Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vex is up early the next day. Their money is in fine form after everything, but there’s still work to oversee. There’s their keep’s construction to plan and discuss, the group’s exact role on the council to clarify, the last of the children to send home or find homes. She doesn’t expect Percy falling into step beside her as she heads towards the Cloudtop, his thumb pressed to his temple.

Most of the others are still asleep and she can’t fault them for that. Vax isn’t, but she’d asked Vax to stay back and let the others know where she’d gone. After everything that just happened, she wants a bit of space from everyone, and while it’s nice to have backup they don’t really need it quite so much now, with everything they’ve done. But- Percy is quiet company and doesn’t seem to expect any conversation, and as they make their way through the largely empty streets to the nearest Cloudtop gate, he spends most of it with his nose in his notebook, making intermittent additions to something in between tapping his temple.

Probably explains why he’s up so early, she supposes, if Cassandra is active. And given how Vax seems to have befriended Percy’s sister, she wouldn’t be that surprised if her brother had ratted her out to the de Rolos.

Always Vax’s way. He can’t help but be protective, sometimes to an almost overbearing degree, and at least in this instance Percy isn’t the worst person to sic on her trail. Percy at least knows when to keep to himself.

Indeed he tends to keep so much to himself, it’s easier for her to be nosy about him than the other way around, and when they’re paused at the gate, waiting for the guards to verify them and let them in, she peers over his shoulder.

The notebook pages aren’t the gun design she’d expected, but a list instead - names, street addresses, locations. In a few spaces, instead of a neatly fountain-pen inked name is a pencilled-in description, and she can recognise almost every one of them - it’s the children they’d brought back yesterday.

Without much subtlety, Percy clears his throat. When she glances up at him he’s raised an eyebrow, and glances towards the guard, waving them through the gate.

“Oh,” she says, jumping to head on through, gesturing for Trinket to follow them. “Thank you!” And then, once they’re a ways away from the gate and in the incredibly empty Cloudtop streets - it really is the way of the wealthy, she thinks, getting away with lie-ins, it really was obvious about Percy when you thought about it - she glances back to Percy. “Sorry.”

“It’s not a secret,” he says with a shrug. Given she’d been expecting an It’s fine or similar brush-off she glances at him again. “I wasn’t planning on telling anyone,” he clarifies, “But it’s not a secret.”

“Like the tea-strainer plan?” She’d been surprised when Vax had told her what Cass had said of Percy’s plan and, if she really admitted it, a bit delighted too. Percy being willing to turn his considerable mind to making small, useful things just for them - there’s something very pleasing about that.

Percy barks a small, surprised laugh. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I suppose.” He glances back to the notebook in his hands before looking back at her. “It was Cass’ idea,” he says quietly when he catches her questioning look. “Yesterday, she pointed out- after what the children have been through, they might struggle to make friends with those who don’t share those experiences. Or that- it might help them to have friends who understand.” He waves his notebook. “We drew up a list - all of the children still at the palace and that we could remember, names, addresses, et cetera. We were thinking - to as many of the children as we could, giving them a copy. In case they wanted to talk to one of the others again.”

That’s… surprisingly thoughtful and considerate for Percy, honestly - and well, he did admit Cassandra had helped him come up with it - but Vex can’t wonder if it in someway informs whatever thing had to have happened that keeps the de Rolos so quietly close, so unwilling to disclose what happened to them.

Do they think no one else will understand? Have they had some harrowing experience that leaves them feeling isolated from everyone else?

She remembers how jumpy and startled Percy had been when they first found him. Some of his spaciness was obviously Cass, looking back now, but the rest…

Vex recognises that insular defensiveness. Vex has glimpsed some of Percy’s scars and the names on his gun barrels and seen how both de Rolos flinch at certain things. She wouldn’t be surprised if Percy’s approaching the children with some semblance of understanding.

God, she thinks. What happened to them that they relate so readily to abducted children? Percy hadn’t responded to the tales of missing children as though he had personal experience, but there’s certainly something there that he or Cass feels connected to.

“I think you might be right,” she says, instead of any of that. “That why you’re joining me now, rather than going up with the others later? You’re not normally a morning person but-”

She trails off, hoping they’re thinking alike again.

“Ah yes,” he agrees dryly. “You’ve already seen right through my arrogant and disaffected mask. No fear shocking you with this, while the others-"

“Such a hue and cry,” she agrees, smiling. “Percival Freddie von whatty-de-whatty de Rolo has a heart of all things; isn’t as cruel or callous or awkward as they all thought- yes, much better to keep it quiet so as not to scare the children with the others’ outbursts.”

She gets a startled chuckle out of Percy for that and when she glances over to him there’s a slight flush to his cheeks, his gaze cast sheepishly down as his thumb rubs his temple.

It’s fun to tease Percy. And, unlike so many of her other careful attempts to win his trust and openness, to carefully eke out some answers, this isn’t a method he’s rebuffed.

They’re let into the palace almost immediately, without any fuss. The remaining children are in the same room as before, and it’s there that they’re led while guards hurry off to fetch down Lord Riskel Daxio, the man supposedly set to be responsible for the construction of their keep, and the current Master of Commerce.

Honestly, Vex is trying to reserve judgement, but she can’t help but think someone already titled lord doesn’t know half as much about correct use of coin as she does through hard work and practice. Maybe she’s biased but-

Well, Vax would be the first to assure her she’s right to be biased, in this at least.

Percy is quickly gone from her side, speaking to one of the guards she recognises from yesterday, gesturing to his notebook and clearly explaining his goal. There’s a brief bout of confusion before another guard is waved over, two of the children invited to look at the notebook, and-

Well, it is a palace. Percy is posh as all hell. Even if he’s proven to be no good with children, he’s probably better positioned here to get things sorted out than he would be otherwise.

Daxio isn’t long coming either - and nope, Vex feels absolutely justified in being preemptively biased because Riskel Daxio is an elf. Strawberry blond hair, roughly the same height and skintone as Syldor, almost certainly some kind of wood elf - probably not Syngornian born and raised to be so highly ranked in Emon, but still. She braces herself for the usual bullshit.

There is, thankfully, none of the usual bullshit as Daxio greets her, introduces himself and spreads out the initial plan laid out by the architect. Indeed, he seems very down-to-earth, if anything, practical and polite and more focussed on the task at hand than anything else.

His first name is Riskel, Vex remembers. One part of Gren Tal’Dorei’s long name, yelled out in relief by his parents, had been Riskel too.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Daxio isn’t the usual flavour of elven dickhead if Uriel named his son for him, and as Daxio explains about local quarries and stone supply, she glances over to Percy. Kneeling in front of some of the kids, explaining the list of names and addresses, he looks entirely unlike the nervous man he’d been back in Westruun, daunted at the prospect of speaking to loud, energetic children.

There really must be something in their experience he relates to, Vex thinks. She can’t think what else might have prompted this sudden confidence.

“All in all,” Daxio says, pulling her attention back to him. “We can start within the next week and it should take roughly six months to finish. Longer if you wanted to install a teleportation circle, but as members of the Council you’d have use of the Traverse Junction’s teleportation network should it be needed, so that’s been left off.” He shuffles the rolls of diagrams around, pulling out a smaller version of the architect’s original design to offer to her. “If there’s any changes you wanted to make, or additions-”

“I imagine Tiberius and Percy will want personal workrooms,” she says. “And Keyleth a garden and Pike a personal temple. But I’ll discuss with the others and get back to you.”

If there’s space enough - and it looks like there might be - she’d like a range as well, and Vax would probably get a kick out of one, Percy too. Hell, Grog too, probably, especially now he’s got that chain to yank his axe back.

“Excellent,” Daxio says with a smile. “Small additions and adjustments should be relatively straightforward to account for. If you come up to the palace in the next week or so and ask for me, I’ll be around organising everything in advance.”

And with that he heads off, piles of diagrams and notepaper in his arms and honestly she’s more surprised by the consistent politeness from an elf than anything else.

Percy’s done with his conversations by the time she stops perusing the smaller design sheet and heads over to join him, instead watching the children with one thumb pressed to his temple. From the small smile on his face it’s easy enough to guess that Cassandra is talking to him so she elects not to interrupt and instead waits for him to acknowledge her presence. It happens sooner than she’d have expected.

“Back to the Lamia?” he asks. “We might see some of the others heading up if we return now.”

“Keyleth and Pike, I think,” she says as they turn towards the door. It’s another thing she enjoys with Percy. No real kerfaff or cat-herding required; Percy seems to understand her goals and happily aligns himself with them more often than not. It’s refreshing to have that kind of ease with someone aside from Vax, even if she’s wary of trusting it to be consistent with how posh Percy is. “Vax had some errands, I think - he wanted to check on some of the kids already sent home and possibly pick up some books.”

Percy nods at that, then smiles, his hand going to his temple. The smile is uncommonly wide, almost as though he’s trying not to laugh and she raises an eyebrow at him when he glances over to her.

“Two minds,” he says, which she supposes has become a shorthand for when Cass is having an opinion but there’s others around. “It’s been pointed out your brother’s quite friendly with that shopkeeper - Gilmore, isn’t it?”

Oh. Well, yes. Vex generally doesn’t think too deeply about whatever flings Vax gets himself caught up in, as long as everyone’s happy and of-age and consenting, but she supposes that is also an option. And Vax wouldn’t tell her if that was his intent, given their standing agreement not to expose one another to each other’s relationships.

“Vax likes people,” she says, instead of any of that. Posh people, she knows too well, can be really stuck up about same-sex relationships. Percy wasn’t when they met Sigri and Vola, but he’d also spent a good stretch not paying much attention to most people outside the group. Vax is a different matter and Vex will always protect her brother just as he’d protect her. “He’s better than people think. Just because he keeps to himself-”

“He likes being around everyone,” Percy says, and lifts his thumb to rub his temple when she looks over to him. “And he checked on Keyleth yesterday. He’s not you, heading off trouble by talking, or haggling us into better deals but- he makes sure everyone’s doing all right. If he wants to be our face dealing with Gilmore - well, there’s definitely worse options.”

Grog. The thought hits her immediately and she’d feel bad if not for the fact she’s seen how Grog handles money and it is badly. Luckily, Grog’s big and strong enough most people would rather not take the risk of fucking with him, but Vex is pretty sure that if he didn’t do most of his shopping with Pike at his side, Grog would be taken advantage of by every shopkeep to take his measure.

Well. Perhaps not Gilmore. Gilmore’s a hard man to haggle with, that’s for certain, but he’s also fair, consistent, and friendly, which is more than can be said for some. Honestly, there’s worse people for Vax to begin a flirtation with - and she’s glad that this one is at least… likeable and friendly to them all and seems to be decent enough, if he’s friendly with Allura too. Vax wears his heart too obviously on his sleeve at times, and she always worries that this is the time he’ll be caught in over his head. Gilmore is almost reassuring, really.

Her worried thoughts must have been obvious on her face because she can hear Percy’s frown as he asks, “Vex?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing serious,” she says. And then, because at some point or another they’re going to have to find out Percy’s perspective on these things and it’s better if it’s just her here who can deal with it rather than someone who might get upset: “Vax hasn’t always had the best luck with his entanglements. This is more promising than others, but I’m always going to worry about him.”

There’s about three different expressions on Percy’s face in the next moment, at least one of which she’s reasonably sure has to be from Cass, before it resolves to his usual.

“That’s good,” he says. “That you’re concerned for him. But I agree, I think Gilmore’s probably one of the better chances to take.”

“Not bothered by it?” she asks and Percy shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “It’s just- clarifying, I suppose. Those comments you made about the barkeep back at Stonemill-”

“Marlhos,” she says. “Yeah. Good thing about there being both Vax and me; we can trade off if someone likes something else.”

“Efficient,” he says with approval. “I imagine that must have saved you trouble over the years.”

“Sometimes,” she agrees. “Though sometimes- it’s Vax, he’s as likely to get us into trouble as to keep us out of it.”

Percy laughs, then rubs his temple, presumably because Cass took offence on Vax’s behalf.

It’s endearing, Vex thinks, the friendship that’s managed to spring up between Vax and Cassandra. She supposes they’re all going to have to make a better effort at befriending Cass, especially as it’ll be easier when they have a keep instead of having to stay in inns where anyone might overhear.

They’re outside of the palace now, making their way down through the Cloudtop, so it’s less of a surprise when Percy gestures to his temple. “Ducky was surprised, a little, but then-” He gestures again, something almost a shrug except Percy’s too posh to shrug. “We were sheltered, I suppose. It’s one thing to know of something, it’s another to encounter it. She was surprised by Sigri and Vola too.”

If sheltered isn’t another clear box ticked off on the checklist of Percy’s a posh boy and always has been, Vex doesn’t know what is. And better, she supposes, that they react this way and now than any other way later.

“Only surprised?” she asks.

“Only surprised.” He pauses. “There were- there were two women back in Shellmark who were married, I think. But neither of us was really in a place to register it during our stay there. I think she rather forgot, once we left.” There’s a brief frown, almost a wince and then, “Yes, I suppose I did forget as well for a time. And- well, I confess I’ve rather been trying not to think about… well anything of that nature since-” He gestures again to his head. “Not always successfully, at first, but-”

“Oh.” She can’t help the verbalisation of surprise, she really hadn’t thought about that even with all of Scanlan’s outrageous speculation. “Oh god, that has to be the worst-”

“It could certainly be better,” he agrees. “But in the end, I’d rather have her with me than be left alone with my thoughts. I rather think I’d be worse off, if I’d been left alone with just my thoughts.”

Scanlan is definitely wrong in his theory, Vex decides. That does leave the question open as to the real answer, she supposes, but she’s glad to have her gut instinct vindicated.

“It’s never good to be alone,” she says instead. God does she know that - even when she and Vax are infuriated with each other, they’d always rather have the other nearby. “I’m glad you have her with you too.”

The others largely are off running errands when they return - Tiberius went to have tea with Allura and has, apparently been invited on to peruse the library at the Alabaster Lyceum. Vex imagines he’s absolutely delighted; finding and keeping books on the road was a nightmare before the Bag and even then far from easy. Having ready access to a library for all his research - he must be thrilled.

Keyleth and Pike they’d apparently missed on their way back, having headed up to the palace too to visit the children again, but while Grog and Scanlan had headed off to further explore Emon Vax had just returned from his errands and was tucked away in a corner with - unusually enough for him - a stack of books.

“Research?” she asks as she greets Trinket and Percy heads on upstairs. “Not your usual forte, brother.”

Vax pulls a face at her for that but she refuses to feel bad - Vax is far from stupid but she knows full well that he learns best from doing, not reading.

“Needed something to do,” he says, which is an attempt to fob her off if she ever heard it and, Trinket greeted, she slides along the bench beside him and starts reading over his shoulder. Almost instinctively he hunches in on himself - they’re both of them still too used to Syldor’s invasive prying - but he relaxes quickly and tilts the page so she can see. “I figured if we’ve got time off,” he says. “Asked Gilmore for suggestions.”

Oh. It’s all about ghosts.

Half of it’s probably wariness, she knows. They’ve all seen what Cass can do; the idea of her being turned against them is something she doesn’t think the others have yet considered but her brother is about as paranoid as she is - but he’s also Cassandra’s friend. She’d not be surprised if the other half was genuine concern for what the young woman’s clearly been through. As she straightens from peering over his shoulder he relaxes further.

“Good morning?” he asks.

“Got a draft design for the keep,” she says. “Need to talk to the others about it but we’ve got a week to finalise any details we want changed.” She shrugs. “The biggest question is what we’re all going to do while it gets built. Best estimate is six months and we don’t have the funds to just sit around cooling our heels for that long.”

Vax glances up at her properly for that, frowning.

“Don’t we get some kind of stipend?” he asks. “They’re giving us the keep but we’re a bunch of randoms - do they honestly think we’ll have the funds to maintain it?”

“They’re rich,” she points out. “So- probably. Besides, they’ll probably give us jobs once everything’s established - though we’ll have to keep ourselves equipped and in-pocket. But until then…” she lets out a long sigh.

“Yeah,” Vax says. Then, “Want me to hunt up some jobs for us?”

She claps a hand on his shoulder, pushing herself back upright.

“Maybe later,” she says. After all - if Vax is indulging his curiosity in things, why shouldn’t she? She’s been putting off learning more about the Underdark for months now.

She’s got a few ideas for ways to learn about the Underdark by the time everyone’s gathered once again in the Lamia’s main room. Vax’s presence at the booth has kept it staked out for them all day and while he read and she carefully looked over the ledger, budgeting out a possible trip to see Madam Noquafin and enquire a bit about the Underdark, the others gradually joined them.

It’s strangely soothing, having them all around. Vex would be perhaps the second to admit that she’s prone to vanishing off and seeking peace and quiet in the woods when things get too much but after so long travelling with everyone, she’s much more able to tune them all out. She knows what to look out for when one of them wants her attention and, even better: they know when to leave her be. As soon as her ledger comes out she’s given a little circle of peace and quiet and it is heavenly.

It also means she can gradually tune back in when she’s done, extend the process of tucking everything away as she picks up on what everyone is saying and… it’s helpful, having that space to return to the social arena.

“I don’t know,” Keyleth’s saying. “I know now’s the best time to go, when we don’t have much to do, and they’re nearer by than any of the others but- but it’s also when their connection is weakest, you know? It feels cowardly to go now.”

“It’s not cowardice to take care of yourself,” says Percy’s voice hotly - but not Percy himself if his eyes are anything to go by. She watches him roll them as Cass continues. “Doing things as and when you think you must, or because it feels cowardly to do the thing that would help you - that’s stupid. That kind of thinking is how Percy ended up almost dying in a cell.”

“Perhaps,” Pike says, and she’s smiling that small smile that means trouble. “But we’d not have met you otherwise, would we?”

“Well-” Cass says, and it is nice that Percy’s letting her speak freely. She knows it’s probably because of the booth but - it’s still good to see as Cass stutters. “That as may be,” she says eventually, as proud as her brother ever is. “Maybe if he’d been smarter about it he wouldn’t have ended up so close to death.”

Under Cassandra’s control - it has to be with her so present and what she says next - Percy’s hand moves forward to take Keyleth’s.

“It’s not cowardice to take care of yourself,” Cass insists. “Vex and Vax have each other, and so do Grog and Pike, and Percy has me - who do you have to keep an eye on you?”

Keyleth looks surprised but- slowly she nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I can only speak for myself,” Vax adds, lifting his head from his book and tilting it to indicate Percy. “But I’m seconding Ducky.”

“Likewise, darling,” Vex adds and Keyleth seems perhaps a little surprised.

“You’re a good person,” Percy says - and it sounds more like Percy again and less like Cass. As she watches he squeezes her hand once and lets go - definitely Percy, so cautious about contact. “I think we’d all rather you be well and taken care of. If that means going now, when- when their connection is weaker, you said? - I don’t see that as necessarily a bad thing. I’d assume, from what you’ve said, they’re equipped with an appropriate challenge regardless - they can’t account for travel distances from all of your sister-tribes can they?”

Keyleth pauses at that. “No,” she agrees. “I know our challenges are designed to work no matter the time of year.”

“Then there you go,” Pike says. “It’ll be fine.” 

Beside her, Tiberius huffs smoke thoughtfully. “Highness,” he asks slowly. “What do you mean-”

“Oh!” Keyleth says. “Oh it’s- you remember Skysunder and the Frostfell? Generally midwinter is a strong time between water and air - air is more autumn, you know, the strong winds and storms-”

“I’d have thought spring would be water,” Percy says, “Spring showers and all.” 

Keyleth shakes her head. “Summer is fire,” she says. “So winter has to be water - they’re opposites. That’s why it was possible for Everron to bring a piece of the Frostfell through then- well, and the Celestial Solstice, but those weaken the barriers between all planes… it’s complicated. But- there’s debates over if autumn is earth or if it’s spring, I mean like air could be spring, because pollen and spring breezes, you know? And then autumn is opposite so it could be earth - but whether or not spring is air or earth , it’s still winter right now - so the Terrah’s portal and connection to the Plane of Earth won’t be as strong-” Once again her expression is downcast. “It really does feel like cowardice,” she says. “But- I don’t want to put it off any longer and who knows when we’ll have time again?”

Keyleth looks almost plaintive, like she wants someone to help her decide and Vex can’t really blame her.

“It can’t hurt to go now,” Percy points out. “As you say, who knows when we’ll have time to take you up there next if not now and- your people have done this for centuries, haven’t you? So they’ll have had to provide Aramenté challenges to new headmasters at all kinds of times of year. Like you said, your tribe’s challenges should work any time of year-”

The look on Keyleth’s face suggests that while this is reassuring her on the front of cowardice, it isn’t reassuring her otherwise.

“You’ll manage it, darling,” Vex says instead, cutting Percy off before he can dig himself into a grave. “Part of the Aramenté is to help you become more worldly, isn’t it? You’ve spent plenty of time doing that by now, on top of all you learned before. You’re much better equipped than when you started.”

“Vex is right,” Percy agrees. “And- if it would help you to have moral support, I’m sure we can manage that.” He glances over them all. “I don’t think we really have much by way of plans for the foreseeable future, do we? Not until the keep is done.”

“You went to find out about the keep, didn’t you, Vexy?” Scanlan asks. Vex tries, with only her eyes, to tell him never use that nickname again.  

Well. It’s Scanlan. Worst comes to worst she can just tell him next they’re on watch together.

“Yes,” she says, as all eyes fall on her. “I’ve got a drafted design but- I imagine Percy will want a workshop and Pike will want a small chapel and Keyleth will want a garden-”

Tiberius raises a clawed hand. “I’d quite like an enchanting laboratory,” he adds and Vex nods.

“And I was thinking a range of some kind, for Vax and myself - and Percy, of course, and Grog too now you’ve got that chain for your axe-”

“Yeah!”

“So I’ll add in notes for that and get that to Daxio tomorrow. But…” she trails off. “Well. Even with magical aid in the building process it’ll take a minimum of six months to build the keep and frankly, we don’t have the funds to stay here, sitting on our arses the whole time. Even with the goodwill we’ve earned, discounts aren’t what you think they might be when you’re well known and known to have been rewarded-"

“So we need to find jobs or ways to occupy ourselves,” Percy says. He’s sat-up straighter since she started speaking, paying attention from his corner of the booth, his scarred forearms bare below the elbow, his palms dusted with charcoal and pencil dust where they rest either side of his sketchbook. Vex can already guess how he hopes to occupy himself - that project he’d mentioned before, an advanced version of his pepperbox. Vex can’t help but hope for something perhaps a little more reliable and less prone to breaking.

“Exactly,” she agrees. “There’s certain jobs it just wouldn’t be feasible for us to undertake anymore - anything requiring an undercover element, for example-”

“Or the Clasp,” Vax cuts in.

“So we’ll need to find other jobs to fill our time and our pockets.”

For a stretch there’s quiet, only broken by Scanlan’s groan and the thunk of his forehead hitting the table.

“Well,” and it’s Pike who's speaking and they all turn to look at her. “I was thinking- I mean given everything and with my physical therapy, it was suggested-” She draws a breath, pulling herself as tall as her short height allows. “I’ve signed up for four months at sea,” she says. “I need to get stronger, I need to be better prepared and prayer might help me deal with- with some of what happened but it can’t help me with that.” She shrugs. “I’ll be heading off in a couple of weeks. The ship’s getting its keel scraped and resealed, and provisions laid in-”

“What kind of boat?” and of all people it’s Percy who’s asking, genuine curiosity in his expression. “A fishing vessel, trading, military, diplomatic? Single sail, multiple-”

“It has two sails?” Pike offers. “And- mostly trade, I think? I just signed up as a deckhand; I’ll be helping wherever needed.”

Percy’s nodding along. “Grog and Scanlan will have inured you to the kinds of jokes you’ll hear,” he says. “And if you’re a deckhand - you’ll have calluses on your hands by the end of it, that’s for definite-”

“Have you sailed?” Pike asks, curiously. “I mean-”

Percy immediately looks sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck and then his temple. For a stretch his mouth works silently. “Cass pulled me out of a river at a fishing village,” he says eventually. “When I had the idea for the pepperbox- I needed funds. They gave me work.” The last is said with a relaxed shrug, as though it’s that simple, and as everyone looks on in surprise, Pike pulls Percy into conversation to further discuss sailing.

“Well,” Vax says quietly, just for her to hear. “That’s one person we don’t have to worry about.”

They’re all going to worry about Pike for some time, though, Vex suspects. And, “It leaves us with two we now absolutely do,” she replies lowly, watching the shocked expressions on Grog and Scanlan’s faces.

Scanlan’s hidden any worry behind bluster by the next morning, at least, having gone off to drown his sorrows at a nearby brothel. Grog’s still quiet, sticking closer to Pike than usual, still more than a little upset. If it weren’t for the fact that Vex desperately wants some time where it’s just her, Vax and Trinket, she’s almost tempted to invite Grog along with them if it’d lift his mood - but she suspects no one but Pike will be able to do that.

Still. The others have taken it in stride at least, probably aided by Keyleth resolving to make progress on her Aramenté and therefore planning to go her own way for a month or so as well. Tiberius has a standing invitation to visit Allura which he seems well pleased about, and she and Vax have plans.

Well. She intends to visit Madam Noquafin and ask for an education on the Underdark. She’s reasonably sure Vax is making plans to flirt with Gilmore. Over the course of six months she’s confident they can find time for both.

Really at this point she’s just waiting for them to start approaching her begging for money. She knows Percy intends to, hopefully before she and Vax set off. She wouldn’t put it past Percy to find a way to send her a cross-country note, though: Dear Vex’ahlia, Treasurer of Vox Machina. As mentioned before, I require funds for my current project and thus might I prevail upon you for the sum of…

God, she hasn’t a clue how much he’s going to ask for. At least she knows he’s planning on making another gun and that he’s made one once before so he should in theory know what he’s doing.

She also knows it’s Percy and that his gun has a tendency to explode, so for all she knows she might be paying for multiple iterations of terrible mistakes and it’s all a waste.

But. It’s Percy. He’s made it clear he’s going to refine the design as much as he can before asking for funds, made it clear that money is her domain and he has no intent of trying to invade. For all he probably doesn’t have the first idea of the exact value of coin he knows that she does. He respects the fact she does.

