Nearly 8 years since my last post on this site. Wild how time flies. Hopefully, my writing has improved since then, and I look forward to hearing from some fresh faces about their thoughts. Please enjoy the new chapter and this new story! Here's to many more to come!
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After months embedded in some distant, unfamiliar city, Moses always looked forward to this ride. The final stretch of the journey bore a rare solace. A reprieve from the bloodshed. The willows lining the pathway to his house swayed in the summer breeze, their cascading branches shielding him from the outside world. A promise he could soon shed his armor. Both the steel he wore and the hardened persona that came with it. He could be a person again.
The air here was different, sweeter. Honeysuckle drifted through the trees, wrapping around him with the familiarity of an old friend, mingling with the sound of his mare's hooves on the packed dirt road. Ahead, the house came into view, a towering monolith against the endless green fields. Its massive columns stood like sentinels, stalwart and unyielding, while ivy crept up its aged stone walls, shimmering under the midsummer sun.
Moses' chest constricted at the sight as memories flooded back. Maritza and Calista, his sweet little girls, racing down the pathway with their arms outstretched, shrieking as they called out, "Dad's home!" He'd leap off his horse, not giving it time to stop, and scoop them into his arms, their laughter the only sound that could drown out the world's ugliness. He could still feel their small hands clutching at his face, their tiny voices filling his ears with stories they couldn't wait to share.
But those days were gone. Now, the only one who came to greet him was Argos.
A mastiff lumbered down the steps, its hulking form ambling toward the approaching rider. The once-spry dog moved with a stiffness that mirrored Moses' own; a reminder that time had taken its toll on them. Argos let out a rumbling bark, his tail wagging with effort but still persistent, a testament to a loyalty that never wavered.
Moses dismounted, his body aching in ways it hadn't years ago. Argos reached him, leaning his massive head against Moses' leg in a gesture that conveyed feelings far grander than words could have. The old Zhent sighed, his hand running over the dog's graying fur as it huffed in reply.
Standing in the shadow of his home, Moses felt something close to peace. But as the house loomed large and familiar, it was no longer the sanctuary it once had been. The laughter, joy, and comfort were echoes now, just out of reach. Deep down, as much as he wanted to believe he was returning to something whole, he knew better.
Nothing about this place, or himself, was whole anymore.
Moses caught a fleeting glimpse of movement in one of the second-story windows. A shadow brushed past the curtain, quick and deliberate. He lingered on it for a moment, wondering who it might have been, but his thoughts were interrupted by a distinctive voice, weathered by age but firm as ever.
"It's good to see you home safe again, Mr. Manasseh."
The words held a warmth almost foreign to Moses, a genuine kindness rarely encountered in his work. He turned to see Holden standing by the gate, his posture straight despite the years weighing on him. The graying human nodded at Moses with a professional smile that imparted more respect than familiarity.
Holden was the oldest servant the family employed, both in age and tenure, and was as much a fixture of the house as the ivy-covered columns. Loyal, trustworthy, and unwavering in his sense of duty, Holden embodied virtues that seemed alien to a man like Moses. It was one of the reasons Moses valued him, even if he could never quite bring himself to say it aloud.
"I'll take Bucyrus to the stable so you can unpack when you're ready," Holden offered, gliding forward with a practiced efficiency that suggested he had made this same gesture countless times.
"Ever the professional, Holden." Moses patted the mare's flank before dismounting. His boots sank into the damp earth, and he adjusted the fastenings on the saddle as if it gave him a reason to linger. "I'll be out in a bit."
"Of course, sir." Holden accepted the reins, giving a shallow bow. "Mrs. Manasseh is on the back porch, and Miss Calista is somewhere inside."
Moses nodded, his gaze drifting back to the house. "And Maritza?"
Holden hesitated, a subtle pause that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. "Gone to town, sir. With Mr. Odo."
Moses' jaw clenched, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. Baldur's Gate. He hated it when any of them went there. To him, the city was nothing more than a festering runoff for the wretched and the damned, a place where desperation festered, and corruption thrived. It was no place for his daughters, not for Calista's innocence, nor Maritza's temper.
"Why in the Nine Hells did she go there for?"
"She didn't say, sir. Only that she'd be back before dinner."
Holden's composed reply did little to quell the unease rising in Moses. Baldur's Gate was too full of shadows, too full of men like himself, or worse. He forced his mind away from the thought. There was nothing he could do now except wait.
"Thank you, Holden," Moses said, softening just enough to acknowledge the man's effort.
Holden inclined his head and led Bucyrus toward the stables, leaving Moses alone in the yard. He stared after the man, then turned toward the estate, looking to the window where he'd seen the movement. He steeled himself, setting his shoulders as he walked forward.
