his people were meant to follow the Winds. Let them addle and spin him before forcing him in a cardinal direction.
He'd thought he had accepted that.
So why now, as land fast approaches, does he feel more unmoored than ever.
Dorian sighs, leaning against the railing, absentmindedly drawing the Gambler's Blade and looking down it, seeing the settled worry in his own eyes staring back at him.
"You know why." he mutters to himself, smiling slightly as his memory flashes with the familiar words, "You don't have to deny it."
He was of the Silken Squal! An Air Genasi!
Meant to always be on the move.
But Gods forgive him; his heart was not moved by the Winds.
It was moved by the Poison Flowers and Fresh Earth as he hugged them close to him late at night.
Their combined scent, a wonderous anchor of blooming flowers and claying baking in the kiln.
He never knew how much it meant until he went to bed that first night alone.
He still feels his lips on Orym's forehead feels Fearne's hands caress his neck as she places the necklace he now fiddle with around his neck.
Both of their pleading eyes, their hands similarly calloused from lives spent in nature.
"Don't go." they had pleaded.
"Be with me." he had wanted to return.
His mind turns to the others, how they had emerged into his life.
The spark of electricity that was Imogen, sudden from a seemingly tranquil sky, fostering inspiration.
Laudna, whose pallid shadow had given way to a comforting chill over him.
The soulful presence of Fresh Cut Grass, a ray of sunshine reflecting on bronze.
Ashton, Earthen Thunder always ready to shake the world with wit, work, and wrath.
And Bertrand, the Tinderflash gone too soon that had knitted them all together only to replaced by the inferno that was Chetney, wood-carving wolf with blood of flame.
He chuckles to himself slightly.
He'd said they were like his family.
That he wouldn't promise to come back.
What a foolish thing to say.
They had given him a place, anchored him amongst them, and in his rush to get away, he had left so many things unsaid.
"Some bard," he mutters, pretending he doesn't see his own tears marking the surface of the blade.
He could say them now, through that wonderous tiny stone, but it felt...wrong, not being able to look them all in the eyes.
A sudden stop shakes him. Looking around, he realizes that he had missed them coming into dock in his musings.
Cyrus approaches hood up, rucksack over his shoulder, an ashamed but hopeful look on his face.
"You ready to go?" Cyrus asks.
Dorian whips his eyes, focusing on his anchor as he feels the prickle of his nerves kick up as he gazes across the city. His eyes fall on a raven as it soars away, startled from its perch by their arrival.
"I think I am," Dorian states, glancing down as he sheathes the Gambler's Blade, close a chapter of his life...for now at least.
After all, it would still be waiting for him later.
"So what are we doing?" Cyrus asks as the pair falls into step.
Dorian taps his chin, smiling up at his elder brother.
"Tell me, brother, what do you think of pie?" he asks, fighting a laugh as his brother's eyebrows knit together.
"Like in general?" Cyrus asks.
"Well...sort of." Dorian states, stepping onto the solid ground once more, though it does nothing to ease the ache, "Come on, I've got another story to tell you as we walk."
The pair vanished into the crowd, arm in arm, two brothers following the winds of fate once more.
See you later, Dorian Storm, see you later, Robbie Daymond, till our paths cross again.