All in all, lost in her thoughts, she’s quite surprised to be brought back to herself by Pike sitting down just across from her.

“Vex?” Pike’s voice is gently questioning and perhaps a little concerned - she supposes she had been quite lost in thought.

“Just thinking, darling. What can I help you with?” She doesn’t even wait for Pike to answer before reaching for where the ledger sits beside her.

“Well,” Pike says. “Um… nothing, really?” 

Vex’s hand stills completely. Pike gestures quickly.

“I just wanted to let you know. Because- I’m going to be paid for my time on the Howl and I’ve got enough pocket change to get what I think I’m going to need - Percy’s helped me as well - and…” She spreads her hands expressively. “I won’t need any pocket money. So… if the others start bugging you to give them money, you can tell them I didn’t ask for any if they start getting pushy.”

Oh she does love Pike. Polite, godly, but clever too. Pike knows how to manage people very well, of course she does with Grog, with being a holy woman. And here she is, passing an exceedingly useful key to the trick right into Vex’s hands.

“I’ll be sure to remember,” she says, trying to hide a grin. “Thank you, darling.”

“‘Course,” Pike says easily. “And- Grog probably won’t be pushy. I dunno about anyone else. You know Keyleth won’t use cash if she can help it, and Scanlan’s probably gonna try to beg some but-”

“Don’t worry,” Vex says dryly. “I’ve not forgotten the coldus cockus incident.”

She’s rewarded for bringing up the pre-Percy memory: Pike snorts, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

“Percy has a project,” she says. “So I’m already allotting money for that. I think Tiberius might have some projects he wants to work on - I think he mentioned something about arranging another Earring - and you know what he’s like anyway. But Percy won’t ask for more than he needs, Ducky won’t need any I imagine and… well.”

“Just don’t let them push you,” Pike says. “They might think they’ll have an easier time now that Vax is…” There’s a cheeky, teasing look in Pike’s eye as she glances over to Vax and then back, “... distracted.”

“He needs a good distraction,” she says, mostly because it’s true. And arguably Vax has two right now - Gilmore and that stack of ghost books. And, because she doesn’t really want to discuss her brother’s flirtations, “And you know me, Pike. The last thing I’ll let someone push me around on is money. If anything you should wish them luck before you leave.”

It’s Scanlan who approaches her next, hopping up onto a chair beside her that evening as she’s sat in a corner, going over the ledger. She’s been doing it a lot lately.

She knows why, too. It’s soothing to tally up the numbers, to make sure everything’s as it should be, to be certain that even if she doles out some money to the others they’ll still have money saved for other things.

They’ll have a keep when they return. They’ll need furnishings.

Scanlan, sat beside her, kicks his heels against the brace between the chair’s legs. He doesn’t say a word until she looks at him and sets down her pen.

“Grog and I are gonna go our own way for a bit,” he says. Welp, she thinks. No beating around the bush here. Scanlan glances off to the side, pointedly not where Pike is sitting. “We were thinking of going up to Kraghammer - never seen a city of dwarves before, even in all my travels. Think it might interest Grog too, you know?”

“So,” she says, letting herself smile a little. “You’re thinking of going up to Kraghammer and Grog’s agreed to keep you company.”

Shameless, Scanlan shrugs. “You said we gotta keep ourselves occupied,” he points out. “At least if Grog and I travel together someone’s keeping an eye on him, I don’t get squished, and we have someone to join us on the brothel trips.”

True. Grog and Scanlan are usually the only ones making brothel trips besides - better for them to keep each other company and they at least know that Scanlan and Grog work well together. If anyone’ll be able to keep Grog from dwelling too much on Pike’s absence, it’s Scanlan.

“I’m not funding the brothel trips,” she says, as she pulls the ledger back to her. “But I can give you some funds for the journey, at least.”

Tiberius is at least straightforward in his bluster - she knows what he wants as soon as she sees him walking over towards her, arranging his robes and his bag and his staff to sit, fussing with the folds of cloth to neaten how they fall before so much as saying a word. She watches him impassively: his bluster as he figures out how to address people is always entertaining. Especially when they don’t have titles or status he can fall back on - it softens the bitterness of dealing with the posh, watching Tiberius struggle to address her respectfully when his whole upbringing left him ill-equipped for it.

“I-I was wondering, Vex’ahlia, as our lady treasurer, if, um- you see I was rather planning on working on a few projects - a few new things to enchant, you understand, and enchanting requires components, just as any other spell does, and I’m afraid to say my funds are rather depleted! So I was, ah, wondering if perhaps-”

She takes mercy on him. “You could have some pocket money?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

“Well, ah, I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly,” Tiberius says. “But ah- yes, I do need some funds for this. Allura’s agreed to help with enchanting a new Earring, to work with the others despite not being part of the original set, you see-”

“And she can’t fund this herself, because-”

“Well, we’ll be using them, of course!” Tiberius exclaims. “So we’d either be paying for the parts or for the end result, if we’re to keep it, and I do intend for us to keep it - they are very useful and I was quite put out I didn’t have the money or ah, the materials, or the time, to make enough for everyone. But we’d just gained Pike and Percival, of course, so I had to change my plans at the last minute-”

Tiberius, left to his own devices, can go on for far longer even than Percival Fredrickstein von long-name long-name the fuck. Briefly Vex wonders why Percy’s carrying on bothers Vax so much more than Tiberius’ but- well that’s an easy answer really. Percy’s precise and formal in a way that rubs them the wrong way after Syngorn - rubs Vax especially the wrong way. Tiberius’ bluster is more endearing than anything.

“I won’t fund all of your projects,” she says, when Tiberius falls to a lull. “We just don’t have the money. The Earring I can fund and maybe a few things if they’re like the Chain or the Hand Cone, but otherwise - we need this money to have a place to stay until the keep is built, and to furnish it once it is; I’m not funding small personal projects that won’t help us as a group, all right?”

“Oh!” Tiberius says, sounding delighted. “Yes, yes, that’s quite understandable. I can ask Allura for help with the personal projects I’m sure - some of them are rather experimental and she seems interested in them. But- I will need a place to stay.”

“We don’t have the funds for that,” she says patiently. “You’re going to have to find work aside from your projects for some of it, Tiberius.”

“Oh.” Tiberius looks almost sad about that. “Yes, well, I suppose I can do that. And for the projects?”

With a sigh, Vex reaches into the Bag.

“Um.” Keyleth is holding her staff in both hands, knuckles almost white with how tightly she’s grasping it, even her freckles gone pale. Vex can immediately guess Keyleth’s purpose here. “I don’t know if Percy’s spoken to you yet, but he agreed to keep me company up to Terrah and then he’s going to return to Emon to work on his project, and we’re going to need to get just a little extra camping gear? I don’t know if-”

“Percy’s not spoken to me yet dear.” It’s easy to be warm with Keyleth. She’s so clear about not wanting to cause offence. “Not even about funds for his project which he really needs to do soon if he wants the money before Vax and I leave.”

“Oh,” Keyleth says. “Um- then should I- I mean we’ll both need gear-”

“What I will do,” Vex says, to save Keyleth any awkwardness, “Is I’ll give you the money for living expenses for yourself and Percy and you can keep it or split it between you as you choose. And when Percy asks me for funds for his project, I’ll give him only that. All right?”

A weight seems to drop from Keyleth’s shoulders.

“Yes,” she says, sounding unspeakably relieved. “Thank you, Vex.”

“Darling,” she says, pressing the pouch of money into Keyleth’s hands. “Of course.”

Percy’s the last - of course he is, eking out every last moment he can to refine his design before asking her for funds - and approaches her the evening before she and Vax are due to leave. 

In his hand is a single, neatly written piece of paper.

“I’ve budgeted,” he says. “As best as I can at least, after asking around for the rough prices to rent a forge and buy the materials, with a little excess for mistakes and recasting, et cetera.. I’m sure you’ll want to check it over - you always get far better deals than I do - but hopefully that should cover it. If not, well - perhaps Keyleth and I could take a few jobs, before or after her trip to Terrah.”

The budget is shockingly good given Percy’s usual haggling. Even if he’s happy to leave coin in her hands, he is at least good enough with numbers to balance his books and she smiles to see the neat tallies of total costs.

It’s not a chore at all to pass the not inconsiderable sum over to his careful hands.

Chapter Text

Grog’s upset but Pike knew he would be when she made her plans. It’s not even that she’s going off on her own for a bit - they’ve both done that plenty of times before - but well-

Grog knows he owes her his life and Wilhand his home. He may not think of either as a debt but he knows why he stays with them and why he’s close to them, and she knows he treats it as his job to be something of a big brother to her and keep her safe.

And on his watch, she’d died. She can’t blame him for worrying. He’s not an idiot though - he’s not a deep thinker either, but he’s far from as stupid as people think. She’s pretty sure he’s not blaming himself for her going or any of that - he’s not prone to that kind of overthinking and if he did think that, he’d have asked her by now.

He hasn’t. So it’s not that. She thinks - if she really had to guess, she thinks it might be the fact he’s not had many trusted people in his life, not for any length of time, and the idea of suddenly being without her sitting wrong with him. It’s one thing if he goes off for a wander, meeting friends and making money but always returning home at the end of it, but the idea of her not being there for him to return home to, or the idea of returning to Wilhand without her…

Yeah, she doesn’t imagine that sits well with him. Especially given how Wilhand always asks them to take care of each other.

“I’ll be fine,” she points out to him as they head up to their rooms. “We’re on regular trade routes and I’m a healer. Even if there’s any pirates that try for us, I’ll live. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Grog’s bottom lip doesn’t stop wobbling; his eyes get no less tearful.

“Aw, buddy,” she says and wraps him in a hug. His arms are warm and massive and reassuring around her as he lifts her up. “You won’t be alone,” she says. “Scanlan’ll keep you company ‘til I get back - and when I get back I’ll be stronger than ever - I’ll arm-wrestle you!”

When Grog pulls back his eyes are brighter, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe you’ll beat me this time!”

She’s got a few days before she needs to set off at least. Captain Valeraine’s given her a short list of things they advise picking up before taking to sea, supplemented by suggestions from Percy, and she’s glad she’s set aside enough of her own money for it herself. Once it was clear enough that several of them had their own things they’d wanted to do, the others had all descended on Vex, begging coin from her as an allowance for the months they’re all apart.

Pike thinks sometimes that for all Vex is frugal as anything, she is generous too. They’d recently gained some coin thanks to Brimscythe and Vex could well have told them to make do with what they had left, but instead she’d doled out small portions to everyone with a firm reminder that anything else they needed they’d have to make or earn themselves.

No trouble for Pike, at least. She’ll be getting paid for her stint as a deckhand and while she plans on donating a good portion of that to Father Tristan’s temple, to help support the children that had been taken, she’s not so utterly pure and good she doesn’t also plan to keep at least a little for herself, to put off asking Vex for coin immediately.

Percy seems to be holding off on asking Vex for anything too - some new thing he plans to make, according to Keyleth - so Pike sits with him as she draws up her shopping list and the others all try to decide what they’re doing.

“The Ozmit’s a much more open ocean than where I sailed,” he admits when she asks for advice. “I imagine it’ll be a lot more choppy, the swells much larger. I was never more than a few days from shore - you’re spending four months out there.”

“Most of it’ll be hopping between islands,” she says. “At least, that’s what Captain Valeraine and First Mate Tanvir said.”

Percy nods. “That’s good - that’ll keep you a bit safer from any storms that come rolling by - but without a proper landmass it could still get bad out there.” When he peers at her, expression concerned, it’s somehow without the doubt some of the others have expressed. “Are you quite sure you want to do this?” he asks. “It’s not safe out there and the weather can’t be predicted-”

He falls silent as her hand finds his. Percy’s always so strange about touch; she thinks it startles him.

“I want to get stronger,” she says. “I need to get stronger. And I don’t want to do that where-” She trails off, glancing over everyone. None of them are paying attention.

“Ah,” Percy says softly. “Yes, I see.”

He doesn’t add anything else. She thinks he might genuinely understand.

“I’ll distract them,” he says, a little later as she’s going over her list for the umpteenth time and he’s paused sketching out details of his planned project. “If you’d like. If you need a break-”

She smiles at that - she knows Percy prefers to keep to himself, it’s not nothing that he’s offering to run interference. “That’s what the Howl is for,” she points out. “I’ll be okay. But thanks.”

There’s a look almost surprise on Percy’s face as he replies, with every evidence of sincerity, “Of course.”

Grog goes with her down to the port on the day she’s due to depart. She’d told the others the night before that she was leaving the next day, but she hadn’t told them that they set sail at daybreak nor that she needed to be there well before to check in with the Captain and the First Mate. She suspects Percy may know, but he’d also offered to get her space from the others; she doesn’t think he’s going to tell anyone. 

And so, when she arrives at the port, it’s being carried on Grog’s shoulders, directing him down the piers towards the mooring she remembers and the boat with a prow carved into the shape of a leaping, howling sea-wolf.

She’s never actually seen a sea-wolf and she’s not entirely sure they’re real. She’s heard of sea-dogs before, but that’s just a colloquial name for saltwater otters, she’s pretty sure - the idea of something even bigger and fiercer is… daunting.

There’s a part of her that wonders as to why a trading vessel is called that, why they’d bear the prow of something so fierce and dangerous, have a name such as theirs… But she hadn’t felt anything bad when talking to Captain Valeraine or First Mate Tanvir and all of the crew she’d briefly met had been lovely and the boat has a good reputation…

Well, nothing for it but to ask, she supposes and as they arrive at the boarding plank to the boat she waves towards the skipper’s post where Valeraine and Tanvir are talking to a dark-skinned halfling in an apron, all gesticulating heavily, the slight fins on Valeraine’s ears fluttering slightly in agitation. It’s Tanvir who waves back, clapping Valeraine on the shoulder before heading down to meet them.

“Thought it was just you,” the First Mate says. “Who’s this?”

“This is Grog,” Pike says, patting Grog’s head from her perch. “He’s just here to drop me off and say goodbye.”

With clear reluctance Grog lifts her down, pulling her pack from the Bag at his hip before bending down to look her in the eye.

“I’ll be fine,” she reminds him. “And when I get back, I’ll finally beat you arm wrestling.”

“You’d better,” he says, extending a fist for her to bump. “Monstah.”

It’s impossible not to hug him for that, and she launches herself at him, one last hug before she sets off. 

“It’s only four months,” she says, half into his neck. “I’ll see you soon, okay? And I’ll bring back some new swearwords.”

And with that she extracts herself, picking up her pack and hoisting it to her shoulder before turning to walk up to the plank. She doesn’t look back until she’s on board, over the lip of the Howl’s side and beside First Mate Tanvir.

“Nice to have you aboard,” she says. “C’mon, I’ll show you where you can stow that.”

Grog’s watching her, eyes a little damp as he waves and she waves back before catching up to her. With the shifting of the deck it’s a bit difficult but she remembers what Percy had said - it’s only a matter of a few hours to get some degree of sea legs, all it takes is practice. Tanvir’s even luckier she supposes - water genasi probably have sea legs by birth.

“Family?” Tanvir asks with a raised eyebrow as Grog stands ashore waving and they head towards the hatch belowdecks.

“Foster brother,” she says because that’s always been the easiest way to explain how Grog ended up with them. “His family was kind of shit; Papaw Wilhand took him in.”

“Good of you,” Tanvir says. “And it’s always good to have people to return to.”

“Yeah,” Pike agrees. And then, “First Mate Tanvir-”

Tanvir waves a hand. “Raura’s fine, Trickfoot. We don’t stand on ceremony here. I mean, maybe call Sangive Cap’n when they’re bellowing orders, but otherwise? Don’t worry about it. Certainly not when we’ve not put out to sea yet. Sanny only minds if it comes across as insubordination but- we’re traders. Don’t need to be as official as the military vessels.”

That’s true enough, Pike supposes, so, “Call me Pike, then. And uh…,” she tries again. “Is something wrong?” She gestures up to the skipper’s post, where Valeraine has now moved to talk to someone the level below, the halfling vanished. “That seemed pretty intense.”

Raura chuckles. “Uill just gets persnickety before we set off. He can make anything work but he always gets narked if we don’t get his specific list.”

She meets everyone fleetingly before they finally head off, everyone summoned up on decks so Captain Valeraine can go over everything one last time and point out the new folks, but she doesn’t get to properly meet her crewmates til dinnertime.

“I’m from Greentide,” Raura says, passing a bowl of beans down the table in the mess, and nods up to Captain Valeraine at the head of the table. “Sanny’s from Khareth, just across the causeway. We’ll drop by both when we get to them. You? You don’t sound like an Emonite.”

Pike finishes chewing and swallows her stew. “Westruun,” she says. “Before that, I travelled a lot. Papaw Wilhand took me in when I was little, though, so mostly Westruun.”

“That’s inland, isn’t it?” Raura says, then turns briefly away. “Uill, Westruun’s inland isn’t it?”

“Centre of the damn continent,” the cook agrees. “That where you call home?” he asks, peering past Raura. “I’m from down Drynna way, but there’s Cadderlys all over the show. Started out as traders so there’s branches everywhere. Always someone to send a shipment to.”

She can understand that - supposedly, it’s how the Trickfoots started out before the trouble they caused got them chased on out of everywhere - and she nods.

“Never sailed in my life,” she admits. “But - had a near miss on land and you know how it can be.” Well, she doesn’t know that they do, she’s guessing, but she hopes they understand. “I needed… space. And to figure things out.” Her hand finds her amulet. “I’ll always believe in- in life and light and Sarenrae, but it’s hard to, sometimes, when you only see the end effects and not the whole, but you’ve seen evil for definite at first hand.”

For a moment there’s quiet, just the sound of bowls passed back and forth across the table, water poured from the heavy-bottomed jug.

“Yeah,” says Adaryn - Adaryn Bharut, Pike remembers, Marquesian, likes to keep watch from the crow’s nest. “Yeah I get that.” There’s a soft smile on their ghostly-pale face, their wispy hair drifts a bit more softly. “You’ll be safe with us Trickfoot. And-” They pause, glancing over to the Captain. Valeraine sighs.

“As my mothers always said,” Valeraine offers, “when evil is present, that is when kindness matters most.”

It’s a long stretch of sailing before they’re due to make landfall. Most of the cargo is due for Marquet one way or another, but they’ll need to stop in for supplies and the Hespet Archipelago is called home by both Captain and First Mate. They’ll trade a little there, pick up more cargo, and then head on to the Bay of Gifts where they’ll drop off the rest, take on fresh cargo, and make the same trip in reverse.

In the meantime as they sail, Pike just has to get to know the ship, her work, and the crew.

The work is straightforward enough. Raura’s kind enough to give her work suited for her stature and Uill readily shows her what she needs to do again when she’s unsure and he’s not cooking. Captain Valeraine can be loud and demanding at times, but Adaryn is always calm and steady and Bernward Eldam, the crew’s one and only human, heckles back with good cheer.

“Raura’s good at remembering limitations,” Uill says. “’S why Adaryn’s in the roost more often’n not, and why it’s never Raura I’m narked at over provisions.”

“Sangive?” Pike asks. It’s strange to call the Captain by her first name, but just about everyone does when they’re not being bellowed orders, so she’s picked up the habit.

“‘S infuriating,” Uill says with a smile. “She knows what I asked for, she knows, and she always decides to get some other things instead, and makes a challenge of it. Just once I’d like it to be straightforward, you know?”

She does know, and it’s easy to turn back to work with the kind of easy understanding she finds amongst her crewmates.

The thing is, for all the work is hard, it’s not complicated, not once she’s learned what to do. It takes effort, sure - she’s definitely becoming stronger out here - but it doesn’t consume her thoughts. Instead, half of it becomes almost second nature, easy to coil rope correctly or swab down the decks or lock the winch in place.

It gives her altogether too much time to think about things.

She’s not going to abandon Sarenrae. That’s… not ever, that’s an absurd thought, come about from fear and wordless dread, not actual logic. She knows why Sarenrae couldn’t intervene for her against the demon, knows that, when asked, Sarenrae saved her from death nonetheless - that isn’t and has never been the question. Rather it’s… everything else.

Should she have been there fighting? Most Sarenraeans don’t fight, not unless they have to - the creed of the Everlight is helping before harming, redemption and second chances, seeing the world continue in safety and health and encouraging others towards a better, more positive path. The power of community rather than independence, the power of cooperation and collective effort - and, sure, they’re Vox Machina, they’re a group, a collective effort, they’ve made their own kind of community together, but they’re still a few acting as they see fit.

And, well - few people would have been equipped to handle it. Hells and all - they’d barely been equipped to handle it, she’d died. It was the right thing to fight a gleeful demon, she knows that, and right to try to help the Sovereign’s family, denied their own right to themselves by possessing demons. All people have a right to themselves - it is that right to themselves that means they can change, that means that anyone can be redeemed - and she does not doubt she was right to help them all be freed.

But did she have to fight?

Wilhand doesn’t fight. He doesn’t like it - doesn’t like the reminder of all his ancestors went through down Below, escaping drow; doesn’t like the reminder of what other Trickfoots have done, getting in trouble and getting chased out. Wilhand has never liked violence and responds to the aftermath with healing hands and kind words - true servant of Sarenrae.

Pike… Pike’s always been a bit rowdy. When she was younger, when they’d just taken in Grog, it’d been a good thing - Grog needed someone who could keep up with him, who could help guide him away from doing harm, who’d remind him it had been Sarenrae that had saved him and all that Sarenrae meant. Now… she’s not so sure.

Has she gotten a taste for violence? The rush of the fight, the joy of victory? Is she turning more towards her own personal satisfaction rather than actual service to her goddess? She knows how easy it could be - she knows Grog, after all, who doesn’t worship but still needs reminders that there ought to be limits to brutality - but while she’s always accepted his encouragements to be strong, she doesn’t think she’s been seeking out violence.

Except she joined a party of adventurers to get him back. Except she’s stayed with that party of adventurers even after Grog was safe and well. Except that she could have returned home and to the congregation and she didn’t, could have done that after Grog was free of the phylactery or after they’d settled the debt with slimeball Vina, or Everlight, she could have stopped before the Brawler’s fight, everyone knows Bahamutians are a bit more lax when it comes to violence than other sects. She could have stopped here, now, once they’d saved the royal family, or after they’d saved those children and seen them safely brought home.

And he hasn’t. She hasn’t! This isn’t the end of it, this is a break, this is time she’s taking to recover - even now, even as she could head home… she doesn’t want to. She believes, truly, in her heart of hearts, that Vox Machina has the capacity to do great good, to help more people than she can alone. Could she have found those missing children alone, or if it was just her and Grog? Could they have faced the Dread Emperor alone?

Or… is this just her seeking justification for her decisions, trying to prove to herself that she’s been acting within Sarenrae’s teachings this whole time, regardless of if that’s true? She knows the scripture - she knows better than anyone how godly words transcribed in Celestial and translated to Common can shift in subtle meanings that allows for a multitude of interpretations.

It’s easy to pick the interpretation that works in one’s favour, Pike knows. She knows very well just how many temples have been corrupted by such choices, the decision of the clergy to justify their own behaviour rather than stick to the utter truth of their god’s decrees. Some say it’s how the Betrayer Gods were so Betrayed - led down a darker path not only by their own selfish will but by their followers’ willingness to join them in such self-deception.

So she can’t lie to herself. She has to look to the Everlight and allow that brightness to burn away the shadows of deception, to reveal the truth that Sarenrae has always sought to bring to light.

It is good that she doubts herself, she knows. If she doubts herself she is not utterly set on justifying herself - but that’s no excuse for complacency, for letting herself believe that if she doubts that’s a good enough reason to believe she is justified after all. The truth, she knows, is always more complicated.

The first island they make landfall at is Scalesand. It’s a large island, largely flat but for the massive mountain on one side, the slope stretching down and flattening out into grassland with occasional, clearly-cultivated groves of trees. The main settlement on it has a Marquesian name that Pike struggles to pronounce - according to Raura it basically translates as Fishtown.

“It’s what they’re known for,” she says. “Most of the dried fish jerky in the archipelago’s from here. There’s mangroves on the far side of the island, and some smaller riverways - they have a massive variety and they process it on the shore - half of the shore-sand is scales.”

Explains the island’s name, Pike supposes, but she doesn’t really get much chance to see the shimmering shore. They’re there only briefly, dropping off a few crates and onboarding fresh provisions and three travellers. Bosun, the ship’s cat, is most disgruntled to be turfed out of his favourite hammock; Pike coaxes him into hers and curls into a ball to give the leggy ginger cat his space.

They stop off at Khareth, too, the large island that the Captain calls home, but it’s only a flying visit, picking up some new travellers and dropping some off, and then it’s the last leg to the Bay of Gifts, to drop off their cargo.

It’s… it’s kind of fantastic, really. They stay in harbour for several days, cargo unloaded and new cargo steadily brought aboard, but there’s a few days where they’re mostly let free to just explore and… gods it’s gorgeous. There’s no temple to Sarenrae, though - not that Pike would really expect it. Sarenrae’s less powerful and known than once She was and a lot of effort was put into stamping out Her faith. There’s a reason it mostly survives in rural areas, amongst farmers - people used to obscuring some part of themselves from the law on high and surviving the stomping boots of whatever army takes up occupation of an area.

She’ll just have to pray for guidance when she gets home - it wouldn’t feel right to pray over something so personal in a shared shrine.

Home. It’s a strange thought after spending two months at sea, after getting her sea legs and becoming used to the idea of the Broken Howl as her temporary home. The idea that… that when she gets back home will be most of the way built, as well, the keep they’ve been given for all they’ve done and Pike doesn’t want to dismiss it, all their efforts and the good they’ve definitely done. She can’t forget the look of shocked relief on Uriel and Salda’s faces when they’d returned the pair’s son to them, just how comforted the children seemed to be to be free of the Dread Emperor. She knows they’ve done good.

She just can’t help but wonder if they’ve been going about it all the right way.

Luckily they’re all set to leave soon enough and have to move the new cargo into better placements in the hold, carefully tying it all down so it doesn’t shift too much or upset the ballast, and then they’re stopping off at Maritoune on the way back. It’s one of the Hespet islands but ringed by a massive reef, rising to only a few feet shy of the surface in a few places: they drop anchor a safe distance away and have to wait for locals to paddle out in canoes and coracles.