The wraparound deck creaked beneath Moses' boots as he strode around the house, humid air thick with the scent of earth and alfalfa, but he was engrossed in the expanse beyond the property's edge. A primeval forest loomed at the boundary, a jagged line of willows, magnolias, and other towering trees reclaiming what had once been cleared for the house and farmland. It stretched on with an almost oppressive stillness.
That forest had always unnerved him. After all these years, it was less like a part of the land and more like a silent predator, watching and waiting. He pushed the thought aside, shifting focus to the figure seated on the porch.
Maria.
She sat in a weather-beaten rocking chair, grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle. Her motions were methodical, her focus unbroken by the world around her. The years had grayed her hair and tempered her features, but to Moses, she was still as beautiful as the night she'd stitched his mangled cheek back together in that cramped hospice of Ilmater. He could still see her as she was then. Steady hands, keen eyes, and a strength that made her seem untouchable.
Moses' hand moved to the left side of his face, his fingers tracing over the deep scar she'd patched all those years ago. The dull ink of the Zhentarim's flying snake tattoo curled across his cheek, faded but unrelenting, its edges rough with gray stubble. A brand. A reminder.
He smiled, a flicker of relief breaking through the weight he carried, and approached her. Reaching her chair he placed his calloused hands on her neckline. She didn't flinch or look up, but the familiar pressure in her muscles told him she knew he was there.
"Feel free to breathe a sigh of relief, love," Moses said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. Her skin was warm against his lips. "Your gallant hero has returned."
Moses straightened, his hands resting on her before stepping to the side. He didn't need her to respond, not with words, at least. After all these years, he had learned to read both her silence and her words.
"We both know I stopped holding my breath a long time ago," Maria said, calm but edged with a sharpness he knew too well. "I take it you already checked in with Thalion."
"That arrogant twat can wait forever, far as I care," Moses replied.
She let out a subdued, humorless chuckle. "You used to hold that 'arrogant twat' in high regard."
Moses' brow furrowed. "Fuck 'im."
Maria didn't respond. She had a way of saying more by not saying anything.
"Where's Callie? I've got something for 'er."
Maria paused. "I don't know."
"Right."
It was an answer, but not the one he was looking for. He leaned down, pressing another kiss to her forehead. She didn't pull away, but there was a distance in her calmness, a barrier he didn't know how to cross.
Understanding his presence was intruding, Moses adjusted and turned to leave, the clasps and buckles of his half plate clinking with each step. As he walked, the chirping birds on the roof mingled with the distant rustle of leaves, creating a serene backdrop to his departure.
Reaching the barn, he glanced back at the house. Maria was still seated, focusing on her work as though nothing had changed.
Bucyrus huffed and shook her withers as Moses lifted the weight from her back. The mare's relief was evident in the subtle roll of her flanks, a gratitude for the end of her burden. Moses patted her neck; he admired the animal's endurance. She bore every load without complaint, a silent resignation that reached him on a level he couldn't quite explain. Kindred spirits.
He turned to rack the saddle but stopped when he caught sight of something in the doorway. A figure stood silhouetted against the dim light of the open sliding door, auburn hair catching the muted glow of the ebbing afternoon sun. The skittish posture was unmistakable, a blend of hesitation and anticipation that tugged at something deep in his chest.
Moses set the hefty leather down slow, brushing his hands against his thighs as he stepped forward. A half smile crept onto his face, feeling foreign but welcome after so many months away.
"Callie," he said, closing the gap between them.
The girl looked down, her hands clasped in front of her. Her fingers fidgeted, twisting the fabric of her dress as though trying to root herself in place. "Welcome home, sir," she murmured.
Sir. Moses' smile faltered for a fraction of a second, the word cutting through him like a blade. Not Dad. Not Father. Sir. Like he was her commanding officer, a foreman rather than a parent. It wasn't the first time she'd addressed him that way, but it never stopped twisting the knife.
His hands moved to his hips, his voice turning mock-stern. "Is that really how you're gonna greet your father?"
The words came out sharper than he'd intended, but the smile that followed softened them. He spread his arms, his invitation open and unguarded.
Calista paused, tensing as though weighing the offer. Then, with a timid step, she wrapped her arms around him. The embrace wasn't forceful, but there was a firmness that kept him rooted in place.
Moses exhaled, the anxiety he hadn't realized he was carrying bleeding away as he rested his chin on the crown of her head. "That's my girl," he said, his voice gravelly, warm.
She didn't say anything, but he felt the way her grip tightened just enough, as though holding him was the only way to ensure he didn't vanish again. For all his faults and the distance he had placed between them, this moment, however fragile, was something he hadn't yet broken.
And for that, he was grateful.