They’ve got a lot of cargo to carefully load from Maritoune: large sections of gorgeous dark hardwood, a crate as light as air that’s full of brightly coloured feathers and beautifully patterned hides, rolls of fragrant bark and bundles of equally pungent leaves. Spices, Uill informs her, yet to be fully processed, and pinches out a few of the leaves to crumble them in his hand, filling the air with scent.

It’s an island full of treasures, Pike thinks as they sail away the next day. After the kids and the Clasp and what Erelwae had said about drow raiders, she can’t help but think of how many people try to take such treasures for themselves, heedless of anyone else’s wants.

It’s a steady journey back. There’s a few nasty storms, a few times they’re called up late at night to rush out into pouring rain, hauling the sails and pailing out the overflowing bilges, songs sung out between them all to keep them going, but for the most part it’s… none of that, really. There’s songs in the day as they work, there’s Uill griping about some of the provisions, there’s Bosun looking extremely pleased with himself as he jumps down through an opened hatch, a seagull giving its final twitches in his jaws.

He’s not a big cat, Bosun, but god if he isn’t an effective hunter. Not a rat on the ship that she’s seen, not the whole trip.

In honesty, now she knows what to expect, the return trip almost feels too fast, going far more rapidly than she expects and she finds herself almost daunted by the prospect of return. It’ll be home, she knows, be people she knows and a city that’s become mostly familiar in the time they’ve been there but…

She still doesn’t know where her opinion falls on all they’ve been doing. On what she should do, to stay still on Sarenrae’s path without betraying her own self.

Because she doesn’t want to go, does she? She doesn’t want to leave her friends or Grog, doesn’t want to leave the good causes they’ve so far found to champion and solve, she doesn’t want to leave her friends without a reliable healer in the midst of a fight because she knows they’ll find fights and she thinks she knows them well enough that they won’t be fights she’d disagree with.

Of course, if they’re fights Sarenrae would disagree with, that’s harder to know - but She’d fought when the gods had warred, Pike knows that. It’s why Her worship is so far shrunken these days, because Sarenrae had recognised a time came when something must be done.

But can she judge when that time comes? Or is she, mortal and with only mortal perspective to guide her, going to judge in her own favour?

She doesn’t think so. Pike won’t get in a fight without good cause - she fights to protect, to secure the wellbeing of those being threatened, because it is a way by which she might help others and serve Sarenrae’s cause. Are there times she has fought when perhaps she shouldn’t? Yes. The Brawler’s League was one such, but she knows that now and if she cannot make mistakes and learn and still have grace in Sarenrae’s eyes then Sarenrae isn’t the goddess Pike has always been taught Her to be - of redemption and second chances.

But death is the refusal to give another chance, isn’t it? Does she really have any right to ensure so permanent an end?

After experiencing it for herself - after being brought back by the grace of her goddess and her friends - it’s a question she knows she has to ask.

They’re a few weeks out from Emon when Pike hears the strange noise. She’s down in the cargo hold, double checking everything’s secured because there’d been a storm earlier in the day and she’s the only one aside from Bosun small enough to scramble around the chests and crates and bundles to check everything’s still tied down.

It sounds, first, like a snarl. And then, from up on deck - shouts. Strange voices. Clashing metal. Pike’s under no illusions - this isn’t good.

It takes a moment for her to clamber her way out from amongst the chests, out the door and up the ladder, towards the hatch for the deck. The light is clear, no one’s shut it, but the noises get louder, get worse and as she finally reaches the hatch the sea-wolf of the prow howls, some horrible awful noise - broken, as broken as the ship’s name. As Pike finally emerges onto the deck she can see Uill, sprawled on the deck, blood pooling around his belly, his shirt darkening with red.

There’s pirates on board. There’s pirates, and they’ve just hacked down one of her crewmates. Up by the wheel, Raura is wrestling a large man away from the Captain as Sangive wrestles with the wheel, Adaryn swinging down from their crow’s nest perch, hauling on the ropes of the sails because Bernward’s occupied with taking on the people who-

Blood is glinting on one’s blade. A foot away, Uill wheezes.

“Okay,” she says, crossing to him, one hand reaching for her amulet, the other for his side. The incantation comes easily to her lips, Celestial words tripping easily off her tongue until golden light glows out and Uill’s breathing eases. “Okay,” she repeats. “Okay, okay, okay. Uill? Can you hear me? Can you get up?”

There’s a distinct groan before she hears him curse, sees him push himself onto his knees. Blood still on his shirt, he pushes himself upright. There’s blood crusting all down one arm, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t flinch. Just looks at the people crowding Bernward.

Bernie has to have been some kind of brawler, before, because he’s holding his own pretty damn well.

“Fuck’em,” Uill says. “Fuck’em all.”

Bernward punches one of the men he’s fighting enough to send them stumbling back into a coil of rope. Uill leaps for it, tangling it further around their ankles before pushing the overbalancing man. Their blade drops. With a quick knot from Uill and a shove, the man drops too - right over the side of the Howl.  

Bernie’s looking bloodied though. Raura too, as Sangive wrestles with the wheel and Pike can see now, the pirate’s vessel to their starboard side. Oh.

She feels the same terrible drive she’d felt fighting the chimaera - not the desire to fight but the desire to end this, to prevent any further injury or death. The chimaera had been a mercy. This- 

This isn’t a mercy. But it’s just as necessary.

The scimitar she picks up is an unfamiliar weapon but with a few swings she gets the weight of it. It’s not as heavy as her mace, an easier weight to move, but sharp only on the one curving edge so she has to be careful. With the amount of force she can bring to bear behind it - yes, she’s small, yes, she’s a gnome, tiny enough as to go unnoticed but she is not and has never been weak.

There is strength in kindness, Pike knows this. There is strength in choosing kindness, over and over, even when the world seems cruel and hard, and one might even want to become cruel and hard in turn. She hasn’t yet. She hasn’t broken yet. All her strength, all her desire to be kind and do good - to do what is right - she has poured into being strong enough to do exactly that.

Pike realises, as she slices deeply into the leg of one of the pirates, as she slashes across one’s belly, as she snarls and prays and golden light flashes from her palm, that she has forgotten all of the strength she is capable of.

There is a place one can fight from that isn’t cruelty. Isn’t fierce anger. Isn’t even proud mercy. It can have all those parts to it, all those emotions to drive it, but at the end, the goal is Sarenrae’s teachings, to see those clearly even through everything terrible.

It is hard to cling to kindness when the world seems cruel. It is hard to be strong when everyone tells you that your kindness is weak.

Pike remembers Wilhand’s words. If we was weak, do you think they’d have to tell us so often?

Strength comes from certainty. Her certainty is in Sarenrae.

That’s the last thought she thinks as a blade slices across her face, blood dripping into her eye, the sudden shock of it sending her reeling back, landing on hard wood, and falling into darkness.

When she wakes, the light is dim and flickering. There’s something cool pressed to her face, covering one eye, and… and it itches, Sarenrae’s light, it itches.

“Hey.” Uill’s voice, gentle in the dim light, his callused hand grasping hers. “Hey it’s okay. You’re belowdecks. Sangive gave her bed for you - Stormlord knows that’s a nasy blow you took, seemed like almost more blood than I’d given out.” 

He pauses a moment, she hears the gentle clinking and sound of water pouring before he holds a beaker to her lips. Light, she didn’t realise she was so thirsty.

“Adaryn thinks your eye’ll be fine,” he adds. “But you’ve been out for a few days - worried all of us with that, giant.”

“Notta giant,” she mumbles. She can make this joke to Uill, if no one else. “Midget.”

“You’re a giant in our stories now,” he corrects her, smile audible in his voice. “Taking on three pirates at once like that, bloody hell! Stormlord’s strength in you or I’ll be-”

“Sarenrae,” she corrects. “Sarenrae’s strength.” Slowly, carefully, she pushes herself to sit upright. The damp cloth over her eye starts to slip and she reaches to catch it, fingers grazing- ow.  

“Yeah, you scabbed up pretty nasty,” Uill says. “Sorry, none of us have healing magic, so we had to make do with a little bit of Adaryn’s gum-glue and the compresses. It wasn’t a deep cut just-”

“Head wounds always bleed,” she says. “Like… a lot.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Uill replies. He tilts his head a little. “Eye’s still shut, but I think that’s mostly the scabbing. Prob’ly best you don’t tear it open if you can help it-”

“I can heal it,” she points out, hand reaching for her amulet but Uill’s hand catches hers, gaze earnest.

“You got that scar saving all of us,” he points out. “Bernie wouldn’t’ve lasted. I wouldn’t. Raura was wrecked by the time you went down - and you’d terrified the ones she’d been dealing with enough they fled. Don’t go vanishing it away completely.”

Oh. That rather puts it in a different perspective, doesn’t it?

“Just a little,” she agrees. “I need to see to work, don’t I?”

Uill grins at that, clear and wide and no worry or doubt left in his face.

“You sure do, giant. You sure do.”

She gets greeted as “giant” when she emerges out on deck. There’s no sign of the pool of blood where Uill had lain - Raura probably went and sluiced that way with a heave of water, Pike imagines - and the deck is back to the rough approximation of order it’s usually in when they’re underway. She’s a little worried they’re going to hover, just as the others had after Juurezel but they check on her, clap her shoulder and then… leave her to it.

“We’ve got sailing to do,” Sangive points out. “If you’re well and able - you’re well and able. Let’s get on with it, eh, giant?”

And sail they do. Being unconscious for the vague span of “a few days” has thrown off her mental measure of how long before they’re back in Emon but the work on deck is soothing, especially with the revelation she’d had, fighting the pirates. If, sometimes, her hand grazes the scab still stretching down her face, no one comments on it.

She’s still meditating on this all as they finally approach Emon - and Pike’s so caught up in her thoughts, so thrown off by her time unconscious, she doesn’t even register the sight of the city on the horizon until Adaryn bells out a song to them from the crow’s nest, something sweeping and mournful, carrying down clearly to them only because of Adaryn’s innate knack for the flow of air.

“Oh the times were hard and the wages low,” comes the song from above, and she hears as Bernward and Uill and Raura and even Sangive join in the next line:

“Leave her Johnny, leave her.”

“And one more day ashore we’ll go~”

“And it’s time for us to leave her.”

Pike joins in that time, a little out of step with the others but she knows the pattern of call and response now, and she thinks she understands the intent of this song too, the mournful notes, the repetition of leaving.

She’s not entirely sure she wants to leave, even as she makes out Emon in the distance - even if it means seeing the others again, seeing Grog again, and she has missed him, misses Wilhand - because she’s become comfortable out here, with the work and the camaraderie and it will be strange to leave it, now it’s over.

The temple, when she finally reaches it, is quiet, no services this time of the week. A knock on the closed door has an acolyte letting her in though, directing her towards the altar, and there’s something soothing to the familiar scents of the incense, the statue she knows and the sanctuary of the temple.

She doesn’t think she’s wrong to want to fight. There are times, after all, when one must fight. She doesn’t think, either, that she’s contravened Sarenrae’s teachings in anything but joining the damn pit fight, and even then it had been with good intent. She’s learned from the mistake, she thinks, and she’s not about to do that again. Maybe a fistfight like what Grog gets into in some taverns, more for fun and entertainment and with clear rules, but not a fight like that.

She believes too, believes she understands as she hadn’t before, the point of her desire to fight, the way it truly can serve Sarenrae’s will. There are times when to be kind, to be good, to give a second chance and to offer saving, one must fight. She’s confident she can keep her eyes fixed on Sarenrae’s goal if she does - she did it against the chimaera, to prove themselves, to keep themselves alive, to prevent the Clasp from keeping something so dangerous and to offer a mercy to a poor creature so cruelly treated. She did it against the pirates, working to preserve those who’d been kind and good and helpful to her, who worked to trade and wouldn’t have survived without someone intervening.

She wonders, a little, if her presence was Sarenrae’s intervention. If she was meant to fight to save them. She’d like to think so-

But she doesn’t know so, not for definite. Slowly, she lights a candle and kneels before the altar.

When she has been lost, there has always been one to whom she can turn for guidance. Always one light that guides through any dark.

Pike bows her head, keeps her eyes tightly closed. Her hands are clasped before her, her pendant pressed between her palms as she prays and she hopes, as she always does, that Sarenrae hears her prayer.

“You’ve always been there,” she says softly. “From my earliest days, you’ve been the light that has guided me - Everlight, for myself and for Wilhand. Maybe even for Grog, through us. And you are the goddess of hope and healing, of sunlight and new growth, of change and uplift and redemption but-” She swallows.

“Sarenrae, I wasn’t strong enough as a Cleric of Life. I will always love life. Always value it, always cherish every living thing. I will always value healing and hope, always turn my face to your sun and believe in new growth, in change from whatever old may be to your new uplifted path. I believe, because you have shown me it’s true, that anyone can be redeemed, can find a new path and better themselves from what they were before. You have never given me cause to doubt.

“But with that alone, I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t strong enough to protect my friends. Wasn’t strong enough to protect myself. I cannot serve you if I am dead, Sarenrae, and I cannot protect people if healing them only leaves them open to being hurt again. I can help, I can fight, but not much when my cause is healing, and I cannot only heal when sometimes what needs to happen is for evil and those who do it to be destroyed.”

She bows her head further, can feel the tears eking their way out from under her eyelashes, can feel the scar that spans her stomach, that rings her round, that had killed her, and left her friends reeling and grieving, uncertain but determined. 

“I don’t know what my path should be now. I will always serve you. Always. But I cannot help the people you want me to help if I cannot fight truly, if I cannot fight fully. Sometimes, if we don’t fight hard enough, there will be no one to heal, no one to help, no one to redeem. I cannot fight for you as Life alone. Life cannot last on a battlefield and while Life may be the last bastion against evil, may be the eternal hope, Everlight, I cannot serve you as Life alone. I’m not strong enough. I don’t think anyone is.”

She feels the tears splash over her hands, hears them hit the stone, but she doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t cease her prayer or unclasp her hands.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits, scarcely a whisper. “Please. I need your guidance. I need to know what to do.”

The temple is silent. She can hear, distantly, the footsteps of those who let her in, can smell the incense they burn, but she is alone before the statue and the altar, alone in her prayer until suddenly she isn’t.

“I have never been a war god,” says a voice, and it is motherly and warm, as warm as the summer sun, and in its wake follows a presence as bright as noonday. Pike feels a hand on her cheek, alike to both. “I have never wanted to be. But you are not wrong. Sometimes, to help people, we must first fight with all that we have.”

Pike feels a kiss press to her brow, warm as sunlight, sweet as honey. 

“You have served me well,” the voice says. “Served me unto death. I think, if anything should allow a change of path, rebirth - renewal - should.”

The warm hand withdraws but the presence remains.

“Rise,” it says. “Pike Trickfoot. First War Cleric of Sarenrae.”

Chapter Text

With Pike and Keyleth heading off with their own plans, the twins making mention of wanting a break, and Percy making noises about holing himself up in a workshop for the next six months, obviously they only have one choice.

He and Grog are going to have to go on an Adventure.

Not Keyleth’s noble odyssey filled with grand purpose and learning, not Pike heading out to sea to battle pirates - no, a proper adventure about which songs will be sung - at least assuming Scanlan can make the story rhyme and the music catchy.

The first question is simple and equally simple to solve - where to go? Kraghammer’s not too far away and honestly he’s always wanted to see the dwarven city - a place actually built with his kind of height in mind - and it’s up in the mountains so Grog’s down for a trek up that direction. Besides, there’s plenty of villages on the way where they can ply their trade - Grog’s strength, his songs… they’re gonna make a bank, he’s sure of it, as long as Grog doesn’t spend it all on ale.

… It’s Grog. A lot of it’s gonna be spent on ale. Or lady favours - and Scanlan knows who’s likely to be the worse culprit there, though to be fair, he’s managed to wrangle them discounts before too.

The first bit of the trek isn’t too bad - they’re keeping company with a merchant caravan at least as far as the crossroads to Kymal, Grog’s strength and Scanlan’s musical skill helping to pay their way - and it’s good. He’s travelled on his own or with just Grog before, but it’s definitely easier to travel with others - more gear can be carried, camp jobs can be better distributed, there’s less of a worry that a group of bandits might fuck you up when your group is bigger than theirs.

Merchants you especially don’t wanna fuck with, he knows that. Oh he knows how to sneak some coins out of someone’s purse - his height can make that easier than people expect - but he prefers not to. You don’t steal from your travelling companions - it’s just shitty, and if you’re a known thief no one will trust you an ounce.

A lot of people don’t trust Scanlan an ounce anyway, but that’s because he’s fully capable of seducing anything with two legs and the intellect and age to consent - some people get narky about that. But at least he’s not known to be a thief of things. Hearts sure, that’s fine, but he’s not gonna be found with other people’s coins hidden in his codpiece.

The journey towards Kymal is pretty straightforward. It’s a well-traversed road, a reverse of the trip they made from Westruun to Emon, and at this time of year and in so large a group it’s even safer than their own journey had been. Even bandits hate to be stuck out in the cold around Winter’s Crest; this group of merchants are only going because they’ve got a hefty commission at the end of it.

Anyway, the end result is that Grog’s pretty bored by the lack of anything to fight, but seems to be happy enough with the chance to show off his strength each evening, helping to set up camp and haul wood for the fires.

Still, as they near the crossroads Scanlan realises he’s almost looking forward to splitting from the group for the trek north towards Kraghammer - at least then something interesting might happen.

Perhaps travelling with the others has made him reckless but- no. He’s not going to pull a Vax and hurl himself into harm’s way, he remembers the gut-chilling terror of Pike’s death, he doesn’t like the mess of combat and he fucking hates getting hurt.

He’s grown used to excitement, that’s what this is, and so far fuck all of their journey is something he can turn into song and make sound fun. He could bollocks it all, if he really wanted to - he remembers that art dealer Dranzel had had a thing with when they’d been in Kymal years ago, how she wrote lovely paragraphs of utter nonsense describing the paintings she flogged to rich bastards and how she called it the bollocks with such cheer it made Dranzel burst out laughing. Sometimes making every last tiny thing seem to matter can be very effective…

But it doesn’t feel right.

Hell, maybe spending time with Pike is corrupting him towards the light - but maybe not. He remembers well enough how he’d tried to bring Pike back to life - to find the truth the song is telling, the honesty buried within the art that gives it purpose and makes it connect to people. Lying might make a more entertaining story but it drags it away from the truth. People might call it toilet humour to sing about the daily struggle to dig a fresh latrine pit for the camp, but it’s a real struggle, something they all connect with.

Maybe that’s why it’s called toilet humour, actually. Be just like the posh folk to decry humour anyone can connect to as too simple, as though they wouldn’t laugh to see someone they disliked get beaned in the face with a handful of dogshit. Highbrow humour this, cultured wit that - ignoring of course that they decided what those things were so they could lock out anyone without access to those highbrow social circles or that obscure piece of essential cultural literature.

Fucking elves, he thinks. Syngornians and their Song of Yenlara. He knows the twins can recite stanzas of it at length, but he also knows just how bloody hard it is to get ahold of a copy outside of the elven city. Even inside it - and that’s assuming you can get in which, uh, good luck if you’re not an elf or don’t have an invitation from one - because everything is viciously overpriced, the elves hate you haggling with them, and half of them will just refuse to sell if they don’t like you, or just never tell you they have what you’re after.

Honestly, he’s kind of surprised the twins are so relaxed about Percy given the snobbery he’s pretty sure they had to deal with in Syngorn. Then again Cass isn’t Percy and Vex is… well.

Scanlan’s not stupid. He’s more than able to recognise the way Vex runs headlong towards money and ways to raise them up as the textbook hallmarks of a maltreated kid of a wealthy bastard desperately seeking approval. He’s seen it at too many fancy balls and soirées and all the other fucking places Dranzel took them to perform. It’s sad and shitty and just… fucked up, that all the money in the world won’t make some fuckers give a shit about their kids.

(If perhaps that’s prompted him to shit in a few fuckers’ beds, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.)

Anyway. It’s a cold day when they turn north as the caravan turns south and the road is wide and empty ahead of them, curving up the Wildwood Valley, the first few peaks of the Cliffkeeps just barely visible in the cold clarity of the air. Scanlan’s glad he packed his brand-new, extra-cosy coat. Grog, the lucky bastard, doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all.

Grog’s mostly relieved as they turn northwards. Travelling with people was nice and all but he’s used to travelling with a much smaller crowd - usually himself and Pike or himself and Scanlan or lately himself and the rest of the SHITs- no. Vox Fuckina. Whatever, same difference. 

Point is, it’s nice to just be able to breathe, all this wide open grassland stretching up to the first slopes of the mountains, distant village chimneys smoking off into the sky, and the fucking wind belting it’s way down from the mountains, fucking freezing and giving even him gooseflesh.

Still not cold, not to him, because he’s built for this shit, but god it feels good. Plus, Scanlan doesn’t constantly ask him if he’s cold and yeah, Pike’s told him that people asking him that usually mean it nicely - mean it for the same reasons she heals people up and Wilhand made the parents group for the missing kids - but you’d think people could take a hint, right? “No, I ain’t cold” … several times in a row, that probably means he ain’t cold.

But then that’s one of those things isn’t it. Sometimes smart people aren’t all that smart - Grog doesn’t have half so much knockin’ around in his head and that means it’s so much easier to say what he wants to say. Unlike, like, Percy, who’ll go talking for ages when he could just go “Hey, Vex, I want a room for meself, can I have shinies to pay for it?”

I mean, Vex’d probably go “No” unless they had a lot o’ coin, but that’s why Vex is there, really, isn’t it? She’s cool and she’s funny and she manages to find gold anywhere. Like a magpie, it’s amazin’.

Mostly as they travel, Scanlan’s humming songs, his gloved hands usually in his pockets or shoved in his armpits. It’s a bit chilly, Grog supposes, for people what feel that, and he glances around to see if there’s any villages nearby.

Nah, not near enough. He’ll just set up a windbreak when they camp tonight, give Scanlan a cosy place to sit and write down the tunes.

Still… Scanlan’s little, isn’t he, just like Pike, and not nearly as tough as Pike. Scanlan’s cool and all (ha!), but he’s not a monstah, and he’s gonna freeze his tits off in this weather.

Grog makes the firm decision to keep an eye out for village with an inn - someplace he and Scanlan can spend the night on the way up to Kraghammer. After all - Kraghammer makes shit, right? Rocks and ore and … stuff. People trade for that shit - Grog remembers the Brawnhammers in Westruun, who’s li’l niece got took by the Emperor bastard. They had ore and shit, probably from up that way, right? So they’d have to send trade shipments and if they’re doin’ that then there’s probably places here for people to stop for a night, have a bath, have some ale and a nice dinner, spend some time with lovely ladies…

Yeah that’d be nice, wouldn’t it? He doesn’t need to be warm, can wash himself in a stream and not give a shit, but you don’t get ale on the road - well, ‘cept for if you’re friends with Pike and she gives you a whole fuckin’ cask of it. But they’ll probably run out at some point, right? So yeah, keep an eye out so Scanlan can be warm, he can top up his beer, and they can both meet some nice ladies. That sounds smart.

It’s Grog who steers them towards a village.

Well, to be specific, Scanlan’s mostly dozing, leaning forward over Grog’s head and perched on the goliath’s shoulders, because Grog had noticed he was tired and just picked him up just as he does with Pike which - let Scanlan tell you - is a bit startling if you don’t expect it. But… it’s nice too, because he was getting knackered. Grog’s happy to rise with the sun and walk ‘til they get hungry and Scanlan is not cut out for that, not even a little. Fucking knackering.

So really, he only notices that they’re off the main route they were taking when he blinks his eyes open at a sudden warmer, brighter light, and sees that they’ve entered the lamp-lit streets of a village.

“Grog?” he asks, briefly concerned. Grog can fight off basically anything, but - not trying to be mean - Scanlan knows Grog can be easy to convince of things. He can convince Grog of every part of his stories, after all, even the really outlandish bits and if Grog’s following someone-

“‘parently it’s called Dickleburgh,” Grog says. “I ‘fought it sounded funny.”

“Pft.” He can’t keep in his amusement. “Yeah that’s pretty funny. Why here?”

Gently, Grog’s shoulder jostles his leg. “You bin tired,” he points out. “Figured - night in a warm bed, some ale, some food we didn’t cludge together from random shit and rations - ‘parently there’s a good house of lady favours here too.” Both shoulders shrug which is very weird to experience from on top of them. “And we travelled with the caravan and we saved money camping up here - I don’t fink Vex’ll get mad at us spending one night someplace nice.”

As Grog’s walking, they’ve reached the village square. There’s a well in the middle, with a wooden-shingled roof over it and, just beyond the well, is the bright frontage of an inn. The sign has a donkey in a pair of… are those boots? On it, but the script beneath it is elegantly penned for all this village’s small size. It reads The Donkey and Buskins.

The well is right there. It looks so warm and well lit. 

And god but Scanlan has been dreaming of a bath.

Scanlan’s the one to sort them out rooms because, frankly, Grog can’t do numbers and he knows to leave it with Scanlan. In the meantime, he gets food and ale and asks about the nearest place for lady favours of which there is one a street or so over. While Scanlan goes and charms the pants off the barmaid he’s talking to, Grog eats through two servings of dinner and has started on a third by the time Scanlan returns.

Because, while he might have been raised in worse than a barn, he was taught manners by the Trickfoots, Grog lifts a plate off Scanlan’s dish of food and pushes it towards him. The barmaid drops a beer on the table a moment later - smart woman. No way was Grog leaving a tankard of ale undrunk - Scanlan needs his own for dinner.

Dinner is good, and Grog gets through four servings total to Scanlan’s one and some kind of pastry dessert wrangled from the barmaid he charmed. Dinner done they go and drop their shit in the room Scanlan’s sorted for them before heading out.

It’s kinda weird to not be waving Pike bye as they go, or lettin’ the others know they’ll be back later, but he and Scanlan travelled enough together as just them it’s not too weird. 

It’s a nice place of lady favours too when they get there too. This is just a village but they clearly aren’t poor - probably overflow trade from Kraghammer, able to get the goods for less ‘cause of the shorter distance - and there’s a carpet down in the main room downstairs and a bar,  and several ladies and gents and others are talking to several gents and ladies and others around the room. It’s very classy for a village place, but hey, Grog isn’t complaining. Vex might, if they end up spending most of their money here, but that’s why Scanlan has the purse.

Grog doesn’t even get a chance to look at the interesting bottles behind the bar - as Scanlan makes his way over to claim a seat Grog’s met by …

Oh. Oh wow. Orc-green skin but goliath-style tattoos and a cloud of long thistledown hair and wow, those shoulders. This lady can lift.

“Hi,” she says, smiling in a way that shows all her tusks. “I’m Cepheline. Looking for company?”

“Yeah,” Grog says, because honesty is always the best policy in these places, he’s found and if she’s offering company-

Her hand takes his. Her grip could crush stone. Fuck yes, this is gonna be great. Strong and gorgeous and direct - all Grog’s favourite things aside from ale.

“I’m Grog,” he says. “My mate’s at the bar. Wanna join?”

“Wanna arm-wrestle?”

Is Grog in love? Probably not, but this is the closest he’s ever really come to it, meeting ladies like this, willing to make a good shot at knocking him off his feet. 

“Fuck yes,” he says.

There’s a seat next to Scanlan, because Scanlan’s great like that, always saving a spot and after introducing him to Cepheline they sit down to arm-wrestle.

Woman’s got arms that could lift cattle, and he loses two out of three ‘til he convinces her to extend it to five and wins the next two - but barely.

“I have a feeling,” Cepheline says. “You don’t want to stay here only to arm wrestle.”

There’s that smile again, the one with all her tusks and… yeah, Grog’d be down for that. Especially if she’s this strong in bed too, because that’s always fun, someone strong enough to shove him back and demand what they want, someone he doesn’t need to hold back on his strength with.

“Hey,” he says, leaning over to Scanlan. “Ceph and I are gonna-”

Scanlan waves a hand at him. “Have fun,” he says with a smile. “I’ll sort the tab.”

“You’re my best mate, you are,” Grog says and claps him on the shoulder - but gently, because he knows Scanlan won’t want to spill his drink on himself. “See ya!”

He glances back from halfway up the stairs, just to make sure he knows where Scanlan’s sat so they can find each other later - important rule of lady favours trips: always know where to meet up again later - and… Scanlan’s not even talking to anyone. That’s fuckin’ weird. Then again, Scanlan’s been kind of weird since Pike went off sailing, really.

Oh, Grog thinks. Scanlan’s moping.

Well, that just means more lovely ladies for him - Scanlan’ll mope a bit and then find company for the evening, Grog’s pretty sure.

Then he lets Cepheline lead him up to her room and decides to completely forget about Scanlan for the next li’l while.

Scanlan’s on his… third? Fourth? drink, and the room’s getting empty when the barman leans over the counter to him, still polishing a glass in one hand and says, “Y’know, doin’ nothing but sittin’ at the whorehouse bar and drinkin’ - kinda makes me think you’re mopin’.”

He is not-  

The barman’s grin sure is something.

“Thought that’d perk you up,” he says. “Wanna talk about it? Just want comp’ny? Y’know you’d be better off askin’ for the second than sittin’ and ignorin’ ev’ryone.”

“‘M waiting for my friend,” Scanlan says. Ow, his shoulders have gone stiff and he rolls them. “Actually, I need to sort his tab as well - he’s appalling with money-”

“He with Cepheline?” the man says - and pulled out of his thoughts, Scanlan actually takes in the barman at last. A halfling, looks like, with probably three or four inches on him if that’s the level of the floor behind the bar he can see. Gingery hair that’s curly as anything and bright, smile-creased hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” Scanlan says - and smiles, because why not, this guy seems like the decent sort and it never hurts to be friendly.

“I’ll add that and his drinks to your tab; y’can sort it ‘fore you leave.”

He can only raise his glass to the man at that. “Much appreciated,” he says. For a stretch silence falls and… yeah, wow, it’s really got quiet. He really did just kind of… bury himself in drink and forget to even try to flirt with anyone - least he’s with Grog, who’ll forget soon enough and they’re away from the others so no one’ll be told while Grog does remember.

At least he’s reasonably sure this isn’t about Pike - he’s pretty sure he’s just tired from the road, more in the mood for a nice warm bed and sleep for all he wouldn’t turn down something else.

“Mind if I ask what brings you t’ Dickleburgh?” the barman says.

“Oh,” Scanlan says. “Grog and I are travelling to Kraghammer. Rest of our group have all-” he waves a hand expressively “-for a couple months and I figured someone needs to keep tabs on the big guy. Otherwise he’ll get in trouble.”

“Only the good kind here, I reckon,” the barman says. “Ceph likes his type - a lotta people get intimidated by her.”

“Yeah, Grog’s into that,” Scanlan says. “Women who could break most in half - that’s his type.”

“Grog,” the barman says. “An’ you are?”

“Scanlan Shorthalt,” he replies. “Bard extraordinaire and member of Vox Machina.”

“Fancy fancy,” the barman says with a grin. “‘m Richard Hoare - though most people just call me Dick.”

That has Scanlan looking up, sharpish. “You’re kidding,” he says. “That can’t be for real-”

“‘S as real as Kitty Glasscock who bounces at the front door,” Dick says with a grin. “Sometimes your name just tells you where to go.”

“That’s amazing,” he says. “If I put that in a song people would tell me I was making it up-”

“Truth’s always stranger than fiction,” Dick points out, setting a glass on the shelf.

Honestly, looking at it, the bar’s almost spotless, a couple of people already gone round to pick up the loose glassware from the rest of the room. The only glass still needing cleaning is Scanlan’s own and he downs the last of the… who knows what, some local liqueur made with brambleberries and apples.

“‘’preciated,” Dick says, taking the glass. He glances over the room himself. “It’s pretty much last orders, so ‘less you want anything-”

Scanlan shakes his head. “All good, thanks.”

“Then all you gotta do is settle up your tab,” he says. He pauses as he fiddles with the slate, totting up the prices, glancing back to Scanlan before pausing a moment, seeming to think. “Unless you wanted to head up?”

Oh. That’s not something Scanlan had thought to expect. But- man, it’d be a change of pace and he probably needs that right now doesn’t he?

“Sure,” he says, hopping off the bar stool. After a moment, Dick’s rounded the bar to join him and god it’s nice to not be craning his neck to speak face to face with someone. “Which way-” he doesn’t even need to ask, Dick’s already leading them. “Been some time for me,” he muses aloud, “with a guy. How do you prefer to go about it?”

Dick seems almost bemused. “No preference of your own?” he asks.

“Don’t really know what I’m in the mood for,” Scanlan admits. “As long as it’s fun.”

Dick’s grin is almost wicked. “Well then,” he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “That can be arranged.”

They set off late the next day - but Scanlan gets that warm bath he’d been on about wanting and a fantastic breakfast the next day, so Grog ain’t complaining. It’s not as chilly either, once they set out, but maybe that’s just Grog’s skewed perspective. Maybe it’s just the comfy beds and good food the night before, so Scanlan’s in a better mood. Who knows, who cares. They’re on the move again and Scanlan’s humming tunes with more pep in his step and basically: it’s all good.

It’s a bit of a ways from Dickleburgh back to the main road but they’re not far off it, and before long they’re turning north on the main road again. In the distance Grog can see forest - probably the bridge of it between the Wildwood and where the Torian stretches up from the south, thinner between the two source-rivers of the Byhills but nothing to sniff at either. It’ll thin before they get to Kraghammer, Grog’s pretty sure, because the dwarves like to build their places up in the mountains and he remembers times with the herd causing trouble around dwarf settlements.

Feels kinda shitty about those times these days, after meeting Pike and Wilhand, but they’ve forgiven him so he can just not let them down and let that be enough.

A few days more of travel and Scanlan’s starting to look chilly again. They’re most of the way through the forest now too, getting into the mountains and it’s a bit harder to spot where the villages are. The turnings are well signposted at least - probably don’t want traders getting lost going to Kraghammer - and the signs don’t rely on letters. Most of the arrows have either wavy lines - water - or a house - a village or an inn - easily marked. Still, Grog keeps an eye out.

There’s the occasional dark hollows of caves along the valley they’re rising up and Grog wonders vaguely if they’re inhabited. He remembers travelling along valleys like this with the herd, remembers how easily sudden storms could strike and remembers taking shelter in caves so Gnarleth and Scira and the others who could cook could cook. He remembers being sent ahead, and the faint scar on his shoulder itches in memory of the time he’d had to wrestle a fuckin’ cave lion outta one.

Cave bears were pretty chill in comparison, ‘less they was starving, but lions. Nasty fuckers.

“We could investigate?” Scanlan says when Grog mentions it. “Only be a small diversion - not like we’re in a rush or anything.”

Grog pauses, chews over the idea. “Yeah,” he says. After all, if there is anything nasty in the caves, maybe there’ll be a reward for shanking it. “Yeah, let’s see if there’s anything to fuck up.”

Grog was right. Never let it be said that Scanlan doesn’t give his best friend credit when it’s due - Grog was right, there is something nasty in the caves and it’s a band of fucking drow raiders.

One slashes out with a dagger that’s literally dripping poison and while it slashes through Scanlan’s good purple silk-blend shirt it bounces off the leather armour underneath. Grog’s going at them with his axe which is keeping the attention of three on him - one with a shortsword, another with a pair of daggers, and the last at a distance, eyeing the whole situation with a crossbow. Grog’s axe damn near slices the one with daggers in half, but that doesn’t stop the crossbow bolt from the bastard at a distance from digging into his shoulder.

Grog’s in a rage at least and Scanlan’s nicely overpowered Thunderwave knocks back the bastard trying to kill him at present, which leaves him free to yell distracting insults at the two remaining.

“Your mother was a gerbil!” he yells at the one with the crossbow as Grog disembowels the guy with a shortsword. “And your father smelt of loganberries!”

Bit of a cliche insult, to be fair, but it’s not like drow are likely to know that, crawling up from below and kidnapping folk. The bastard does look offended, at least, turning to aim his next bolt at Scanlan, and he dances out of the way, sticking his tongue out at the wanker as Grog chops off the guy’s arm before choking him the rest of the way to death.

Scanlan waits the requisite moment for Grog to shake his rage and then:

“Ow.” Grog says. “The fuck hit my shoulder?”

“Crossbow bolt,” he says. “Sit down, let me look.”

Grog sits, at least, but not without trying to reach for the bolt. Annoyingly, it’s only within reach of the arm it’s on the side of - which can’t reach it because apparently it fucking hurts to move that shoulder, big surprise. After a bit of swearing, Grog settles and lets him look.

“Ooooh,” he says, looking at the bolt. “Oh man, that looks nasty.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t just leave it in there, can I?” Grog says. “And I can’t fuckin’ reach it.”

“I can heal it?” he suggests, rubbing his palms together. “Gimme a sec-”

“Wot, and heal it in? Don’t be stupid,” Grog says. “Just like… grab it and yank it out-”

“Grog, it’s probably barbed! It’ll tear it even worse on the way out-”

“Better than leaving it in,” Grog points out.

That’s… probably true. Ah balls.

“I’m not very strong,” Scanlan points out. “I might not be able to yank it out.”

“Yeah you will,” Grog says easily. “Look, I’ll even relax for you, make it easier.”

Well. It’s not like it’s the first time Scanlan’s had to do this for Grog. He just hopes that this time’s the last.

A closed-eyes yank, the clatter of the bolt on the stone floor of the cave, and a quickly warbled out healing spell and Grog’s shoulder looks none the worse for wear. Scanlan’s hands are covered in blood, but the small spring at the back of the cave leaves them nice and clean once more.

When he turns back, Grog’s beheading the bodies.

“What?” he says.

“Raiders, right?” Grog says. “Someone’ll pay for proof they’re fuckin’ dead.”

That’s… probably true. And Grog’s been really good at keeping an eye out for villages so far, what with Dickleburgh and Shalefall and Sunderstream.

The nearest village is apparently called Aldersholt, from what Scanlan reads off the sign. They’re a fair way up the mountain but there’s a nice copse of trees as they descend into a small, well-sheltered hollow, smoke climbing up through the tree cover. At Scanlan’s insistence, Grog’s shoved the heads into the Bag - which is a damn shame, if you ask him, because the heads are gnarly as all fuck and he wants to show them off - but whatever, they’re within grabbing range as Scanlan gets them pointed towards the house of the village’s mayor after explaining about the raiders.

“They always come up this time of year,” the young woman says. “Not as many traders but much fewer guards - Beren’ll be happy they’re not coming this time.”

The mayor’s house is pretty as fuck, wooden beams all carved and painted with leaves and flowers and a fuckin’ lawn and flowers up the stone path. It’s pretty as a picture and Grog knows Pike’d love to see it.

He’s the one to knock on the door, only because Scanlan’s knock sounds like a cat’s tippy-taps along the floor, and they’re let in by a homely looking woman with greying hair.

“We’re here to see the mayor,” Scanlan says. “We encountered some drow raiders on our way up; we were told there might be a reward for having dealt with them?”

“Dealt with?”

The woman looks fuckin’ thrilled. Scanlan nods.

“Just came right from the fight, with evidence too,” Scanlan says. “If we could-”

“Beren’s in his office, dear,” the woman says. “Yellow door on the left just down that hall - I’ll get everyone some tea. The raiders! Dealt with! Oh, that’s good to hear.”

Yellow door just down the hall and Grog’s knock is greeted by a gruff, “Please come in!”

The man behind the desk looks about the same age as the woman they’d met, with fading blond hair, streaked through with grey. Small, half-moon spectacles are perched on his nose, and he’s clearly sifting through a mix of paperwork and etched slates as they enter.

“We were told to come right here,” Scanlan says. “Your uh-” Damnit, he should’ve flirted, that always helps him find out-

“Aleithia is my wife,” the man says. 

Okay, maybe a good thing he didn’t flirt. 

“I’m Beren,” the man says. “Sit, sit.” He waves them to a pair of seats - kindly, Scanlan lets Grog take the sturdier-looking one and it still creaks under his weight.

“Your wife said she’d get us all some tea. Lovely lady.” Flattery, Scanlan knows, can get you anywhere.

“She is that,” Beren agrees with a smile. “What brings you here? I don’t believe I recognise you.”

“We’re travellers,” he says. “On our way to Kraghammer, with any luck. But- Grog here’s travelled through mountains before, and when he spotted some of the caves he thought it might be checking them out, just in case there was anything nasty in them-”

Beren nods solemnly. “There can be a few bears waking early sometimes,” he says. “Never this early, though.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Aleithia enters with a tray, teapot, teacups, jug of milk - even a plate of cookies. Conversation pauses as everyone’s given a mug and Grog snags three of the cookies immediately.

“Yeah,” Scanlan says. “It wasn’t a bear we encountered. Grog?”

Bless Grog. The tea is necked immediately, cookie crumbs brushed off his hands and one of the drow heads hoisted out of the bag.

“Four of the fuckers,” Grog says. He lifts the head, making it bob a little. Across the table from them, Beren looks queasy. “This bastard hit me in the shoulder with a crossbow bolt.”

Gently, Scanlan touches Grog’s elbow. “I think you can set the head down now.”

“Oh,” says Grog. “Right.”

With the head set down, Beren looks much less queasy. “Four of them?” he confirms. “Did you spot any others-”

Scanlan shakes his head. “They’d made camp in a cave, it’s about three hundred yards back down the path, then northwards, the entrance looks a bit like a rooster. There was a spring inside?”

Beren nods. “I know the one. I’ll have some of the men go down there tomorrow and search it. If needs be, I’m sure we can convince the next Cracksackle shipment to sell us an extra load of dynamite. Kraghammer doesn’t like the drow raiding around here anymore than we do - upsets trade, you know.”

“I can imagine,” Scanlan agrees. He really can. Any raiding can upset things - not just trade but life. “We were told there might be a reward?”

“Four raiders, you said?” Beren asks. He shifts some of his paperwork, pulling what looks like a ledger out from under a stack of slates. “Hm, let me see- harvest this year wasn’t great, and we’ll need money set aside to pay the traders when they come through-”

Oh this is going to turn into haggling, isn’t it, and Scanlan’s not in the mood. He wants a bath and beer and a nice place he can sit down and sew up his shirt. Not to sit here for ages. Grog’ll get bored too, and, quickly gulping down his - ouch, still hot! - tea, he nudges Grog’s leg with his foot. When Grog looks at him, he looks pointedly at the head and then to Beren.

The man had looked really queasy when it had been bobbing around earlier.

“D’you want the heads?” Grog asks, lifting one towards the man so it swings back and forth on the end of its long hair. “As proof?”

“No!” the man says hastily. “No, you can keep those!” Quickly he fishes in his desk, drawing out a chest and from it, a large pouch clinking with coin. “Your payment for handling the raiders and now, please, take the heads and be gone. Thank you for your efforts.”

Fuck yes.

Aldersholt’s like, only a day or so’s travel from Kraghammer apparently, and the inn there gets a fair bit of trade. Thanks to Scanlan spilling the story to that lady who’d given them directions on the way in, they’re offered rooms at half price and dinner on the house which Scanlan accepts with equal parts graciousness and glee.

“You can’t be obvious about the glee,” he reminds Grog as they go upstairs. “You gotta be gracious, so they don’t think you’re a dick.”

Scanlan heads off to get himself a bath and Grog settles in to eat and find out what the lady favour options are here. And, if there’s no lady favour options, the bed in his room is looking really nice.

It seems there are no obvious lady favour options - not even when Scanlan gets back and asks around more sneaky-like. Some of the barmaids like a little flirting, apparently, but eeh, he can do without. Sometimes fights means he has lots of energy to work off but today’s was just kind of… a dud, really. And apparently Scanlan wants to set off early the next day so early to bed and early to rise it is, Scanlan paying their tab as they leave and head up the mountain with no awful breeze and a beautifully clear sky.

‘Course, after everything going great it just means something has to go to shit eventually, doesn’t it? Sod’s law.

“What do you mean we’re not allowed in?!”

The dwarf looks back at Scanlan, face blank. 

“I mean,” he says, with the same tone some people use for speaking to him, like they think he’s dumb, “That you’re not allowed in. No papers, no trade, no access.”

“I have a trade!” Scanlan exclaims, outraged. “I’m Scanlan Shorthalt, renowned bard of Vox Machina, I can sing songs and write poems-”

The guard picks his nose. “Got proof?”

“We’re on the council in Emon!” Scanlan says. “Did you not see the notices go out?!”

“Yeah,” the guard says. “So did everyone. Any gnome with a goliath pal could claim to be Shorthoof and Greg.”

“Shorthalt and Grog!” Scanlan exclaims. “God!”

“See my point exactly,” the guard says, pointing. “Now, if you haven’t got any papers, sod off.”

Scanlan glances back to him, the look on his face as clearly sorry, I tried, as any words. Slowly, Grog rolls his shoulders. The guards are short. Armoured, sure, and with weapons and there’s a few of them. But he could probably take them if he wanted to - no harder than bandits, really - but there’s a city on the other side of the gate and that means more guards which means starting a fight here’ll probably mean more guards and more fighting and then they’ll either be thrown into a cage-cart and sent back to Emon or they’ll just be dead.

Pike’d be upset if he died like this, or if he let Scanlan get dead too, so that’s out. And he promised to arm-wrestle Pike when she got back, so he’s not allowed to die.

“Guess we go home,” he says.

“Really?” Scanlan asks. “Really? We get all the way here only to give up-”

“I don’t think Pike’d want us to get in a fight,” he points out. “Not like this, I mean.”

Scanlan pauses for a moment, clearly considering before shrugging and throwing his hands in the air. “Fine!” he says. “Fine, let’s go back down to Aldersholt and figure out the trip home. Useless, picky guards-” 

His complaints dissolve into mumbles as he starts walking away, scuffing his feet on the ground and kicking at pebbles. He makes Grog think of a sulking kid. When he glances to the guard, the dwarf is rolling his eyes, and Grog’d bet he’s thinking the same thing. When the dwarf glances up at him, hand moving to his axe, Grog just tilts his head towards Scanlan with a grin.

“Like a kid in a strop,” the dwarf says, and usually Grog won’t stand for an insult to his friends but here, honestly, it’s just true. “You’d best mind him on his way down, might have some trouble if he’s on his own.”

Yeah, Grog knows a veiled threat when he hears one.

“Gotcha,” he says. “Sorry ‘bout the-” He waves a hand.

“Don’t let it happen again,” the guard says. “Go on, get goin’.”

Grog’s not completely stupid. He gets going. He feels much better about it all when Scanlan’s perched on his shoulders, grumbling still as he writes down rude limericks about the guards.

Chapter Text

As Allura enters the atrium, Tiberius’ back is to her. He seems absorbed in some of the display cases on the far wall - some of the Torthill Tablets unless she misses her guess, the ones inscribed by one of the few survivors of Neminar’s atrocity there and detailing the magics used by the past king’s infernal companions.

An important warning, she’s always thought: magic can be wondrous, but not all wonders are good. Angels, in their precise lawfulness, can be as cruel as any devil; the sweeping magics used to remake a broken city can be a terror to those unwary. Some things the Pansophical ban entirely, yes - lichdom, for example - but in the end magic is a tool, and one must forever remember its moral application as well as its immoral. The world is never so simple as black and white.

“Oh!” Tiberius exclaims as she sees a student enter the atrium - still oblivious to her behind him, it seems.

It’s… oh, Ms Adhara Arviasal, an excellent alchemist with perhaps a slightly morbid bent though wise enough to know better than to dare dabble directly in more deathly arts. She suspects, given time, Ms Arviasal might be brought in by the Pansophical to help care for the texts on forbidden necromancy, provided she proves steadfast in never becoming a practitioner.

“Excuse me,” Tiberius says to her. “I’m Tiberius Stormwind, from Draconia, I’m to meet Arcanist Allura Vysoren here to demonstrate some enchanting, do you know where she is, or- perhaps where the enchanting laboratories are, I suppose I could meet her there-”

Adhara, Allura suspects, is likely on her way to class. She knows very well that students are never meant to be late.

“Tiberius!” she calls. Adhara, on spotting her, seems to relax. “I’m glad to see you. Adhara, I hope you’re doing well.”

“Quite well, Arcanist,” Adhara says. “Professor Bombastus has some new reagents for our practicals! I was just-” She gestures to the correct hallway.

“Oh!” Tiberius exclaims. “Of course! I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to hold you up-”

Tiberius, once started, doesn’t tend to stop. Adhara’s relaxed posture has faded back into an antsy stiffness, her shoulders tilted towards her classroom.

“Tiberius,” Allura says - quietly but firmly, just as she would to a student or has to her past apprentices. “I’m sure Adhara’s got work to be on with; she doesn’t have time to spare for us.” Into the silence she bows her head to the student. “Thank you, Ms Arviasal. Best of luck in your studies.”

Adhara smiles at that, pausing to tuck one curl of hair back behind her ear before clutching her books close again and scurrying down the hall in the opposite direction. Ah, students.

“The enchanting laboratories are this way,” she says to Tiberius, gesturing. “Shall we?”

“Oh!” Any confusion or … perhaps slight sulking at having been cut off fade immediately into cheer. “Of course!”

At least he’s eager to show what he’s managed, she thinks, and eager to learn more. If only more students had such eagerness even this far into their studies - so many become complacent after the basics, forgetting that any form of magic takes a lifetime of learning. He’s a bit blind to his own faults, she supposes, but that’s not uncommon. Unusual for his age, perhaps but… Draconian, and wealthy, and only newly out of his homeland. Sheltered, she suspects, moreso even than Keyleth or Percival. Keyleth’s a druid, always aware of the way the world naturally leads to death while Percival- well. No words of explanation needed there.

But then that’s the trouble, isn’t it? If Tiberius can’t acknowledge he’s been sheltered and safe until now, if he refuses to learn and continues along without changing or accounting for the new differences of his circumstance.

A dark, worried corner of her mind worries that he almost certainly won’t now, given rank and status within Tal’Dorei, a saviour of their Sovereign and his family-

But there is six months yet, for that to fully take effect, for their keep to be built. Allura’s a good teacher, has helped at the Lyceum and explained such complicated arcane concepts to the Council such that they could understand. She highly doubts that teaching Tiberius Stormwind is beyond her - and with her, at least, he does seem eager to learn.

“Not everyone has a half hour to spare every day,” she reminds him gently as they move away from the desk. “Sometimes politeness is letting others get on with their day.”

“Oh!” Tiberius exclaims. 

He seems surprised - she doesn’t think that sudden puff of smoke from his nostrils was feigned - and falls to contemplation as they walk. They’re a good twenty yards down the hall before he speaks again.

“I suppose that makes sense, here, doesn’t it?” he says. “Back home - well Tyriex is but a small part of Draconia and everyone knows everyone, hm? So there was no need for us to introduce ourselves every time and of course you always said hello to your neighbour and asked after them and then, well, with the guild, we were all there for research and we all loved to share our research and learn of others’-” He pauses, a claw tapping his lower lip. “But here - well, it’s a city, and I remember some of the vendors around the guild, oh my. They could be very rude, and it was always so busy- never a moment unless you took yourself off back to the parks or to the guild…” He tuts, shaking his head. “But I suppose it makes sense when you put it like that, that they don’t have the time to spare.” He pauses again, sniffs. “It would be nice if everyone had the time to spare, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she agrees easily, halfways to laughter, already smiling. She’s seen so many people worked to the bone who deserved a few moments they could simply spend as they wished and not desperately surviving. “Yes it would be nicer. It’s one of the tasks of the Council to work towards bringing it about, a better state of life for our people - at least under Uriel’s sovereignship.”

Tiberius’ enchanting really is something. She’s no mean enchanter herself but for someone still learning Tiberius’ enchantments are both elegant and effective, his practice clearly prolific. Certainly some of it might be that he’s a sorcerer and not a wizard, born with an innate knack for magic that wizards must learn - but that innate magical power isn’t everything. She’s known some talented wizards who had to coax the least magic she’s ever encountered into the great power they eventually came to wield and some sorcerers who’s innate capacity for magic was far from an accurate indicator of their understanding of it.

For all Tiberius’ tendency to get distracted and go off on extensive rambles, he does understand his work, in such a way and to such a level to both enact it well and explain it clearly.