Moses rested his hands on Calista's shoulders, his fingers firm yet gentle as he looked down at her. His expression was warm, though edged with something more profound. Regret, perhaps, or the guilt that never entirely left him.
"You been keepin' an eye on the place for me while I was gone? Your mum's no spring chicken, and Mari... well, she's Mari," he teased.
Calista nodded, straightening under his gaze. "Yes, sir. I have the ledger if-."
"I don't need the books," Moses said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "I know you've got it all in hand, Callie. You always do."
Her lips curved into a shy smile, the faintest hint of pride flickering across her face. There was a brief silence between them, not uncomfortable but weighted with unspoken words. Moses stood taller, his armor clinking as he turned back to Bucyrus and reached into the saddlebags.
"I got somethin' for ya," he said over his shoulder, tinged with anticipation.
He pulled out a leather roll, held tight by decorative bands worn smooth with time. Turning back to her, he held it out.
Calista hesitated before taking it, her brow furrowing in curiosity as she undid the bindings. Inside were paintbrushes of varying sizes, their handles starch white bone, hand-carved and inlaid with delicate silver trim. Though old, they had been meticulously cared for, the bristles smooth and unblemished.
Her breath hitched as she ran her fingers over them. "They're beautiful…"
"Got 'em off some pompous git in Lyrabar," Moses said with a grin. "Figured they'd be better off with you than collectin' dust in some rich fool's gallery."
Calista's smile widened, her fingers lingering on one of the brushes. "Maybe I can paint somethin' for your study."
"I'd like that," Moses said, his voice unguarded.
Her smile grew, and for a brief second, the space between them became smaller and less strained. Moses studied her, memorizing the light in her eyes as she held the gift and how her demeanor eased into something almost childlike.
He glanced toward the setting sun, the horizon bathed in hues of gold and amber. The day was fading, and with it, this fragile peace.
"You better get inside," he said practically. "Your mum'll have my head if we're both late for supper."
Calista nodded, clutching the leather roll to her chest like a treasure. "Thank you," she said.
"Go on," he said, motioning toward the house. As she turned and walked away, he watched her go, the brushes cradled in her arms.
Striding out into the cool evening air, Moses paused, his eyes drawn to the long path stretching from the house. A wagon was making its way down the lane, its creaking wooden wheels issuing a challenge to the chirp of the frogs. The figures riding atop it were unmistakable.
Odo held the reins with his usual flat demeanor, the Chultan man's broad frame unwavering as he guided the cart with practiced ease. His eyes, ever watchful, scanned the property, though his demeanor betrayed nothing of the dangers he expected to face. A similar winged snake tattoo reeled like a rope around his throat. Ouroboros.
Beside him sat Maritza, her pale skin catching the last glimmers of daylight, her raven hair framing a face set in a scowl Moses knew all too well. It was one he had seen every time he caught his own reflection in his youth: the defiance, the barely contained rage; it was like looking at a mirror, cracked and distorted but unmistakably his own.
As she drew closer, their eyes met. Even from so far away, her tension radiated, clinging to the air between them.
They stopped near the house, the horses snorting as Odo pulled back on them. Without waiting for a word, Maritza grabbed a cloth sack and flung herself to the ground. Her movements were sharp and deliberate. She didn't spare him so much as a glance as she stormed toward the house.
Moses sighed, the sound laden with frustration and weariness. She was her father's daughter, no doubt about it. A source of pride and an ache he couldn't describe. With every step she took away from him, another stone was added to the wall between them.
Odo climbed down, measured, thoughtful. He gave a curt nod as he began unhitching the horses.
Moses stood at the fence, watching Maritza disappear into the house. The door slammed behind her, silencing the crickets that had begun to sing. He ran a hand over his face, stubble scraping against his palm as he let out a breath.
"She has been like this all day," Odo said as he approached, his voice low, almost rhythmic as he spoke. "Whatever happened in town, she has been stewing over it since."
Moses nodded, still fixed on the door. "She doesn't talk to me anymore," he said.
Odo shrugged, pragmatic. "Not right now. But it is clear you are the one she is mad at, which means you are the one she is thinking about."
Moses gave a bitter laugh. "The fuck does that mean?"
"It is not supposed to mean anything," Odo replied. "It is simply the truth."
Moses turned back to the cart, looking at the tracks it had left in the dirt road. The sun was almost set, casting long shadows across the ground. Their weight pressed down on him.
"Thanks for lookin' after 'er," Moses said at last, his voice carrying a note of finality.
Odo nodded again, then returned to his work without another word. Moses stood there, the evening growing colder, before finally heading inside. Whatever storm was brewing between him and his daughter, he knew it would break eventually. He just wasn't sure what would be left standing when it did.