“Oh!” he says, as they discuss the Earrings over tea and biscuits. “Well, I suppose I’ve had help there. I used to enchant-” he waves a clawed hand “-just minor things for my siblings, you understand, specific prestigitatory effects into small items, but meeting her Highness - Lady Keyleth, you know - it’s helped immensely! She’s a druid, you understand, and while she has an innate capacity for magic as a half-elf and with being born and raised amongst the Air Ashari, by the elemental rift, her understanding of magic is much more rooted in nature. I suppose that’s a greater overlap - both of our understanding’s of magic come, from, hm, our natural selves, as it were - than with yourself as a learned wizard, but well, there is a decided difference and it’s helped me to better explain it! I had to, if I wanted her to understand and she has some wonderful insights; she’s been incredibly helpful.”

It can be a bit hard at times to pick through the deluge of Tiberius’ words, to find what is relevant and what’s merely elaboration on the explanation. She suspects that’s part of why Tiberius so easily keeps on going once he’s started - people get bowled over by his words and his force of personality and in the end it’s easier to answer his questions and help than to do much else.

He’s not malicious, at least, which is more than she knows can be said for some but-

Well. It’s a hard thing to address, the natural consequences of his style of talking, especially without causing insult. Tiberius isn’t arrogant, but he is proud, and Allura knows well just how prickly such mages can be.

“You and Keyleth discuss your different styles of casting?” she asks.

“Oh!” Tiberius says. “Yes, often. She’s very skilled you know - and a bit nervous, I think, with new people, though she warmed up to Percival rather quickly, but perhaps she’s gotten more used to new people with everyone else-”

“Did you ask her?” She keeps her tone mild. It’s a genuine question, which helps matters, and… well. Regardless, Tiberius’ response will be indicative.

“Oh!” Tiberius says, with a little more shock this time. “I couldn’t do that, prying into her feelings! No, if she wants me to know, she’ll tell me  - she’s very good about that, you know, why many evenings when we’ve finished discussing she’ll be silent for a stretch before asking something. Always very carefully considered.”

Allura remembers well how Keyleth could be. Quiet, often clutching her staff, a little hunched in on herself at times. Nervous, she suspects, and there could well be a multitude of causes. The Ashari are notoriously isolationist, hesitant to let any not a part of their tribes near their precious elemental rifts. Given the damage Everron had done Allura’s half surprised they didn’t create an Ice Ashari tribe to mind the Frostweald, to prevent that ancient rift being re-opened - but regardless, that isolation from Tal’Dorei’s other cultures can’t have helped Keyleth’s shock on being dropped into them all for her Aramenté.

That all said… Allura’s seen enough young students to recognise when there’s more to it. With Keyleth’s nervousness at the newness of the rest of the world and the forces of personality she’s fallen in with… she thinks the young woman might be a bit anxious too. When one has to prove oneself for such an important personal and cultural quest and also has the social burden of proving oneself to one’s new companions, well-

Allura had been in not dissimilar shoes to Keyleth, once upon a time. While it’s wonderful that Tiberius knows better than to rudely pry, to trust that his friend will talk to him when needed, that he obviously thinks highly of Keyleth that the idea of her being nervous or anxious doesn’t occur to him - well. Allura recognises anxiety.

“She does think things over very well,” Allura agrees. “When we scried together - she held herself together very well for someone new to the spell. Excellent focus. But…”

She trails off, thinking how to phrase it. After all, if Keyleth’s not spoken of it to Tiberius it might mean she’s not ready to talk about it - but Tiberius has said Keyleth intends to attempt the first trial of her Aramenté over the next few months, so certainly she seems to be building confidence.

“Lady Allura?” Tiberius’ voice is gentle, concerned.

“Sometimes,” she says, “I have found that thinking things over so well, considering all those angles, it often means one is concerned by all of those angles.”

“Oh,” There’s a pause. “Oh, I hadn’t considered that.”

Allura stifles a smile at the irony. One friend considering every angle, the other not even thinking to consider what it can indicate. Such blithe trust and confidence - it’s a good thing, she supposes, that Tiberius and Keyleth found each other. She suspects they’ve helped each other more than they might realise, Keyleth to have such confidence easily placed in her, and Tiberius, to have someone help him consider these layers.

“She’s been quieter,” Tiberius adds - almost hesitantly, slowly, as though thinking it out is a careful, piecemeal process. “When- you know when young Gren was taken, that child-kidnapping mage, when we went to his demiplane-”

“It seems to have been quite harrowing,” she agrees. “A lot of the children are still quite shaken.”

“Yes!” Tiberius agrees, with none of the usual joy or energy to his exclamation. “And- well. With good reason!”

“He was powerful?” Allura asks. “The kidnapper?”

“Yes,” Tiberius says. “But-” he waves a clawed hand. “We’ve faced powerful enemies. There was a- an almost-lich trying to implant its phylactery into Grog- I’ll explain another time, no, what I mean is- he was… he was cruel!”

There’s something so offended to his tone it’s almost charming, offended at the very idea of such blatant, awful cruelty. It’s easy, so easy, to become complacent in the face of cruelty, to come to accept it as a part of the world - it always heartens her when people don’t.

“It’s not just that he stole children,” Tiberius goes on, gesticulating, smoke puffing from his nostrils in his outrage. “Though that says plenty on its own, no, it’s- it’s worse. He worked them as servants, my Lady, he set them to polishing and sweeping - and them children too! - and yet he claimed he stole them to let them play and be children, he told them that! And-”

Allura’s known a few dragonborn in her time. It never doesn’t strike her, the particular way the scaleskin draws tight over their faces when on more humanoid beings they’d become drawn and pale.

“He chained them,” Tiberius says quietly, chin falling to his chest. No smoke puffs from his nostrils now, outrage gone to ashes at the simple, awful shock of it. “Four of them - he had them chained at the neck to the gorget of his armour. And- if a spell was cast on him, he could shrug off any harm it did to them.”

She can’t hold in her gasp at that. She’s heard tell of such awful things of course, they’re amongst the things the Pansophical tries yearly to stamp out, but for Vox Machina to have encountered such-

“We tried to get them free,” Tiberius says. “Lady Keyleth and Vax’ildan especially- they had spent the most time investigating the children, after all, and they care so very much.”

Tried catches Allura’s ear. And Keyleth’s particular anxiety too, her withdrawal when they’d returned with Gren-

“Some of them didn’t make it,” she says. Tiberius’ glance at her is shocked - surprised, she thinks, at how easily she’s understood.

“One of them,” Tiberius says. “We managed to break the other chains and the children ran away to join the others but one - Keyleth, she was trying to wrestle them away from the man, to get them far enough we could break the chain and that- that awful, despicable man, he just-”

He makes a motion with his hand, as though grabbing something, yanking and oh, gods. For a stretch they’re simply silent.

“Thank you,” Tiberius says eventually. “For bringing up that thought, Allura. I- I hadn’t considered that she might… that she might be blaming herself like that.”

“It seems ridiculous from the outside,” she agrees. “It all came about because of that awful mage. But- when one’s choices directly link to outcomes, it can be hard not to think oneself to blame, sometimes.”

She doesn’t have to think the names for the faces to flash through her mind once again. Ghenn’s gap-toothed smile, Dohla’s dour frown, Sirus’ scarred cheek, all long since turned to ashes.

“It’s a trick I’m not sure how to manage,” Tiberius admits, towards the end of his stay at the Lyceum, the end of his enchanting lessons and efforts alongside her - his visits to her for tea and conversation she hopes will continue. He’s gesturing at the single Earring, now laid on the table before them as they sip tea. “The others were enchanted together, that’s how they’re bound together - I just… cannot quite understand how to… to add another to their number.” He sets his cup down with a gentle clink.  

“Yes,” she agrees, before he can start gesticulating. “Making pairs is usually the easiest way of doing such things, and it’d be quite easy to separate one of these Earrings you made from them and link it to a new one - but to enchant a new one and then link it to all of them - that would be rather trickier. It would be easier if the others were all to hand-”

“But they’re not,” Tiberius says. “Everyone’s-” he waves his hands. “Gone off, here there and everywhere! Quite frustrating. But - perhaps I made a mistake making them Earrings. They’re efficient for what they do, but it’s very easy for people to forget they’re there. And now-” he gestures widely. “Scattered to the winds. Who even knows if I’ll get them all back!”

“You made them as gifts,” she points out gently. “For Vox Machina as a group to use. And you’ll have your keep completed soon enough - you could probably move into it this week, if you wanted - so I don’t doubt the others will be returning soon enough.”

“That’s true,” Tiberius admits. “But that still doesn’t make it any easier - we don’t have enough Earrings for everyone and they’re so useful no one is going to want to give them up for long enough for a new one to be enchanted and attuned to match the others-”

“That’s manageable, with the right skills,” she says, and sets down her teacup, scooping up the earring. “I’ve not shown you my own laboratory yet, have I?”

She knows she hasn’t - the last person she let into her laboratory was Kima and however much she loves her, Kima… is not good around the precise and delicate magic of the laboratory. Drake, while far more careful, understands the incredible privacy any mage keeps around their private work and has never asked to be invited in. Tiberius hasn’t either, likely for similar reasons.

She loves her laboratory. Her neat cabinet, every bottle and jar labelled with the contents; the polished marble counters, one inlaid with a slab of imported whitestone to make enchanting easier; shelves of reference texts in case something needs to be checked as she works, organised by subject matter. The little spell anchored to a stone just inside the doorway, the one that requires her touch so it doesn’t drop acid on an interloper.

Tiberius pauses at the entrance, waiting politely to be waved in, and immediately goes to the whitestone slab, claws running over the barely-shimmering alabaster stone. Whitestone’s become so rare in recent years, and the city was always hard to contact at the best of times. She doesn’t blame him for his awed admiration of such a useful tool even as she moves around him to her assessment table.

People really do underestimate the power of identification spells - of just how precise they can be, if one knows what one’s doing. The incantation is old and familiar - how many items had she and Drake identified for their friends? - but her assessment table carries everything she’s learned over the years, to identify curses and the schools of magic used, to sense attunements in play, the precise frequency of magic on which they operate…

In the web of dark emerald magic, she sees several coppery strands of magic, stretching out before fading off. One is stronger than the others - Pike, Grog and Percival are in Emon at present, if she recalls rightly, and one of them must have an Earring of their own. The others-

“You used… message for your base, you said?” she asks. “Sending wouldn’t have a range like this.”

“Ah!” Tiberius says, startled out of his reverie and joining her. “Yes. They both had the same material components, which would give me a good base to build on - I could incorporate the copper wire into the Earrings, you see? But given how many I was intending to make, it was easier to use a cantrip than a more complex spell that would take longer. I was making them on a deadline after all.”

Very efficient application and problem solving and she nods.

“It should be possible to replicate,” she says. “If I just-”

It’s a more complicated spell of her own devising to preserve every detail her advanced identification spell has picked up, but it’s one she knows well. With a gesture and a short series of quiet words, the web of light is neatly captured and she retrieves the Earring to return to a stunned Tiberius.

“I have what I need,” she assures him. “I’ll make another.”

Chapter Text

Vex can make as many complaints that they don’t have the funds to stay put in Emon all six months that she likes - Vax knows that if she wants to stay, he’ll find a way to make it happen. That’s always been how it works: if one of them wants something, then damn if they’re not gonna at least try. And, honestly, Vax would be down to stay too - he likes Gilmore, genuinely and deeply likes the man with his perpetual cheer and easy smile that’s never, ever insincere. Vax knows shopkeeps, knows how they can look at dark-clad skulking low-class half-elves, and Gilmore has never once seemed suspicious of him. Has never once treated him like the absolute shit Vax knows shopkeeps can treat him like, even if they haven’t in some time now.

And besides, Gilmore’s just… fun? Easy to trust? Interesting? It’s always been a bit of a messy tangle for Vax, figuring out what it is about someone that catches his interest and keeps it, but Gilmore’s certainly got a chunk of it, whatever it is.

Besides - he owes the man a thank you.

“Vax’ildan!” Gilmore sounds delighted to see him as soon as he steps in sight of the front desk. Gilmore’s leaning over the shoulder of a young, stern-faced half-elven woman, pointing between a ledger and an abacus. “How delightful to see you again. Vax’ildan, meet Sherri, my new assistant, Sherri, meet Vax’ildan, one of Vox Machina, the heroes of Emon! He and his compatriots receive a ten percent discount on all shop items.”

“Of course, Mr Gilmore-”

Gilmore’s finger wags in her face, his smile warm. “What have I told you? Gilmore’s fine. Now, I trust I can leave this in your capable hands?”

Sherri nods, clearly a little shell-shocked by the charm-bomb of her new boss and Gilmore waves him around the desk, through the curtain of violet cloth strips and purple glass beads into the back room.

“Delightful girl,” Gilmore’s saying, as he pours them both cups of… it smells like the chai they’d had back in Rosehull - and hands him one. “She was a foundling left at the gates of the Lawbearer’s Court, absolute whizz with maths - she’d compete with your sister in terms of a sharp mind for numbers. Guardian Brotoras recommended her to me - Sherri’s been apprenticed to the treasurer of the Platinum Palace for the past two years but Tofor said she’s been looking for something different - for a challenge.”

There’s such cheer and fondness on his face and in his words and it leaves Vax feeling a bit discombobulated to see it directed at another. He knows Gilmore is cheerful and friendly and he doesn’t think he’s wrong thinking that Gilmore actively enjoys his company over that of others but-

Well, no use thinking about it.

“A challenge?” says Vax, managing to find a smile at all of Gilmore's clear cheer. “She’ll find that with you, I trust?”

“With the customers,” Gilmore corrects. “Anyway - to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to thank you,” he says. “For the book recommendations.”

“Ah,” Gilmore says, smiling warmly and settling in a large, well-cushioned purple armchair. “Helpful?”

“Extremely.”  

Some of the stories the books had held had been familiar - but many more hadn’t. Not just the usual tales of simple hauntings and horrifying possessions - after all, everyone knew a spurned elf dead of despair might reject reincarnation to become a banshee, everyone knew a ghost whose residence was disturbed might become a poltergeist - but more complicated tales, nuanced ones. Ghosts, it seemed, were the least malicious of all undead, driven by whatever purpose had kept them from true death. One loyal spinster aunt had become a ghostly housekeeper to the family manse, over in Wildemount, every aspect of the manor's demesne under her direct command to keep it pristine for the family - and to repel malicious intruders.

Cass had come back to protect Percy, to keep him safe, that was obvious enough and matched their own explanations, and explained her particular kind of possession besides. Explained the weird melancholy air that followed Percy like a bad smell, that too.

“Yeah,” he goes on. “Yeah it helped a lot. I didn’t know-” He gestures vaguely. There was a lot in the books he hadn’t known, really.

“Only the Knowing Mistress knows all,” Gilmore says. “There’s always something new to discover or new to learn.”

He huffs a laugh at that. “True enough.”

“Indeed,” Gilmore says, still smiling. “But I doubt that’s all you had to say. What brings you to my glorious shop today, Vax’ildan?”

He shrugs. Wanted to see you, the thank you was an excuse feels a bit silly to say now.

“Trying to find something to do,” he says instead. “Ideas. Jobs. Yours was the first place that sprang to mind.” Gilmore’s smile is warm in response.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Gilmore says. “Well- let’s see what we can find to occupy you. What sort of thing are you two looking for right now?”

Damn good question. Vax knows Vex has plans - after falling into that sewer and washing up in an Underdark cavern, after encountering Erelwae in Rosehull, he knows she’s determined to learn at least one common language of the Underdark and to get some better idea of what’s down there - but for the most part he doesn’t really have plans beyond keeping Vex company, researching ghosts, and spending time with Gilmore when he can.

“Vex wants to go travelling,” he says. “Wandering looking for jobs - there’s someone we met on the way here she wants to go back and visit too. Otherwise…” He shrugs expressively.

“I imagine it must be rather strange to be in the position you now find yourselves,” Gilmore says gently. “And- it can certainly be soothing to go back to old known habits, even if they’re their own kind of stressful.”

Vax can’t help his barked laugh at that. “Yeah,” he agrees, ambling over to the empty table and perching himself on the edge of it.. “That’s true. I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t mind going with her - we’ve always travelled together: who else would we trust to watch our backs but each other? It’s just weird to go without a plan - I mean, I know I’m the reckless one, but Vex usually has some kind of plan, especially when it comes to money. But I think she wants lessons from Erelwae enough she’s willing to play actual paying work by ear.”

Gilmore gestures with one beringed hand. “Perhaps she does have a plan after all, and that’s why she’s so relaxed about it?”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But if she has she hasn’t told me, which is its own problem.”

The smile Gilmore gives is gentle and warm. “Well,” he says. “You’re not going to solve it by worrying. Drink your tea and relax a little - everything looks better after some rest.”

Yeah, that’s true - and the tea’s damn good, definitely that same spiced chai they’d had at Rosehull. Scanlan had said it was from Marquet and Issylra, right? Issylra was further north, with Gilmore’s complexion and penchant for light silks, probably Marquesian in origin? Given the trade doubly so, Marquet was known for its bazaars if he remembers his old geography classes right.

Or Gilmore could be a local; plenty of humans down towards Byroden had darker complexions - and the well-off have always liked to show it, but Gilmore doesn’t strike him as the kind of guy to lord his wealth over others. He likes to show it, sure, and he’s confident as all hell which, yes, is very appealing, but his is a confidence he has on his own; Vax can’t imagine Gilmore getting a kick out of pushing others down. Sure, he’s well-off and has a shop with some pretty impressive gear, but the table over the other side of the room looks like the space around Tiberius when the sorcerer gets to enchanting things - Gilmore’s clearly not afraid to put the work in himself.

Probably where the confidence comes from, honestly, the certainty he can do what he’s chosen to do.

(He’s always teased Vex for how her gaze turns appraising when they encounter someone competent. He’s always done that just to deflect from how he does the exact same thing.)

“Hey Shaun,” Vax says, kicking his heels against the table leg. “You enchant your own stuff, right? What kind of things do you use for it?”

There’s a smile audible in Gilmore’s voice. “Planning on starting your own business?”

Vax snorts. “Nah, I got no knack for magic. Just - if Vex and I are going travelling for a bit and we’re looking for ways to keep us in pocket as we go. I thought - enchanting has material components, doesn’t it? The item to be enchanted, the spell components, and the- the-” He snaps his fingers as he remembers what Tiberius calls it. “The spell-object anchor. Or amplifier, if it’s an advanced one, Keyleth said?”

“Different groups call them by different names,” Gilmore says. “But yes.”

“Yeah,” Vax says and shrugs. “So- if Vex and I were travelling, any items you want us to keep an eye out for?”

“That depends,” Gilmore says. “How likely are you to be killing magical creatures or foraging magical plants? The innate magic of them is important to the process; non-magical components are only really useful for the spell, not the enchanting.”

Vax shrugs again. “We can keep an eye out if there’s something you’re looking for. What do you tend to need?”

“It varies,” Gilmore says. “Depends on the item.”

“Yeah but like-” Vax gestures vaguely. “In general. Examples.”

Gilmore sets his cup down, pushing himself more upright from the comfortable slump he’d been in in his chair. “Well,” he says, “if I wanted to enchant a seeker arrow, for example, then I’d want goldenlark feathers for the flights. Or if I wanted to make a bloodseeker bow like the one your sister carries, I’d want blood hawks - their blood is a component in the varnish, their skulls and bones are used in the bowstring hooks and the feathers can be bound into the handle grip. Some armours want the hide of a powerful beast-”

“Like dragon,” Vax says and Gilmore smiles warmly.

“Exactly,” he says. “Minotaur hide is popular, but many consider it unethical - minotaurs are both sapient and self-determined, while dragons are… more complicated.”

“They’re a threat to people,” Vax says. “Chromatics at least.”

When Gilmore looks at him with a raised eyebrow he waves a flippant hand.

“My sister studied them,” he says. “They’re fully sapient but chromatics especially are deeply driven by instinct due to some kind of primal deific compulsion, I think? Sort of like gnolls or orcs or bugbears.”

“Now now,” Gilmore says, wagging a finger at him. “I’ll have you know there’s some perfectly lovely gnolls out at Turst Fields. But yes. Godly influence can be… hard to shed, and unlike dragonborn, chromatics and even metallics are notoriously independent and unlikely to co-operate for the kind of effort required to shuck such a shackle.” He waves a beringed hand. “Anyway. I can give you a list of the kind of creature parts I’m looking for in case you should come across them - it’ll just give me a second reason to look forward to your return.”

They don’t go immediately to Rosehull. Vax knows Vex has to have set aside money to pay Erelwae with but he also knows his sister well - she’s always on the lookout for more ways to earn coin, more jobs they can use to line their pockets, and with the list of things Gilmore will pay them for on their return, Vex is keeping an eye out for bounties that match the list. So is Vax, to be fair, but he’s always known his sister has sharper eyes than him.

The route they’re taking is off the beaten path, Vex navigating them through forest and underbrush with a map and a compass alone and they spend days without seeing another person even as they glimpse smoke from distant chimneys rising over the treeline. They’ll circle back around to one of the villages sooner or later, and Vax’ll admit he’s not entirely looking forward to it. The posters are bloody everywhere.

The official painting of them is accurate of course - but not so much the images of them proliferating in the news posters that get sent around Tal’Dorei. It’s always the way: people hear “half-elf” and focus on the ears. Most of the drawings and woodcuts give them ears closer to those of true elves rather than the pointed human ears most half-elves actually have and while it helps them avoid recognition when they wish to avoid it, it does mean their names are almost unfortunately well-known.

Vex, of course, doesn’t mind too much - excuses to use their renown for a cheaper deal are something Vex will always appreciate - but this is meant to be a break from all that, as Vax grumbles one day.

They spent years, just the two of them and Trinket, more often in the woods than rooming in a tavern. Doesn’t she want a break from civilisation to spend time in the woods? Especially as the year turns towards spring - Vex has always loved spring, the time of year when everything flourishes once more.

“All right,” Vex says and she’s smiling as she bumps shoulders with him. “Remember when our tutors sent us all out to practice going undercover? Pseudonyms and all?”

He does remember. He even remembers the names.

“Hello,” the innkeeper says at the next town, when they emerge from the woods carrying the head of the minotaur that had been terrorising them. “And who might you be?”

“Lora and Lyem O'Braileh,” Vex says, smiling the smile that usually gets any innkeep at least curious about knowing her better. “We killed that minotaur. Do you know who’ll pay us for that?”

“Several people in town, I imagine,” the man says. He lifts a hand to scratch his greying beard as he nods at a noticeboard. “There’ll be a listing on there ‘f you look.” He pauses before tilting his head. “Should I assume you’ll be wanting rooms?”

Vex glances to him and smiles. “Check the board, brother,” she says, then hops onto a barstool and scratches Trinket’s ear. “Rooms would be lovely,” she says to the innkeep. As Vax heads for the board he hears the opening volley of Vex’s attack. “How much do you charge?”

It’s longer than he expects before Vex turns them towards Rosehull - but their packs are growing fuller of useful findings, a stretch of cured minotaur hide, the feathers of blood hawks and firestarts - no goldenlarks where they’ve travelled, or Vax knows Vex would have added a few to their collection. Even some vials of magical blood, though nothing as impressive as the dragon blood already in the Bag.

“You could head back to Emon now,” Vex says, as the junction approaches. “I know you like Gilmore and he probably wants his stuff sooner rather than later: you don’t need to keep me company.”

No, he doesn’t need to - and it would be nice to see Shaun again… but he knows his sister too. He might get a good deal from Gilmore due to their friendship but Vex always gets a good deal on things; it’d be better for her to be there to be sure they’re being paid well. What they’ve got is safely preserved besides; it can last a little while longer and… there were some kids from Rosehull, safely returned, weren’t there? Young Jophiel Tidestone and those two drow children given into Erelwae’s care.

In his pocket is a list Cass had given him, of all the children taken and all the addresses she and her brother could gather. Vax agrees: it’d do the children good to be able to contact each other.

“I don’t need to,” Vax agrees, scratching Trinket behind the ear. The bear leans into it, the force of his nuzzling almost pushing him over. He smiles over the bear’s head at his sister. “But when have I ever abandoned you to go off adventuring on your own?”

It’s chilly through the Seashales to get to the coast but the path is still clear: they make it without trouble, even if they have to curl up against Trinket’s warm belly at night. Rosehull, as they make their way down towards it, looks much as it did on their first visit, albeit more lively with the brighter, stark spots of people moving against the slow that lays thickly over the upper levels of the village.

“Storm Bell first,” Vex says. “Let’s get rooms and food - and then we can go see Madam Noquafin.”

Agramar Long recognises them and greets them cheerily; from that Vex manages to negotiate them a steep discount before dropping off their bags in their room so they can head up to Erelwae’s.

“It’s not far off noon,” Vax points out, sat on his bed as he watches Vex fish through her own bag on her own bed. “Would she even be awake? Surface drow are said to be more nocturnal because-”

He waves his hand. Vex went through the same lessons he did: he doesn’t doubt she remembers.

“Midwinter to drow has to be like midsummer to us,” she points out. “And it’ll take us some time to get to her house.” She pauses, considering. “But maybe we should get lunch first.”

Lunch is apparently the leftovers from breakfast - some long, pale grain cooked soft and yellowed with spices, mixed with soft flakes of smoked fish, halves of boiled eggs set in the dish, fragments of shredded, leafy green scattered over the top and it’s absolutely delicious.

They both have seconds.

Erelwae looks much the same as when they’d last seen her - albeit with bags beneath her eyes that surprise Vax. Elves don’t need to sleep - they can but they generally don’t once they’re old enough to easily pass into Reverie - and he’s never actually seen an elf look tired.

Then again, Erelwae’s drow. Maybe they do sleep - but that strikes him as unlikely given what he’s heard said about drow of the Underdark and Erelwae’s own account of how cruel and backstabbing they can be.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she says, surprise colouring her tone and voice, followed by a smile. “Come in, come in, will your friends be joining us?”

“Just us,” Vex says, shaking her head and carefully stamping the snow off her boots onto the reed mat by the front door. Given how slippery the path looked, they’d left Trinket back at the inn, sleeping by the fire. “We’ll be seeing the others in a few months - everyone’s got their own things to be on with for a bit.”

“Of course,” Erelwae says, already moving to fill the kettle and set it on the fire. “Rylvana and Tathkyn are down in town with Jophiel; they’ll be back up here in time for dinner if you want to see them. It’s been strange having them - I’ve had to alter my schedule - they’re always invited down to play and to join the children’s lessons down there!”

“That’s good,” Vax can’t help but point out. “That they’re invited to join them and included.”

“It is,” Erelwae agrees, smiling. She’s set mugs on the counter as they wait for the kettle to boil and has opened the small breadbox beside it to pull out - “Here, Jophiel brought us these when he came by today. Seaweed biscuits; they’re quite good.”

For a stretch they sit, nibbling on the biscuits - they’re flaking and crumbly, apart from the flakes of seaweed incorporated into them, slightly savoury with the sea-salt but far from bad. Honestly, with some smoked fish or some cheese, Vax thinks they’d be fantastic.

“Is it hard for them?” Vex asks after a stretch. “Drow - when we were at Syngorn we were taught it’s hard for you in daylight.”

Erelwae’s smile is even wider. “Jophiel’s return has helped,” she says. “Through his parents, we now have tinted lenses; it is much easier to bear daylight with those.” She sighs. “Most of the problem is - only Jophiel can speak to them easily. That place they were kept, they had to learn to talk to each other, Jophiel knows a little Undercommon now - it was easier than Drow,” she explains, “There are more loaned words - but the other children do not.”

It’s… an almost perfect opening, to be honest and Vax isn’t surprised as his sister takes it.

“Well,” she says. “We might be able to help there a little.”

Erelwae glances at them, one pale eyebrow quirked before the whistle of the kettle draws her attention. For a stretch she’s busied pouring hot water into the mugs and handing them out but, that done, she settles in a well-cushioned chair by the fire.

“You would teach the children?” she asks, as they sip their tea - it’s got a strange mustiness to it this time, a bit like the gnome’s ear fungus tea from when they’d last visited but without the softening influence of mint and chamomile. It is winter, Vax supposes. It makes sense that, with a limited supply of plants, she might supplement it with what she can forage from the caves.

“We’ve had some run-ins,” Vex says, gesturing. “Some of us managed to fall into the Crystalfens and we seem to keep on coming across cases where some idea of how to navigate the Underdark would be useful. So- I was thinking about perhaps asking you to teach me? The language and how to survive below. And in exchange, Vax and I can teach the children Common - perhaps even Elvish, if you want.”

There’s a pinched look on Erelwae’s face but Vax thinks he can guess at the origin of that.

“Elves are shits,” he says, to forestall any response. “But this way, they’d know if any elf is talking about them behind their backs - and what’s being said.”

“That is true,” she agrees begrudgingly. “Just you?” she asks Vex. “Not-” She gestures to Vax.

“I burned my brain out learning Abyssal,” he says with a grin. “Vex’s the one with the knack for languages not me - but I’m better with kids. I’ll teach the kids Common - and Elvish if you like - if you teach my sister what - Drow? Undercommon? And how to survive down there.”

“We’d understand if you’d rather not draw attention,” Vex adds. “Given what we did in Emon, getting Jophiel returned and the children given into your care, if you want to avoid drawing notice in case of-” She waves a hand expressively. Both twins have seen too many times when sudden good fortune has turned to social reprisal. “We can work out another way if you’d rather, or if there’s someone you’d recommend-”

Erelwae’s hand rises, palm flat, fingers together, thumb tucked closer to her fingers than would be comfortable for humans, but easy enough for more flexible elves and half-elves. Her expression is pensive.

“We will drink tea,” she says. “And eat our biscuits. I shall think.”

It’s… peaceful. The wind rattles the outside of the house but they’re sheltered by the overhang of rock and the fire warms the space well. The steady crackle of the hearth, the occasional noise as burning wood settles, coupled with the tea and biscuits - it’s all very soothing and Vax finds himself startled from a soft doze at the clinking sound of Erelwae’s mug being set down on the flagstone floor.

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Yes, I think so.”

When he looks at her, Vex looks hopeful and when he glances back to Erelwae, she’s smiling.

“We will teach you,” Erelwae decides with a nod. “It will help the children to be taught Common; I can speak Drow to them, but that will not help them fit in and Jophiel cannot be here always to teach them himself. If you help to teach them Common, we will teach you Undercommon. It will do you more good than Drow - most Drow speak it, and there are far more than Drow below.”

“I will tell you some things now,” Erelwae says as they help her prepare dinner. There’s some dried and smoked fish - a new addition, it seems, as Vax doesn’t remember it being there the last time they’d been here - hanging from a beam and Erelwae pulls down a side of it, softening it in water as they start preparing the vegetables. “How much do you know of drow culture?”

Vax shrugs. Vex, peeling potatoes, purses her lips.

“Matriarchal,” she says. “At least the Underdark is. Lyrengorn drow are said to be equal and no one knows about the Xorhasians yet - they’re too isolated. Mostly worship Lolth and the Dark Seldarine, the dark mirrors of Corellon Archheart and those of Their children that stayed with Them rather than joining Lolth. Lolth encourages distrust and infighting, supposedly to make drow strong but also so none are ever strong enough to challenge Her - She was Corellon’s creation before splintering the alfen and isn’t as strong as the deities fully gods from the start.” She shrugs. “That’s about it. Most of the rest is how we shouldn’t trust you and weaknesses we can use to our advantage.”

“Remember them,” Erelwae says, gesturing with her knife. The seaweed and mushrooms by her hands are already neatly chopped. “Most drow below you should not trust. You were wise the first time you visited to avoid drinking the tea until I did. Were I like Uncle your wariness would have saved you.”

Vax glances to Vex; her eyebrows are raised.

“Anyway,” Erelwae says. “The children are learning that there is more of the world than their homes ever told them. Rylvana is happy that she does not have to dedicate herself to Lolth, that she can choose her own path. Tathkyn…” Erelwae pauses, glancing warily at the both of them. “You will understand this, and you will be kind to them about it, you promise me now.”

“We’ll try,” Vax says. “What is it?”

Erelwae turns back to her chopping, not looking at them. “In our culture below, you are male or female and from that your role is set. You are set to serve the priestesses or you are a priestess serving Lolth, do you understand? And Tathkyn, being away from that, has found that they do not care for either. They are only themselves, not male or female. Not a boy or a girl, just themselves.”

For once both twins, too surprised by so simple a revelation offered so carefully, find themselves speaking over each other.

“That’ll help them,” Vax says at the same time Vex says, “That’s more common up here,” and they pause, glancing at each other before Vax gestures with his knife - he’s almost done with the carrots and parsnips - at her to continue.

“It’s more common up here,” Vex says. “Agramar Long, down at the Storm Bell, they’re like that too. It’s not- you won’t find it everywhere, but it’s not unheard of.” She tilts her head towards Vax. “Gender is more… fluid, among elven groups too, at least on the surface. Corellon isn’t any one gender either, so elves are actually pretty good about that-”

“Only thing they’re good about,” Vax mutters, and is rewarded by an elbow from Vex and the slightest quirk of her mouth towards a smile.

“At least in Syngorn,” Vex adds, “elves who don’t fit the binary - they’re called born of the Archheart, and often encouraged to at least apprentice at the Archheart’s Grove and to try to find the Stone within Reverie Ward. Some say, with time and dedication, they might even receive a blessing from the god themself, and be able to reshape themselves to fit how they wish to be. If Tathkyn meets other elves, especially if they speak Elvish - being how they are, they’ll be safer than most. Even Lyrengorn drow are rarely allowed into Syngorn - but elves born of the Archheart…”

Vex trails off - it’s hard to explain the utter completeness of the social taboo that would be, how Syngorn’s strict propriety would enforce it.

“To not let them in would be to spit in the face of Corellon,” Vax says. “And even surface elves dedicated to other of the prime deities wouldn’t dare do that.”

Vax isn’t as perceptive as his sister but he doesn’t miss how Erelwae relaxes, shoulders softening down as she claims half the potatoes Vex has finished peeling to start chopping them. Vax takes the other half, carrots now done and before long they’ve finished chopping. Erelwae passes them the dish of rehydrating fish, draining the excess water away, leaving them to pick it apart into pieces, while she cuts an onion into eighths and peels some cloves of garlic.

“You stay for dinner,” Erelwae says as the last of the ingredients are poured into the stewpot. “Rylvana and Tathkyn will be back soon, we will have dinner together and let them know about the lessons, and then you can go back to town, to your rooms. But you should see them now, so they know.”

The children are just as Vax remembers them being; smaller than Jophiel who comes to drop them off at home, with dark ashy skin and thistledown hair, eyes that even his elvish-aided vision can only barely register as a light grey or pale blue. Rylvana’s hair is past her waist even in its thick braids, and a series of shell and bone beads - some stained with dyes - gently click against each other as she moves. Tathkyn’s hair is shorter, cut in an even line at their chin, small twists drawn back from just above their ears to keep the fine hair from shifting forwards as they tilt their head to avoid eye-contact.

Tathkyn’s shy Vax realises, and as Rylvana launches into conversation with Erelwae and Vex, recounting her day and what she’s learned, Vax leans over to Tathkyn and, using some water from his cup, draws a simple grid on the table.

Maybe it’s a gamble, but he’s pretty sure that noughts-and-crosses is universal.

It takes Tathkyn a moment to figure it out but the kid is sharp. They rapidly get Vax to tie and, when Vax expands the game to connect-four, Tathkyn starts beating him.

By the end of dinner, Tathkyn’s come enough out of their shell to join conversation a little. It’s clear that for all Rylvana’s open confidence, Tathkyn’s quiet observation serves the child well; while they don’t always have the vocabulary, their grammar is noticeably better.

“It’ll help us teach them,” Vax says to Vex as they walk back down to Rosehull. “Knowing where their strengths already lie.”

Vex doesn’t disagree and before long they're back at the inn. The halls are dark this late and they tread carefully to get to their room without disturbing anyone - Trinket makes that difficult when they get there, so pleased to see them, but it’s not that long before they’re ready for bed, each turning in as Trinket settles again in the space between their beds.

It’s… peaceful. They can hear the soft creaking of the eponymous bell’s chain in the wind, the gentle groans of the building settling, but the room is warm and well-insulated and as Vex blows the one rushlight out it’s easy for Vax to tuck himself cosily under his blankets and start counting sheep.

“You know,” Vex says, as they lie in the darkness on their respective beds, not yet sleeping, “You don’t have to stay. I can teach them and learn at the same time - and then Gilmore gets his stuff fresh-”

Vax snorts. “Like you’ll trust me to get the best deal,” he says.

He can hear Vex shifting on her bed; when he tilts his head to look over at her, she’s rolled onto her side, one hand holding her blankets in place and the other scratching Trinket’s ears. With the hint of moonlight from the crack in the shutters, her eyes glint.

“With Gilmore?” she says. “I’m not blind, Vax.” she tilts her head to face up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. “I know he makes you happy.”

That’s maybe a bit pre-emptive: it’s not like anything’s happened yet - they’ve just flirted back and forth, made comments and left implications hanging - and no matter what he’s not going to just leave Vex. There’s no way that’d go well, not in a million years. They’ve always had each other’s backs - the idea of not is just…

Yeah, Vax knows just how wound up Vex gets if she doesn’t have at least some idea of where to find him. If he thinks Vex is in danger he gets much the same way.

“Like I’m gonna leave you,” he scoffs. “Leave you to have all the fun? Fat chance.”

The next few days are less than easy. While the children were pleased by the idea of learning better Common and maybe some Elvish - and some Abyssal curses if Vax can manage it - and at the idea of getting to teach grown-ups, they were less pleased by the realisation that this meant missing playtime with Jophiel and lessons with the other children.

This is eased a little by Erelwae, encouraging them to join her on her foraging trips into the caverns of what she called the “Upperdark”. Further down is the Lowerdark, she said, and that she’d take Vex to on their own, but the Upperdark was a relatively straightforward first venture as well as familiar enough to the children to feel safe and different to their original homes enough to be new.

It is educational. As well as being a good way of keeping Rylvana and Tathkyn engaged and less resentful, it also meant exposure to half of the vocabulary Vex was aiming to learn - fungi and insects and fish, rock formations and how to explain directions and timespans in a place without any natural light.

“Usually,” Erelwae says, “We measure time with waterclocks. Rock formations provide natural water drips, and from that we found ways to measure out time. There are also fungi which glow in cycles, but those are more common around myconid colonies.”

Generally, while Vex learns, Vax keeps the kids company, teaching as he goes. Rylvana is eager to learn and eager to put what she learns to use, but Tathkyn remains shy and hesitant to speak, even with Vax having tried to tease them out of their shell.

“It is not their fault,” Rylvana says in stumbling but increasingly clear Common. “They were part of a- a-” She gestures, clicks her tongue frustratedly and then goes, “strong? Family. But they were the smallest. And their siblings knew if Tathkyn was strong they would be a threat. They hurt them.”

“They’re like that?” Vax asks. “Even at the top?”

“If there is a top,” Rylvana points out, “then there is a bottom. Their siblings could not be at the top if others were not… not beneath them.”

That’s… that’s a grim way of looking at it, no doubt about it, though he supposes it explains how so few drow ever broke free of Lolth. Why would they when it was worked into the world that those at the top deserved it, those below didn’t, and that to climb one has to have power? How much kindness can remain when survival necessitates cruelty?

“What about you?”

Rylvana pauses -  a hesitance rarely seen, given her confidence - before she speaks. “My mother is dead,” she says eventually. “She was not- allowed? To have me. Father took me before they could send me to the spider pits with her. He-” She taps her lips “-he could not speak. He had no-” She sticks her tongue out.

“Tongue,” Vax says.

“Tongue,” Rylvana repeats. “He had no tongue. He was a secret follower of Vhaeraun. I was his words, to keep him safe. But he wasn’t safe. The priestesses took him, and he told me to run, so I did. And when I was hiding, that is when- that is how-”

Vax is careful to be gentle as he sets his hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Thank you for telling me.”

Most days are like this, a mix of travelling in the caves, teaching and learning, before they have dinner and head back down to their rooms in Rosehull. It becomes relatively peaceful, enjoyable for the most part - but the Underdark is never safe.

It’s Erelwae who notices the shifting shadow first.

“Get back!” Erelwae cries in Common, magic glowing in her palms. Then: “Rylvana, Tathkyn, get back to the house! Go now!”

The magic is bright and dancing as it illuminates whatever beast had been stalking them from the shadows: a giant cat, long tendrils drifting back from behind its ears, but unlike any cat Vax has ever seen: two sets of legs at the front, fur uncommonly short and eyes that seem to glow even as Erelwae’s cast of light settles onto it just like that spell of Keyleth’s.

“Ilareth-” Rylvana cries, her own hands glowing, but she’s cut off by Tathkyn pulling her back and Erelwae’s second yell.

“Now!”

Tathkyn’s a good kid - shy, sure, but far from stupid - and they pull Rylvana through the tunnel: Vax hears as the pair start to run, the thuds of their feet echoing through the tunnels. He doesn’t need to understand Drow to get the gist of what Erelwae snarls next.

“Xuat dos vithe inth!”

There’s some new spell gathering at her fingertips, her free hand going to a pouch at her belt which must contain components and as Vex’s first arrow lands and Trinket thuds forwards to tangle with the beast, Vax’s fingers find his daggers. 

Erelwae’s new spell seems to disconcert the beast - if Vax had to guess, it seems to think there’s another attacker as its tentacles start lashing at empty space. It’s easy to aim for the long strands - and more urgent to do so as the broad end of one manages to tear into Trinket’s shoulders, sharp, pale fangs revealed on the tendril’s undersides.

It’s not a long fight in the end. Vax can see the creature’s ribs as he darts close enough to slice at the tendrils, slash at its belly, far more clearly than he should. He’s seen a healthy hunting cat before, they were quite common in the southern woods around Syngorn, but he’s never seen one that looks this gaunt and even with the clearly magical influence this creature bears, he highly doubts the skin should cling so to the ribs, that it should bleed so little.

The Underdark is dangerous, he knows. He wonders how much of a trial this beast went through to get this far, to take such a risk as to attack them all. When it finally slumps to the ground, one tendril still lashing and twitching with the last impulses, he supposes it went through quite a bit.

“Well,” Vex says. “Well done us. What was that?”

“It’s a veldrin-k’lar phindar, ” Erelwae says. “On the surface you call them displacer beasts. My mother has one; it was my grandmother’s before she teased its loyalty to her and had it kill Grandmother so she could take the Matron’s seat.”

“Lady,” Vax can’t help but say. “Your mother sounds like an absolute nut.”

The laugh Erelwae gives is bright and genuine, even if it’s cut off by a wince as Vex’s hands clasp the poultice of herbs and fungi to the awful gash left by the creature’s tentacle-fangs.

“She is a vithe elg’caress,” Erelwae agrees, her hand reaching to brush the bracelet at her other wrist. “She is part of why I left, after my uncle killed Soldaer.” Carefully she shrugs. “We did well to kill that beast. They’re persistent; once it had our scent, it would have tracked us.”

It takes a little longer before Vex is certain that the poultice will have killed any infection and it’s safe to bind Erelwae’s wound with healing herbs. Erelwae winces less than Vax expects but… drow are shitty. Drow raised her and killed her brother. He doesn’t doubt she’s got a high pain tolerance and before long she’s pushing herself upright to examine the body.

“Its hide isn’t too damaged,” Erelwae says, “and they can make good cloaks. The fur is warm and their magic makes them easy to enchant, though I don’t have the means for that.”

“We know someone who does,” Vax says.

“Yes?” Erelwae says, one pale eyebrow arched. “Well then, for helping here, for giving the children time to get away, let us skin it and you can take the hide to your friend.”

“Is it safe?” Vex asks. “I mean- the beast is dead, but other creatures might have heard us, they could have smelled the blood-”

“I will skin it then,” Erelwae says. “Though I will need one of you to help - and then the other of you keeps watch?”

The twins share a look but it’s never much of a debate as to who should keep watch.

“You’re sharper than me,” Vax says. “You keep watch; we’ll get it skinned.”

Vex nods, nocking an arrow as she turns towards the downward slope of the cavern.

“Your mother has one?” Vex asks over her shoulder, as Vax and Erelwae move to skin the body.

“Anza,” Erelwae agrees. “Somewhere in the home-cavern she has a mate; she had a litter three years before I left. Mother tried to give me a cub but Azhi preferred my cousin and her cruelties.” Her mouth is twisted in distaste. “Rath’elge beasts.”

“There there, now,” Erelwae says as the children run to her when they return. “We are all well enough.” She slips into Drow, directing Rylvana to fill the kettle and Tathkyn to prepare the teapot as she helps Vex to stake out the hide and set a layer of sea-salt over the inner side. Vax doesn’t miss the long sigh she gives as she finally sits down, her hand gingerly holding the side the beast had torn.

“We should check on that in the morning,” Vex says, nodding towards Erelwae, but she shakes her head.

“It will be fine. Veldrin-k’lar phindar, they are not venomous,” she says. “And I have my own medicines. I’ll take care of it.”

It leads to a whole host of new lessons, new vocabulary as Erelwae explains more of the threats of the Underdark to Vex, as he and Vex have to then explain concepts in Common for the children - but Rylvana and Tathkyn seem thrilled by it, and have picked up Common well, likely aided by how much they’d learned already with Jophiel and down in town. Before long, Vax thinks, they’ll probably be set free back down to Rosehull.

Before long, he thinks, their time here will be over.

It’s still early in the day when they finally see Emon’s gate on the horizon. It’s been looming in the distance as they’ve travelled south, but as the dim light of pre-dawn steadily brightens, the sea starts turning to liquid silver-gold, the whitewashed walls of the city shining in the light. Somewhere beyond it, Vax knows, hidden by the city, their keep is nearing completion.

“Gilmore first,” Vex says, as they pause for lunch on a hill with a beautiful view of the city and the coast. “And then we’ll see who’s at the Lamia, how’s that?”

It’s strange. Vax has always made do with a little, always made do with just Vex for company, just Vex as his trusted friend. No matter how much he wants to trust others - and often does - he knows too well how often they’ve been failed. How many times his trust has been misplaced. He knows that if he wanted to leave Vex would follow - that if Vex wanted to leave, he would follow.

But these people haven’t let them down, not a one. Percy and Cass have stood up for them, between them all they’ve defeated demons and dragons. When he’s been in a bad mood, Pike has helped him through it just as Vex ever would - when Keyleth’s been feeling awful he managed to at least ease her worries a bit where Percy and Tiberius couldn’t.

They feel like friends, like people they can actually trust.

He finds himself looking forward to seeing them all again.

Chapter Text

“I’ll be quite honest,” Percy admits when Keyleth suggests that perhaps they could do a job or two before heading off to Terrah, “while the funds I got from Vex are technically enough to cover my planned design - there’s no accounting for errors. So ah, if you can think of a job or two for us to take, and make sure I’m not having to pause work to earn funds to finish the thing in time, I’d be quite appreciative.”

He half wishes the twins had waited another day or two before leaving - even that little time might have let him better refine the design, iron out a few more kinks! - but the group they’d been intending to travel with had a set departure date and Percy knew better by now than to argue with inevitabilities.

Gently, Cass pokes his thoughts.

Yes, such as Cassandra.

When he looks at Keyleth again, she looks much less apprehensive. He knows her Aramente is important - it’s why she wants to go to the Earth Ashari at some point while their keep is being built - but it’s also part of the process that with any luck will end with her as the ruler of her tribe, and he can’t blame her for being daunted by the prospect. He’d always been thankful he wasn’t really expected to have much part in the ruling and management of Whitestone, and his duties were still more than he’d have liked. He can’t imagine being raised for the role as Keyleth’s been.

“I’ve got to keep working on this,” he points out, gesturing at his sketchbook with his pen. “But if you can find us some possible jobs, ideally well-paying ones, well I’d be happy to join you, if you want a distraction before we head up to Terrah.”

Keyleth glances around, but they’re in a corner table and there’s no one nearby at present. “Both of you?” she asks quietly.

Cass’ presence is a flood of warmth at being remembered, fondness almost matching Percy’s own.

“Yes,” he says simply. “But you’ll have to find the jobs first. You know no one will think me serious, not with-” he gestures at himself. Keyleth’s grin widens.

“Yeah,” she says, and starts walking backwards, raising her hand to wave. “See you later!”

“Soooo,” Keyleth says with a trill two days later, spinning around a wooden pillar to take her seat at his table in a way that suggests she’s been perhaps a little at the drink. “There was this guy at the Asp Hole who’s looking for mercenaries for a job.”

“Oh?” he says, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “And this is different to the prior ones-”

“It’s archaeology,” she says. “You knew stuff about the Shadebarrow, you’d like it.”

“Archaeology,” he says sceptically, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Well, it’s not grave-robbing,” she says. “Just… well, probably robbing. Raiding maybe? There’s not supposed to be people there.”

That’s… promising. Sometimes he worries spending time with them all is corrupting Keyleth, teaching her bad habits - except that at heart she remains the most innocently, naively, hopeful and sweet-natured of all of them. She’s not likely to purposefully find them suspect work.

“Like Whitney,” Cass murmurs in his head, and he lifts a hand to rub his temple.

They do need a job, he doesn’t disagree on that. Hell, it’d been him to agree to Keyleth’s suggestion to procrastinate on her journey with another job or two, so he could better fund his new project and they could, perhaps, present Vex with some wholly new funds on her return.

“All right,” he says. “Tell me about it.”

Keyleth beams at him and before he knows it she’s talking a mile a minute and he’s had to turn to a new page of his sketchbook to take notes.

The Asp Hole, when they get there the next day, is quiet. It’s midweek and early in the evening, so Percy supposes it makes sense, and Keyleth immediately spots the person she’d spoken to, waving to a large red dragonborn across the room.

Percy can already imagine how they met - most likely Keyleth mistook him for Tiberius. That she came away from that with a job offer, and in a place like this…

Well this person can’t be all that bad, if that’s the case. Or perhaps they’re desperate, in which case they might just be able to wheedle a little more coin out of them.

“Arkhan,” the dragonborn says as they take seats at his table. “Good to meet you. Keyleth, right?” He’s looking at Keyleth and she nods. “You’re her friend she mentioned?”

“Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III,” he says.

“You can call him Percy,” Keyleth says, smiling.

“You’re down for the job?” Arkhan confirms.

It’s strange - there’s nothing all that menacing about him. He’s big, certainly, and armoured, and there’s a clearly well-used battleaxe hanging from a loop on his belt, and the scaled pendant on his neck isn’t Bahamutian which can only really mean Tiamat instead but… Percy doesn’t feel any kind of threat or intimidation, any sense he’s going to be made to go along with this. Then again, he supposes it better serves anyone to have willing aid rather than coerced. Coerced aid will flee as soon as feasible. Despite everything, Arkhan seems amiable enough.

“I’m here to hear a little more about it,” he settles on. “But Keyleth and I are looking for work, and this sounds amenable from what she’s said. So… provisionally, yes.”

The grin Arkhan gives is wide and sharp and seemingly genuine. “Great. We’re just waiting on a couple more, they’ll be here soon. Then I’ll explain.” He pauses a moment, looking around at how empty the bar seems to be. Leans back in his chair, arm slung over the back of the empty one beside him, his mouth twisting thoughtfully, perhaps a little bored. “Want a drink while we wait?” he asks.

Percy glances to Keyleth, who’s glancing to him in turn. He knows Keyleth can get caught up drinking but he’s right here to keep an eye on her and frankly, he could use the social lubrication if they’re meeting strangers. Keyleth’s look turns half-pleading - he knows she won’t drink if he says no, because she hates leaving people out.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Percy says and Arkhan’s grin returns as the dragonborn rises and ambles over to the bar.

The other two individuals Arkhan’s apparently been trying to court for the job arrive only about a half hour later. It takes them a minute to make their way over to the table, the bar having got rather busier in the past little while, but Arkhan’s far from short and his horned head is as reliably visible over the milling crowd and full tables as Grog’s tattooed one tends to be.

“Headmistress,” Arkhan says politely to the dark-haired human woman who approaches them. At Cass’ nudging Percy notices her hands: she wears similar wraps to the ones Ghostfist had worn - a monk, perhaps? Arkhan’s attention falls to the woman’s companion. “Dupont.”

“Dupont Dupont,” the dwarf says cheerily.

“Indeed,” Arkhan says dryly. “You’ve met each other?”

“At the door,” the woman says. “And these two?”

“I’m Keyleth!” Keyleth says with a wave. “And this is Percy.”

The woman’s gaze is shrewd, flicking over the table. “Pleasure,” she says.

“Want a drink?” Arkhan asks, leaning back comfortably as Dupont takes a seat. “About time for a second round.”

“Sure,” the woman says as Dupont nods, smiling.

Arkhan, at least, has no difficulty shoving his way through the crowds to the bar and returning with five more pints.

Thus it is that several weeks later they’ve not only arrived in Marquet - and Percy has decided he does not like teleportation, or at least not teleportation as enabled by a dedicant of the Scaled Tyrant - but also trekked for several days through desert, hiked several more through mountains and finally find themselves halfway up a craggy peak, watching Dupont dust sand off an ornately carved stone door.

Good god it’s sunny. Good god it’s warm: despite the desert robes they’d bought in a shop across the road from the small temple they’d arrived at, Percy can feel sweat trickling down his calf, his neck, his back. Cass is unaffected at least, watching everything keenly. By unspoken mutual agreement they’ve not told anyone of her presence - the others find the List alone strange enough, he’s not adding a ghost on top of it all - and Keyleth’s taken her cues from him: Cass remains secret.

“I really don’t mind,” Cass had said when he’d worried the night before. “We don’t know these people, we might never meet them again, this is a temporary one-off job and he’s a Tiamatite. Who knows what he’d try to do if he knew I was here.”

He can’t blame her judgement there. Arkhan’s amiable enough, goal-oriented but friendly, cruel at times with a rather dark sense of humour, but generally good about not crossing lines outside of combat. In the midst of a fight - well a fight is chaos and no one can really judge anyone for just how bloodily one solves those struggles - but outside of it… mostly he makes them think of a rather more knowledgeable Grog. A more dangerous Grog, as Arkhan has no apparent sense of pity nor a Pike to encourage him away from more evil paths.

The stretch of stone before them is fantastically ugly - what he’d first taken to be natural rocky crags and crevices are revealed as a mass of twisting carved serpents, some twenty-odd feet wide. As Dupont dusts the sand away, they can make out in the centre: a screaming human face, mouth gaping wide in apparent horror.

Frankly, Percy doesn’t really blame it.

The hole is quite large - about two or three inches wide, and a little squared off as though intended for a block or even a hand - and Percy wonders if something’s meant to be pushed into it or removed. A thought flickers across his mind from Cass, quickly whisked away before he can mentally gesture it back.

“Just-” she says. “Percy, do you remember that book of spooky stories Julius used to tell us? Do you remember Ghouney’s Door?”

He doesn’t need her to return the mental image she’d whisked away to him - his own recollection fills his mind: the thief recoiling, no hand but a crimson stump, the gaping maw set in the door drooling blood.

“Lemme see,” the Headmistress says, stepping up into Dupont’s space; the dwarf steps back, gesturing.

“It’s a screaming snake-face with a fist hole,” Dupont says, and Cass snorts in Percy’s head. He knows what she’s thinking already - Dupont sounds like him but even more flamboyantly posh and from his tone Percy can’t help but wonder if the rogue’s making fun of him.

“This has- this has got a very dangerous sort of Ghouney’s vibe to it,” he says - and then, because Dupont jests and jokes but is competent enough, “Dupont you should put your fist inside, to see what happens.”

Dupont’s grin is such that he wonders for a moment if he should perhaps make clear what he meant by Ghouney - some stories are regional, after all - but Dupont doesn’t immediately shove his hand in the hole, instead taking a moment to inspect the door further, the Headmistress leaning beside him to take a closer look.

“Looks fine,” she says. “Arkhan?”

The dragonborn snorts and crosses his arm. “Put your hand in the hole,” he says, grinning. If it weren’t for what he’s said of the potential dangers here, Percy would think he too was just daring the rogue.

“Well,” Dupont says, finishing his investigation. “Seems safe to me!”

And without much other warning he places his fist in the hole, his other hand flat on the carved stone as his arm twists, seemingly grasping something inside-

“Oh!” he cries, sounding somehow almost delighted about the situation. “Betrayed!” When he withdraws his arm it’s bloodied, puncture wounds in precisely neat rows up the length of it, some greenish fluid mixing and making the blood thicken and coagulate - but he hardly seems to care. As they watch he raises his arm in a cheer; when Arkhan strolls forwards he bumps fists with the dragonborn before wincing.

As some distant mechanism thuds and crunches into place, lifting the door with a creaking groan, Keyleth steps forward, glancing at Arkhan before taking Dupont’s perforated arm and examining it.

“Snake venom,” she says. “I don’t think it’ll be deadly but like-”

“It certainly hurts!” Dupont says, as she reaches for her small first aid bag - before Arkhan’s hand reaches between her and Dupont.

“Let me,” he says, a clawed hand clasping the dwarf’s wrist as twisting, multi-headed magic rises up to draw out the toxin, spitting it out to the sand beneath their feet.

“Oh, that’s neat,” Dupont says, still somehow grinning before he gestures at the now wide open door and the vast dark shadows beyond it. Cass is pushing forwards before Percy can even ask, peeling back the shadows so he can see more clearly.

“Let’s,” Arkhan agrees, striding forwards into the dark maw of the vault’s entrance.

It’s a long hall ahead of them. Arkhan and the Headmistress light torches as soon as the light at their back proves insufficient, casting around for torch sconces to light as they go, but Percy’s more interested in the ground - in who may have come here before, and set up such venomous traps. Tracking’s certainly not his skill - perhaps he should ask Vex to teach him some, and he feels Cass half-about to comment - but it doesn’t really seem to be anyone’s skill here, and at least one of them ought to consider it.

He’s glad he’s at the front of the group, to Arkhan’s right - and it surprises him a little, how ready the dragonborn is to take the lead - because it allows him to see the footprints clear in the sand scattered over the flagstoned floor, and the occasional large, sweeping groove. Percy can’t think of any snakes that naturally grow so large - perhaps something dragged, though that wouldn’t account for the curve of it. Perhaps a naga, a living counterpart to the undead they’d found at the Shadebarrow, though that would be a separate problem.

“Didn’t one of them say something about yuan-ti?” Cass asks. “At the Shadebarrow, I mean.”

That… is a valid point, and he glances to Keyleth, mouths in Elvish: snakes again. Her eyes glance down, catching the massive, sweeping grooves, and rise back to his. Her expression alone gives her response: Oh.

Luckily, at least, there’s no evidence of recent use. There’s dust in amongst the sand, and the sand has clearly shifted over time: the prints he can make out are obscured and blurred, the torches they do occasionally find dry as anything: the whole place smells musty and old and stale. As they go, the Headmistress runs her hand lightly along the stone wall beside them, brushing dust and sand from what appear to be occasional glyphs carved into the rock.

“Do you recognise those?” he asks. All he can be sure of is that they’re not Common, Celestial or Elvish, and the Headmistress seems to be taking precise care to uncover the ones within reach.

“Not a dickeybird of it,” she says, glancing back at them. “Anyone?”

“Not Draconic,” Arkhan says.

“Not Dwarvish,” Dupont adds.

“It’s not any dialect of Primordial,” Keyleth confirms. “They’re pretty though!”

They are. They’re spaced at almost random intervals, differing heights and lengths across the wall from each other, but they’re carved precisely, perfectly, none of them chipped or marred, each one clear and distinct and something expressive in their making that makes it hard to tear one’s eyes away. Some few of them have a twisting grace that almost reminds him of Celestial, but that’s incongruent with the jarring chaotic edge to the other glyphs.

“They look,” Cass says slowly. “Like what Vax has shown me of Abyssal.”

He pauses at that, blinks, but… no that makes sense. Abyssal and Infernal are related tongues; Infernal was ripped from Celestial, twisted into inverted form. That some of those words and glyphs would find their place in chaotic, demonic Abyssal… it makes sense.

“I wish the twins were here,” is what he says aloud, and shares a look with Keyleth. “I could be wrong, but it looks like it could be Abyssal.”

“You speak it?” the Headmistress demands.

His smile is wry. “Not a dickeybird of it,” he says. “We know a pair who do, but sadly we parted ways before Keyleth met Arkhan.”

Feelingly, the Headmistress curses.

“Abyssal script seems to bear some relation to Celestial,” he says. “Which I do understand. But I have no idea if the glyphs have the same meaning across languages. The Abyss is notoriously chaotic; beyond just natural language shift, I’d suspect it to warp the meaning of any words they did adopt.” He pauses - the others seem to be at just as much of a loss as he is. “What-” He pauses, gathers his thoughts and tries again. “What do we know about this place?” he asks, looking most of all towards Arkhan. After all, it was he who brought them here. “It’s just,” he says, glancing over the Abyssal script dotting the walls, and gesturing. “This is… possibly more than we bargained for.”

“Yeah,” Keyleth says, head tilting as she looks at Arkhan. There’s some shrewdness to her gaze; for all Keyleth can be naive as anything, innocent as anything, she’s far from stupid. “Do you have any idea,” she starts. “Or- have you done research before you brought us here?”

Arkhan has something of a sheepish look on his face as he admits: “I don’t read so much.”

Even for a cause which matters to you as strongly as this does? Percy wonders. Certainly Arkhan had planned for this - recruiting in Emon, teleporting them to Marquet, travelling days across desert and through mountains as he carefully perused his maps. A scholar perhaps he is not, but Percy is quite sure Arkhan is far from a fool.

“Most of what I know is old news,” he admits. “There was one group here, they got pushed out by another group and they’re the ones who sealed it.” He shrugs. “Otherwise?” He casts his eyes down the dark stretch ahead of them. “Guess we gotta find out.”

The deeper they head in, the worse the place looks. It’s not just old - it’s abandoned, ruined, perhaps for centuries. Arkhan’s been annoyingly vague about the exact date of the site - if perhaps he’d said something, Percy likes to think he might be able to figure out a little more - but he doesn’t need the dragonborn to tell them anything for him to see the fallen, sometimes shattered pillars, the occasional cracks almost splitting the walls in half.

Mountains are usually tectonic, he knows. He wonders how many quakes have undermined this subterranean system’s structural integrity.

“It hasn’t fallen yet,” Cass points out. “But if something happens, cling to a pillar, won’t you?”

Keyleth and Dupont are leading the charge, as the two everyone knows have darkvision, given their ancestry. Given Percy’s not told anyone of Cass, he’s content to stay at the back, even if that means his company is the rather more abrupt and taciturn Headmistress. Arkhan, unspoken, takes up the space between the two pairs.

Deep, deep inside, in a place he’s not going to admit to even to Cass, Percy can’t help but wish Trinket was there at their backs.

There’s a sudden thud and yelp ahead of them, breaking the silence of their steady walking; with Cass’ aid Percy can see that Dupont, the one of them most supposed to be sneaky, has seemingly tripped over a pile of rubble. Keyleth, startled, is whirling around and Percy desperately wants to press a hand to his face.

“Oh for god’s sakes,” he murmurs under his breath as the two start bickering. Out of the corner of his eye he spots movement, when he turns he sees the Headmistress looking at him, a wide-eyed look of shock and disappointment on her face. Ahead of them Arkhan is also shaking his head in presumably a similar emotion.

“As you were!” Dupont says cheerily.

“The hired dwarf,” he says quietly, out of the corner of his mouth, “I believe was just accosted by a rock.”

For all her prior abruptness and bitter, taciturn manner, he swears he sees the twist of a smile at the edge of the Headmistress’ mouth.

Luckily, the disturbance doesn’t seem to alert anything in these ancient shadows, and they continue forwards, eventually reaching a slight decline of the path; ahead of them there appears to be something bright, almost sunlit.

“What angle did the path go at?” Cass murmurs. “Are we still near the edge of the mountain, or did it head directly under? Where’s the light coming from?”

He has to think his reply with the Headmistress beside him, and he lifts his free hand to his temple to obscure how he mouths the words to himself. 

“I’m sure,” he mouths out, thinking the words as clearly as he can, “that we’ll find out as we get nearer.”

“Yes,” Cass agrees. “But if I was the one designing this place, that would be a trap.”

It probably would be if Percy built the place too, to be honest. He’s rather glad he’s not at the front of the party. Cass, it seems, catches the tail end of his thoughts.

“But Keyleth is!” she points out and, well, yes, but also Keyleth is the toughest of all of them bar possibly Grog; he doesn’t think he really needs to worry for her all that much. And Dupont is… well. Dupont is Dupont.

As they’ve continued down the incline, towards the apparent pool of sunlight, Arkhan’s drifted to one side, one red, clawed hand, running along the wall just as the Headmistress’ hand had trailed earlier, occasionally pausing to feel out cracks and crevices before moving onwards. Percy has to wonder what he’s hoping to find, and his gaze flickers.

“Nothing secret in the walls that I can see,” Cass says. “At least not here - maybe there is further in.”

“After the front door,” he murmurs - under his breath because it’s safe enough to murmur aloud - “I’d have expected more traps and trouble.”

There’s no trouble as they finish descending the ramp and finally they can see the room ahead of them. There’s no skylight - quite how such a thing could be managed this deep underground Percy doesn’t know - instead the light is low and yellow-golden, emanating throughout the chamber from a large oval block, inset into the ceiling. The chamber itself is wider than the passage they’ve come down, perhaps a little longer than it is wide, and a trio of pillars, arranged triangularly and more than a little damaged, support the roughly five-foot diameter oval block giving off the soft, warm-toned light.

Below it are a trio of obelisks, set at the base of each pillar, neatly squared and easily standing as tall as Arkhan, the only one in the group taller than Percy and Keyleth. They’re a different colour than the sandy rock around them, suggesting they were moved here on purpose, and it gives him pause. He remembers the central chamber of the Shadebarrow well enough: if there’s trouble, it’s going to be near something as at once obvious and innocuous as those. 

Between them - between the pillars and the obelisks - is a cylindrical altar, made of… of what appears to be quartz, shining in the soft light of the stone and Percy is suddenly vividly reminded of one of the old architectural blueprints in the library, a proposed design for a cathedral to Pelor, a roofed altar just like this, on a platform at the fore of the temple. This is different though. There’s no candelabra or sun disc or harvest basket - instead there’s three indentations, the one central and to the back of the altar almost twice the size of the other two.

With the Abyssal carvings, Arkhan’s interest and… just so much else, frankly, he’s getting a bad feeling about this, and one hand inches towards the List. He half-wishes he’d finished his project before he and Keyleth ventured out: he might be yet safer, at greater distance.

The altar is quite small, only around three feet high, and Arkhan’s heading in its direction. Part of Percy, much alike to Cass’ weight in his head, would rather like to hang back, but they’ve been hired for this job, the hall hadn’t had traps and much as Percy fears further trouble… they won’t know if they don’t find out.

Percy’s not going for the altar at least - Arkhan’s physically stronger than all of them but a beastshaped Keyleth - but the obelisks are…  

“They’re different to the rest,” the Headmistress points out and he nods.

“I’m going to have a look,” he decides. At the very least, the altar itself is the most likely trap: if Arkhan does set something off he’ll be able to help. He keeps an eye out for anything unexpected on the ground - uneven, pressure-plate flagstones or the like - and with a sigh Cass pushes gently forwards, her keener sight welcome even with the rock’s soft glow and the light of the Headmistress’ torch as she follows.

The obelisks are… well, remarkably plain, given what such things usually bear. All that time spent carving stone to this large size, not as a supporting pillar but seemingly decorative, but the most markings they have is on the inner face, a simple geometric design demarcating a large oblong, not unlike the panels of a wooden door.

“Do you see this?” he asks, and the light shifts forward as the Headmistress takes a look.

“I do not like that,” Cass says. “Nope. I wish Vax were here, he’d know what it was-”

“Should we ask Dupont?” he asks. He can almost hear the Headmistress roll her eyes.

“After his outstanding competence today? Sure, why not.”

She steps back, taking the light with her, seemingly to wave over the rogue, and Percy takes a moment to look around them. Arkhan’s got one hand on the altar, head slightly bowed as his claws gently sift the rockdust from the quartz to the softly-lit floor. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the paladin was in prayer - but he’d expect Draconic on the walls of a temple to Arkhan’s apparent god, not Abyssal.

“This was desecrated.” The words are uncommonly soft, some slight undercurrent of anger to them, and everyone’s attention snaps to Arkhan. “I don’t know from what or how it was done or when - but this has been desecrated. Magically… divinely speaking.”

Percy’s eyes flicker but Cassandra doesn’t see anything particularly of note in the quartz altar. But then, consecration and desecration - she’s a ghost. Perhaps she can’t. Keyleth is moving forwards, hands shimmering with magic.

“May I?” she asks, and Arkhan inclines his head, stepping back, his hand finally dropping from the altar. Dupont drifts forward beside the Headmistress, one hand itching his scabs, the other following Keyleth’s glowing touches along the altar’s flat planes-

There is the awful sound of rumbling, crumbling, cracking and falling rock and Percy steps back hastily from the obelisk as the inset panel drops with a dusty thud to the ground.

“Snakes!” Cass cries. “Why is it more snakes!”

Two humanoids emerge from two of the obelisks, angular faces, something similar to Drenna’s scales on their cheekbones, but where her eyes had been wide and clear, these are yellow-gold, slitted pupils darting over them all as sharp-fingered hands reach for the scimitars at their sides. The last obelisk holds something worse - the snake that Cass had first noticed but uncommonly large, the neck of it attacked not to a serpentine body but the large, hulkingly muscled shoulders and chest of a person, hands reaching to unsheathe their weapon.

Dupont fires - but wildly, crossbow quarrel splintering off a pillar as his punctured arm trembles. The Headmistress meanwhile doesn’t flinch - she drops the torch and steps forwards between the two humanoid ones, grabbing for them before they can fully draw their weapons and with a force, she pulls them towards each other til their heads collide. As the pair hiss in pain, she releases them, striking each rapidly.

Behind him he hears Keyleth call out and suddenly violet-lavender glitter lances across his vision, collecting at the bruised belly and probably aching head of one of the humanoids, lighting the unarmoured chest of the snake-headed beast. The sudden addition doesn’t seem to stop any of them, however, and the one humanoid untouched by Keyleth’s spell makes two retaliatory swipes at the Headmistress. The first misses, but the second hits - the Headmistress, at least, seems unfazed and turns as the other humanoid, still glowing, misses Dupont entirely stumbling into her easy reach: with a heavy, brutal strike something in it breaks and it collapses.

“Try to leave one intact!” Percy cries, desperate curiosity rearing its head at the most inopportune time. “I’ll want to dissect it later!”

The snake-headed beast looms; as the dust clears he can see it has no legs to speak of, just a long tail that’s the likely cause for those sweeping marks in the dust and sand earlier and god he wants to understand how the hell these things work. Aiming carefully, he fires two shots into its chest from close range, blood splattering everywhere as the beast looms.

It’s big. It’s really big. Cautiously, Percy moves a little back.

Luckily the monstrosity doesn’t seem to have any interest in him; it’s eyes seem fixed somewhere over his shoulder.

“No you don’t!” Cass cries as the snake-headed beast swerves past them. Without Percy’s command his hand moves; as he yanks his hand back Cass’ ghostly hand briefly emerges from him, and the tanned skin of the creature’s arm pales and withers before it slips free, striking at Arkhan.

Its fangs shine in the low light. When it withdraws, a drop of venom shivers on the end of one tooth - only to be shaken loose as it launches forwards with its blade, slashing at Arkhan, pushing him back half a step.

Red dragonborn can breathe fire, Percy knows that, but there’s something new in Arkhan’s spurt of flame, something darker and sulphurous, something that feels like a fundamental fuck you right in the beast’s face before the paladin swings his axe, something shimmering and multihued taking form on its edge, breaking the beast’s sternum in half long before the axe hacks through to tear the whole body in half. Blood drips from Arkhan’s axe, from his claws, sulphurous smoke from his nostrils as he turns for the last humanoid in the close space.

The ceremonial robes it was wearing were red. When Arkhan beheads it, the sudden flood of blood stains it yet darker.

“I think I’m feeling that poison,” Dupont says in surprise as the last body thuds to the ground. “I saw a bunch of lights and everything turned into a fine red mist!”

“No,” Keyleth says slowly, a smile on her face as she claps her hands, staff leaning against her shoulder. “That actually happened, Dupont!”

“What?”  

“I know!” Keyleth sounds gleefully delighted, but that’s cut off all too rapidly by another rumbling shudder of the room. Percy feels Cass slide forwards but he’s already moving towards the supporting pillar, all too aware of what this could mean - whatever mechanisms allowed their attackers out of the obelisks, who knew how much it might have destabilised the rest of this ancient site?

But no dust comes raining down, even as Keyleth’s hands go immediately to clasp her staff. Before them, on the altar, greenish fluid fills each concave impression; as all three fill - how, Percy desperately wants to ask, but Arkhan’s foot is nudging the snake head to one side and he remembers the greenish tint to the venom the door had stuck into Dupont - the altar shudders… and descends.

Dupont goes to peer over the edge of the pit, but no one makes any immediate move to descend. Instead Arkhan pulls back, examining the bodies before sitting down and doing a series of seated stretches, the Headmistress moving to bandage the slash on her arm, Keyleth offering help that luckily isn’t rebuffed. Percy goes to turn over to examine the bodies - the humanoid ones are bizarre in a way he’s not sure how to approach, and Keyleth joins him as he nudges the snake-headed body with his foot - he’d so hoped one would remain intact.

“What,” Cass asks, thoughts half a scoff, “did you want to make boots from their skin?” 

“I wanted to know how they worked,” Percy rebuts, hiding the mutter by turning further away from the others and checking the List. “Coldblooded snakes and warmblooded humans, egg laying versus mammalian - that biology shouldn’t work.” 

Cassandra pauses, clearly sceptical. “You wanted boots,” she asserts. 

“I… might have considered a joke in that direction,” he admits. “But truly, I wanted to know how in hell they worked.”  

“They’re yuan-ti,” Keyleth interjects. “I-” She pauses, seems to shiver. “Y’know those stories the twins told us about drow experiments to… warp and merge creatures? Supposedly the yuan-ti did that to themselves. Voluntarily.” 

Oh. Percy pauses, stunned. Oh that is deeply fucked up. 

“Is it?” Cass asks thoughtfully. “I mean- we’re this by our own choice.” 

“We maintain it,” he points out. “We didn’t both choose to… to be this. This is a product of circumstance as much as anything - you know I’ve never wanted you dead.” 

“Yes,” she agrees. “But… voluntary can mean different things can’t it? I wanted to persist and help you. Perhaps they wanted a different outcome than what they got.” 

That’s a sobering thought, and Percy falls to silence.

It’s not that long a pause in the end, maybe half an hour, before everyone finishes bandaging, stretching, drinking and whatever else, and someone first unspools a rope from their packs.

“We tie it around the pillar,” the Headmistress says. “Probably the most solid anchor here. Everyone here can climb?”

It doesn’t take them too much effort to clamber down - the Headmistress drops the torch into the depths before descending, giving them a clear pool of light in which to land. It’s a round chamber, a long cylinder of a thing, and the one turning wall is written all over in the same glyphs as had scattered the walls above. There they’d been scattered several feet apart, single symbols at a time… here they’re one after another, clearly forming words and sentences and Percy wishes he’d asked the twins to teach him at least a little Abyssal. There’s enough similarity to Celestial in a few of the glyphs he feels like he could almost grasp it… but it slips out of his grasp each time.

“I’ll ask Vax,” Cass says and then, as a chill steals over the room she adds, “Assuming we survive.”

The chill is familiar in a way it takes Percy a moment to grasp. It feels just like when Cass’s ghost had first ploughed into him: an overwhelming, inescapable, emanating chill.

As one they turn their faces as a spirit takes form in front of them.

She’s floating a little above them - higher than Cass usually prefers to float at, well above their heads - and looks… well, much more human even than the humanoids they’d just fought. Her hair is strikingly pale; with the weathered lines worn into her face Percy would assume it naturally white or grey, and the robes she wears seem to have once been crimson like those of the humanoids above, just faded with death.

“Oh,” Cass says, filled with an emotion Percy can’t fully understand but which chokes him like icy seawater. “Is that how I look now?”

“Well,” Dupont says, seemingly unperturbed. “Hello there milady.” No one else dares to move. The spirit’s eyes narrow.

“You enter here,” the spirit says and her voice is nothing like Cassandra’s - it echoes through the chamber, seemingly without any clear source. “Beyond the domain of the serpent. You wander these hallowed halls at the behest of the Scaled Tyrant and you are not welcome.” By the end her voice is practically a snarl, features twisted - this person doesn’t seem to have been fused with snakes but god if there isn’t something unsettling about a person assuming animal characteristics even a little. “What business have you in our nesting chambers?”

“There’s more?” the Headmistress hisses at Arkhan, one foot sliding back to brace herself even if her fists stay at her sides. Honestly, Percy has to second her, and he thinks from the way Cass is swirling restlessly in his head, she’s thirding the matter too. Arkhan seems unconcerned, turning his head to look at them.

“If you’ve got questions,” he says. “Ask them. I’ve got a plan.”

“I’m just hoping we live to get paid at the moment,” says Percy, voice a little strained. He glances to Keyleth who seems in a similar boat.

Dupont is not. “We were told to retrieve Hisstina Aguilera’s treasure!” he says cheerily. From the Headmistress’ snigger it’s some kind of reference but it certainly makes a bad impression on the spirit - cold dark eyes go starkly, blindingly white as a hand reaches out. 

The noise Dupont makes sounds… like a groan or a grunt or like he’s being choked and he sways for a moment.

“I-I feel like this is something-” Percy says, more stuttery than he intends before he turns to Arkhan. “Do you know who this is?”

“No,” Arkhan says, a hand reaching out as his chin lifts. “And I don’t care either.”

Percy’s glad of Cass’ presence then: she nudges forward, even more attentive than usual, gaze flickering to detect magic as something spreads from Arkhan’s hand to shackle itself around the wraith.

“If he can do that to it,” Cass says quietly but so emotionally he can’t ignore it, “He could do that to me. Others could do that to me.”

What that is, they soon find out - the spirit twists before her hand drops, eyes softening to a gently glowing blue as they turn to Arkhan.

“Good thing I distracted her!” says Dupont, but Arkhan raises a hand, silencing him.

“I am the Caregiver,” the spirit says. “Long watching the Cloaked Serpent’s children sleep until our epoch begins. I am at your service.”

Her voice has softened from her angry tone, gently sibilant as she descends from her high-floating point and bowing her head to Arkhan.

“I heard there’s something of great value,” Arkhan says, “in this vault. Take us to it.”

Blue eyes turn purple and in Cass’ sight some magic of the spirit’s reaches towards Arkhan. The paladin doesn’t flinch, chin still lifted even as Cass shifts to launch herself out in defence… and the magic withdraws.

“I see,” the wraith says softly. “The golden wreath.” Her hand rises, an elegant gesture before her fingers snap.

From the top of the chamber chains clink, something growls, a wind kicks up, sand and dust swirls and a manticore descends - with a large, thorny, golden wreath of gems set around its neck, glinting between bristling hair and spiny quills. Percy’s read about manticores, fascinated by their conflicting, created biology, but this is… this creature is so much more brutal than any of the illustrations in his books would ever have given him cause to imagine. As it lands Percy sees the remnants of a chain at its neck, dangling long and loose and it takes a step towards them, snarling and wings flapping in a threat display before a gesture from the spirit quiets it.

“Take your charge,” the spirit says.

Arkhan steps forward, utterly unflinching - the manticore snarls, nictitating membranes blinking briefly across its eyes… but it quiets as Arkhan’s hands find the wreath, briefly seeming to wrestle with some fastening before pulling it loose. Immediately the manticore steps back - but makes no threatening moves as Arkhan lifts the wreath, examines it and, with a deep breath, dons it.

They all see the thorns of golden metal extend, through his scarlet scales, one of them extending down to his exposed clavicle and briefly he grunts, bleeds, his eyes closing in pain.

When they open, his eyes are no longer their previous bright hue: instead they’re greenish-yellow, pupil’s slitted as a snake’s. As they watch, wary of the wreath’s effects, the gems pulse in a mix of colours and Arkhan rolls his shoulders, rotates his neck and head before looking over them all.

“Relax,” he says after a concerningly long stretch. “I’m not gonna attack you.” Casually, he stretches a hand towards the manticore; it sniffs his fingers and lets him move closer, bowing his head and bending its lower legs enough that Arkhan can loop the chain into reins and clamber onto its back.

“Aw, come on,” the Headmistress says. “No fair.”

“I feel like you got your money’s worth,” Keyleth says.

“I just get poisoned, he gets a manticore?” Dupont says, offended.

“You got a door,” Percy suggests. “You’re just gonna have to figure out how to get it home.”

“We also get, like, a few hundred gold pieces,” Keyleth points out.

“Yeah,” Arkhan says. “You will. Come on, we haven’t got all day, clamber on up, let’s get going.”

It’s unnerving, being so close to something as definitively dangerous as a manticore, but Arkhan gives each of them a hand up onto its back, directing them how to comfortably sit.

“Right,” he says. “Come on, man. Let’s go.”

The wings flap, huge and daunting, pushing them immediately into the air. There’s a brief scuffle as the manticore forces their way through the somewhat too small hole of the entrance - and then they’re in the main chamber. The manticore stretches its wings out, gives two firm flaps and they’re speeding along the wide hallway they’d entered down, heading towards the door’s pinpoint of light until suddenly they spill into bright, blinding sunlight.

Chapter Text

They’re dropped off back in Emon almost abruptly at the end of it all. Arkhan lands the manticore away from town, commands it to stay, leading them back to the secretive little temple they’d all been brought to. There, they’re paid and after a quick discussion with the priest tending it, they’re all teleported right back to Emon. After the heat of Marquet, Emon’s wintry, seaside wind is chilling and she pulls her shawl from her pack.

“Well,” Percy says, weighing their pay in his hand. “I think Vex will be pleased if we manage to present even part of this to her.”

“We might need a few things before we head to Terrah,” she points out. “And there’s your project.”

Percy’s smile is wry. “Yes,” he agrees. “So it might just end up being a fraction.”

It’s a long route they take. There is no short one. They’re to head up the Othen Trail, past the turn-off they’d taken to go down to Rosehull, through the Othendin Pass and past Fort Daxio to head up the valley and through the low mountains, because it’s easier to go thusly than trying to make their way through the Cliffkeeps beyond Kraghammer at this time of year.

“It’s almost fitting,” Percy says with a smile as they enjoy their last evening back at the Lamia - she knows half his smile is from the fact he’s got a slot to rent a forge when they return, so he can finally make his new device. When she raises an eyebrow he gestures with his tankard. “There is no short journey,” he says. “In the same way there’s no easy way to success. Your Aramenté is your journey, and if it was quick and easy, what would be the point?”

He’s got a point. She still wishes he didn’t.

It’s definitely heading towards spring as they travel. Even as they head further north beyond the Seashales it’s warmer than it had been, the biting breeze occasionally carrying wisps of warmth and the horse carrying the greater portion of their burdens seems enlivened by the occasional spring scent caught on the air.

It’d be lovely if not for the absolute mire of spring mud they get caught in the morning after an absolute downpour. The tents are soaked as they pack them away, the horse looking damp and miserable even under what shelter they managed to find it and the going is slow as they trudge through the mud. They can’t forage much either as the rain picks up again only a little way into the morning; it’s hard to see that far up the road or off it, there’s nothing to hunt and most of the early berries and leaves are battered to useless inedibility before she can pluck them.

The wind is making her hair get stuck in her antlers too, and Percy admits a little into the day that if his gun gets wet odds are the black powder won’t spark and it’ll be down to her spells, Cass, and his highly questionable sword skills to keep them safe.

So all in all, It’s been a long and annoying and awful day when they finally make camp and Keyleth is tired and frustrated and sets about putting up the tents with perhaps more viciousness than some wooden rods and lengths of tarp really warrant. Percy’s quiet behind her, moving stones to make a simple firebreak around what will become their hearth, pulling out what little they’ve managed to forage today and some of their rations as he sets a pot of water to heating and gets started on dinner.

And then one of the tent pegs breaks. Then the guy-rope she was trying to stake out pings her in the face. Then she stumbles over a log and trips almost into the fire, only stopped by Percy’s quick grab at her wrist and she just screeches, an inarticulate burst of frustration and anger before she kicks the log and swears as she stubs her toe, cursing and halfway to crying as she gives up entirely, slumping on the log to nurse her aching foot.

“Keyleth?” Percy sounds concerned; when she looks over to him, his expression is all worry and she can’t help the words that slip out at that.

“If I can’t do this, how can I ever succeed?”

Percy’s expression is something close to stunned, eyebrows raised and mouth half open. His hand raises - but only to touch his temple; Cass must be speaking to him. He looks briefly contemplative before sitting on another nearby log.

“Well,” he says. “You’ve succeeded in much worse things. Skysunder, for example, and Krieg. The demons-”

“Pike died then-”

“And you got her to a temple,” he points out. “And- yes, this is all very frustrating, especially after the day we’ve had, but it’s not the end of the world. I can make us a new tent peg and I can set up the tents if you want to take over the cooking. I know how frustrating it feels but I promise you, it’s not the end of the world. At least not as far as I can tell.”

“I just- it-” she gestures again. “It all feels so impossible.”

“Yes,” Percy agrees. “Yes, ah… I imagine it does. But it can’t be, logically, or else there’d be no Ashari leaders at all - other people have come before you and succeeded and after all you’ve done with us, I see no reason you shouldn’t too.”

Maybe. But her mother didn’t succeed or she’d have returned by now, and it’s not as though the tests can’t be difficult or dangerous - she knows they can be, that’s half the point, to be a challenge one must overcome, so a prospective leader can prove their skills. They can’t prove themselves capable against certain things without some inherent degree of risk.

“I’m not ready,” she admits quietly. She doesn’t feel ready, she can’t be ready, that child died because of her and how can she lead if she lets people die under her watch, if she fails them like that, if every loss affects her like this?

“Then we turn back,” Percy says simply. “We turn back, and we head to Terrah only when you feel ready.” 

“We’re already travelling-”

“So it’s not any trouble to travel back,” he says.

“But-” She trails off. The words feel foolish in her head. But that’d be like giving up.

Percy’s eyebrow raises, clearly waiting for her to finish but when she doesn’t he just sighs. She can’t imagine this isn’t frustrating for him, Percy who likes to logic things out - and with his ghost sister in his head, forever commenting or urging him to act.

“There’s a lot of things to consider,” he says eventually. “And… this may sound- this may sound callous to you, or cruel, but…” 

There’s a pause as Percy weighs his next words, as he presses his lips together and tilts his head in the way that says that Cass is speaking, as he acknowledges her words and mouths his counter - but eventually he speaks again.

“You can’t know if you don’t try,” he says. “And if you give up here then everything is in limbo until you do something, while at least if you try you know. If you do fail then… that’s it. At least you know and someone else can be found, rather than everything remaining up in the air forever. And if, as Cass and I think is likely, you do succeed, then… it isn’t. You at least know and can continue. And either way, it’s not the end of the world.” 

She snorts. He was right, it does sound callous and even if he’s got a point - she doesn’t want to fail.

Percy continues steadily: “Keyleth, if you don’t think you’re ready then we can turn back now. If you’re your people’s best hope then better you make the best showing you can.”

But it’s not that simple and he knows it’s not that simple. She’s told him - about her mother going before her, that another can be chosen.

She sees his expression as he sees her put together the line of reasoning, that he’s arguing her into a corner on purpose.

“I don’t want to let anyone down,” she says instead, because she wants Percy to understand. This isn’t about any one single thing; this is… everything, every weight placed on her shoulders since she was recognised as her mother’s successor as eventual Tempest, every responsibility she will one day bear, every mistake she’s made that she can’t repeat, that child-

“Then we turn back,” Percy says. “Or, if you don’t want to at this point, we can keep going and you can speak to the Earth Ashari leader to say you doubt your abilities and would appreciate training. You can do that, Keyleth-”

“Then I’d be letting them down too,” she points out. “What’s the point of going all the way up there only to say I can’t? That’s- I’d be being a coward.”

“That’s not the worst thing to be,” Percy says mildly.

“And how would you know?” she demands. She’s being ruder than usual, she knows that, but she also knows Percy can be angry and argumentative and he isn’t and she hates that he seems to be treating her with kid gloves.

She’s supposed to one day rule a quarter of the Ashari people. She doesn’t need kid gloves.

“I’m not speaking arbitrarily,” Percy says, voice even and without heat though his expression is offended. “I do understand what it is to have a heavy responsibility on your shoulders.”

Oh sure, with his posh voice - Percy knows privilege and she knows that’s not any comfort to him, not with Cass in his head, but he’s still obviously had it most his life even as he talks highly of responsibility, of honour, of keeping one’s word. And he’s here too, not wherever home is for him and she highly doubts he’s on any kind of Aramenté when he’s been so content to follow them with no stated goals of his own, when he’s actively avoided talking about where he came from-

And no, she doesn’t know everything about Percy but he’s told her plenty and she’s not stupid - she’s figured out enough.

“You,” she says, the lashing anger of it cracking against her ribs, trying to find someone to make respond to all she’s struggling with now, “have never had the weight of your whole people on your shoulders!”

And with that she storms off, the long tunic-hem of her skirt snapping about her ankles, the spring grass tangling around her legs and staff and she tears through all of it heedlessly because she just wants to get away.

Keyleth doesn’t expect Percy to come and find her but- well.

He’s usually so tactful, is all, keeping to himself and only occasionally asking. He does what Vex does or Pike, gently sidling up to a problem and offering a gentle, sideways thought and leaving it at that, a thread the other person can pick up if they want to. And, just like both of them, he knows when to back off and leave off, when it’s not his business. She doesn’t expect him to come and find her, but after a few minutes he sits down next to her, peels his boots off, and dips his feet into the stream she’s sat by.

He doesn’t say anything.

She glances at him for that, and he’s sat there, calm and comfortable, head tilted back to look at the slowly darkening sky above them, hands braced just behind his hips, legs gently kicking in the water.

The water looks lovely, honestly, even if it’s probably absolutely freezing. But then, that’s Percy. Cold doesn’t get to him the way it does the rest of them - though he doesn’t like icy cold water, and she has to wonder why he’s enduring it now.

But then. She had snapped at him. He probably won’t want to be asked will he; he probably wants an apology or some kind of acknowledgement, but- but she is scared and she is unsure, and she can’t fail this and that makes it all the worse. If she was able to fail then she wouldn’t worry so much, but if she fails here, at the first hurdle-

“You’re overthinking again,” Percy says. When she glances over she sees she wasn’t imagining the smile in his voice; he’s gently grinning.

“It’s not overthinking-”

“You have plenty of reason to be anxious,” he says. “It’s a serious thing, what you’re doing. But-” He pauses, chewing over his words. “Something Julius used to tell me - you won’t know if you don’t try. You can get advice and support and help, but in the end, all you can really do is try.”

That’s… a fair point, really. And… well, the Terrah are a sister-tribe, they’re family. If there’s anyone she can ask for- for advice, or help, it’d be them, right? If she’s not ready- she could ask them, couldn’t she? Ask if she should wait. Ask if it’s worth trying yet.

Slowly, she uncurls a little, legs no longer tucked up under her chin, though her arms still clutch her shawl close. It’s later in the year now, but the mountains are still chilly as anything. It makes Percy’s inurement to the cold stand out more. Speaking of-

“Weren’t you minding our camp? Percy-”

“Cass has it well in hand, I’m sure. She’ll let me know if dinner is burning.”

Looking closer she can just faintly, barely see the wisp-like tether that bleeds from his wrist, threading its way through the woods back to Cassandra and their camp.

“Cass was never any good at helping Whitney when she was in a strop,” Percy says. “Always tended to wind her up more. And you’re more my friend than hers, we think - just as Vax is more her friend than mine - so she said she’d mind the camp if I wanted to check on you.” He pauses a moment before saying, much more gently, “It’s not like you to snap like that.”

No. It’s not. She tries not to do that, she doesn’t like making people feel bad, she’s just so anxious and it’s not going away, it’s just getting worse and she really hadn’t meant to take it out on him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have done that, it was mean of me…” She trails off, unsure what to add. Something her father had told her once comes back to her. Better to thank people for helping than apologise for needing it. “Thank you for checking on me.”

“It’s not like you to snap,” Percy says again. “In my experience, when people act unlike themselves, something’s worrying them.”

Less now, at least, with the advice given. With the idea that she can just ask if she should wait, if it’s worth trying. But- yeah, she’s still worried. This is the first of three tests she has to fulfil, the first of three journeys - not counting her final return home - and if she’s this worried about this one how bad will it be for the others, once she has an idea of the kind of things she’ll have to face, how she’ll have to prove herself?

“It’s a heavy weight on your shoulders,” Percy says softly. “And it’s not fair that it’s fallen on you so early in your life. But- you’re a good person, Keyleth. Better than most of us, I think. And you care, which matters more than you know. You worry if you’re doing the right thing-”

“And I worry I’m going to fail.”

Percy’s expression is gentle when he meets her gaze. “Yes,” he says. “And I think that says a great deal for you. Because if you didn’t worry, if you didn’t care about the people who depend on you, you’d be a terrible, callous - possibly even cruel - leader. But you care. About us, about your people, about the tests you’ll have to face. You worry about your responsibilities.” 

She can’t hold his gaze with the clear sincerity in his eyes, but she hears the smile in his voice when he speaks next. 

“There are people, in your position, who’d assume that because it’s their job to take on, they can do it how they want and such people, from what I’ve seen, are prone to doing the bare minimum they can get away with - if they bother to do anything at all.” She can hear clear distaste in his voice - but there’s no trace of that in his next words. “I don’t think we’ll ever have to worry about that with you. You care so much, you’re always going to do your best. And that means, when you get to Terrah and face the test they pit you against, you’re going to do your best there, as well. And I’ve seen your best, Keyleth, we all have. We’d be crushed and dead in Brimscythe’s lair but for you. We’d have all plummeted to our deaths against the umber hulk but for you. We’d have given up on the children the Dread Emperor was taking if not for you and Vax’ildan - because you care so much.” She doesn’t expect his shoulder gently nudging hers but there it is all the same. “You remind us to care more. You’re the kind of good that makes us all want to be better, just like Pike.”

Oh. That’s- she doesn’t entirely know what to do with that. It’s always been enough to hope she’s doing enough on her own - the idea that she’s encouraging others to do more as well, that’s-

Oh.

Percy clearly doesn’t expect her to hug him and he wheezes at the force of her arms wrapping around him but he hugs back before too long, letting her tuck herself under his chin because he’s one of the few people in the group taller than her and that means that she can get away with being a bit of a child like she hasn’t been able to be in years. She may hit him in the nose and throat with her antlers but they shift and eventually find a comfortable way to rest.

“I know it’s scary,” he says and she can feel his breath moving her hair. “A lot of the world is scary. But I have absolute faith in you because you’ve never given me cause to doubt you. Because you’ve always tried your best, and your best is an awful lot.”

It’s… easier with the air cleared like that, with Percy’s support and suggestions that help and by the time they’re back at camp and Percy’s beckoning Cass back inside his head Keyleth feels kind of awful, actually, for how she snapped at Percy. He doesn’t seem angry but-

“I’m sorry,” she says.

When Percy - and Cass, paused a few feet from him - stare at him, Percy with one eyebrow raised and Cass with a frown, she shrugs and elaborates. 

“For snapping at you.” But she’s said that before and it’s not quite right so she adds, “Both of you. What I said- I- it wasn’t fair of me. I don’t actually know-”

“No,” Cass says. “But you were right. Neither of us was in line for anything important. We didn’t have anything like what you have on your shoulders.”

That’s… that’s helpful to hear but there’s something in Percy’s face that hadn’t been evident when he’d been comforting her, or that she hadn’t really cared enough to notice perhaps, something- 

It’s like the strange atmosphere around him, quiet and melancholy, dwelling on something awful, that aura Pike says is likely because of Cass, because ghosts carry with them some of the emotions that made them and Keyleth knows from her own experience that you can’t lose family without grief.

It doesn’t matter if Percy didn’t have the weight of a community on his shoulders. She knows he cares more deeply than he tends to show just from how careful he is with Cass, knows he has a sense of responsibility to rival hers - that’s how they became friends.  

“It wasn’t fair of me,” she repeats.

“No,” Percy agrees. “It wasn’t.”

He doesn’t say anything else to her for the rest of the evening.

She knows better than to talk to him if he’s avoiding conversation. When he’s set on work he gets like this too, but it’s rare for Percy to- to be this emotional about something and she’s not blind and not about to ignore it. It’d help if she could talk to Cass, but they’re approaching Fort Daxio now and Percy is nothing if not paranoid about keeping anyone they don’t trust from knowing about his sister.

It’d help if he’d talk to her about it - let her know what exactly it was about what she said that hurt him enough to send him silent even as he keeps her company still and that baffles her, that he’s so obviously just… upset with her, but he’s keeping her company all the same. They’re on a relatively well-trodden path, they’re within sight of a garrison - he could turn back now and be reasonably safe and that’s before the fact of Cass in his head.

Her confusion has to be evident; she knows he catches her staring in bafflement more than once, but she’s never been terribly subtle and for all Percy’s flaws he’s respectful of boundaries; he doesn’t go asking.

Percy doesn’t pry in general. It’s given them no reason to go prying in turn; he minds his business and they mind theirs, but Keyleth has a sinking feeling that if she keeps to that nothing is going to get resolved and…

Well, she’s continuing with this in good part because of the support she’s been offered, especially by Percy lately and she won’t be a very good leader if she just lets things seethe.

It’s hard to know what to say, given everything, how to start - not apologise again, that she’s sure of. She’s said her apology and Percy’s responded, she doubts begging for forgiveness will help here and she’s not going to do that. She doesn’t know what exactly she said wrong; she’s not going to apologise without knowing that - rather pointless to apologise for something she doesn’t even recognise the precise reasons for.

She remembers her father’s words as they make camp that evening, puttering around the fire and silently sorting some kind of dinner. Better to thank people for helping than apologise for needing it.

Well. 

They’re done with dinner by the time she musters up the confidence to speak, bowls rinsed and packed away, but both of them still sat by the fire, enjoying the warmth as it gets colder.

“Thank you,” she says and she’s startled by the almost-flinch of Percy’s head jerking up to look at her. He doesn’t need to speak for her to understand his expression - she really does make an effort to understand her friends given how much she can struggle usually. For what? “After-” she gestures. “I mean. I was rude. You didn’t have to stay with me, you could’ve turned back. So-” She shrugs, self-conscious with Percy’s unblinking gaze on her. “Thanks.”

She looks back at her things, laid out before her, spell components, herbs for healing and for cooking, a few specimens from her skull collection that she finds especially comforting. Percy’ll speak if he wants to - trying to make him is just like pulling teeth: painful and awkward and not something she wants to do - and so she lets them return to silence as she puts her things away before she wraps her shawl around her shoulders, settling into the warmth of the fire and the cushion of her not-yet-unrolled bedroll.

“We lost our sisters.” Percy’s voice is soft and when she looks up he’s staring into the fire, gently prodding the fallen logs into a more lasting formation with his sword. “Cass and I. We’re not going to lose anymore.”

Oh. Well that’s-

That explains kind of a lot, actually - the weird, wistful fondness in Percy’s eyes sometimes when he watches the twins interact, the way he and Cass have gravitated towards the both of them. The particular understanding he showed about the missing children and their families, and how avoidant he was of getting involved. If they’ve lost siblings before - of course they’d want to avoid even brushing up against that loss again.

Then the rest of what he said catches up to her.

Oh. Oh.

Well, that makes his staying make a whole lot more sense, actually. And- that’s a lot, that- they’ve only known each other a few months really - but she supposes they’ve spent a fair bit of time together, some conversation and some quiet companionship, and Percy’s only really gone out of his way to speak to her and Vex of all of them, not so much the others, but she’s surprised he’d- that he’d feel like that, that he’d admit that, if he’s lost that before.

Keyleth doesn’t think she could ever accept the idea of a new mother, after what happened to her own. After the mysterious hole where Vilya of the Air Ashari should be.

“I’ve never had a brother,” Keyleth says quietly.

“No,” Percy says. There’s a smile creasing his cheeks. “You’re an only child, you’ve said.”

“Yeah.”

It can’t be Percy who speaks next, not with the particular kind of childish teasing warmth in his voice, it has to be Cass who says, “Not anymore.”

Percy doesn’t take it back though. When she meets his gaze, he’s smiling.

It’s easier then, even as they start the climb back down the other side of the Othendin Ridge, turning north-east towards the shallow tectonic valley in which the Terrah reside. Percy glances southwards sometimes and she knows why - at the pace they’ve been keeping he’ll have to leave soon to keep his appointment with the forges - but he doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t even mention it, and so on they continue.

They’re getting close now - every slope they climb, Keyleth starts to think this is the one, only emphasised by the increasing tremors in the ground as they continue. Staking camp becomes a more perilous endeavour - but she can’t turn back. She won’t.

And so comes the day they crest a slope and find themselves staring down at a valley just like what had been described to her, a village spread along its slope.

The village is in bad shape when she makes it down. Percy had looked at the treacherous descent with concern and she’d waved him off, let him return to Emon. With Cassandra in his head she’s sure that at least he’ll be fine - Cass won’t let it be otherwise - and besides… it’s her Aramenté. She’s the one who has to take these tests.

The ground rumbles beneath her at intervals, but never too terribly. While pebbles wobble and fall and occasionally a small slip of scree will slide down in a sudden cascade, it’s never quite so severe as to knock her off her feet. If anything it reminds her of the wild winds that surround Zephrah, the ones they’ve had to slowly cultivate their trees into windbreaks to handle, and she remembers just how treacherous the outer pathways can be for those unprepared.

There are a few figures, picking through the ruined stone of the settlement. When they spot her approaching they form up rapidly, she can see stony magic glinting in one’s fist, but they’re older, the ones around them quite young- certainly not those she’d expect to be tasked to guard the area.

“Kaitiake,” she says, raising a hand. “I’m Keyleth, of the Air Ashari.” She pauses: she doesn’t really know how to bring up her purpose given what seems to have happened here. “I need to speak to Pa’tice?”

The older individual frowns, looking narrowly at her, but lowers their fist, the magic flickering down.

“They’re tending the wounded at the Redoubt,” they say. “We’ll show you over once we’ve finished here.”

That… that she can accept, and easily given what seems to have happened here. Something bad, for sure, given the ruin of some of these stone buildings, the splatters of blood along the beautifully mosaiced paving.

“Was it an earthquake?” she asks. The worst events in Zephrah usually follow a storm, after all, and they live such isolated lives it’s a much more likely cause than-

“A raid,” the older individual says, shaking their head. “Some fools of Moradin believe our warnings about their mines are an insult, blasphemy to their gods. The Ironkeeper doesn’t formally permit the attacks but-” They spit. “Doesn’t stop them, does it?”

Oh. Zephrah has always been so isolated - so hard to reach without flying or climbing - that the idea of any concerted attack is almost inconceivable. The Windrunners always spot people approaching, are always able to stop them on the lower slopes and decide if they should be allowed up or not; the valley Zephrah is in is at the very peak of the mountain, so hard to find, let alone reach.

But the Terrah aren’t nearly so well-protected, are they? The mountains here are as huge as the ones at home, yes, but not as tall - the tectonic activity provides steady slopes and easier paths and this valley is wider and emptier than the one at home.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks. “I can heal a little, and beastshape, and-”

The older one looks at her assessingly, less warily than before.

“Perhaps,” they say, and stick out their hand. “Verethi,” they say. “Originally of the Pyrah. I followed Cerkonos when they made their Aramenté and found myself better suited here than I had been at home.”

Their rocky skin suggests why. Most genasi born to the Ashari are of a matching element to their tribe; it must have been strange to be born so obviously earth when everything around them would have been fire.

The Redoubt seems to be a far more defended village, deeper into the valley and down some narrow crevasses. 

“It’s safer,” Verethi says. “But that’s mostly because it’s pretty inaccessible. Mostly it’s used for celebrations and special occasions, never usually… this.”

As they round the final bend, Keyleth can see what they mean: there are bodies on stretchers, bloodied bandages on many, and scattered furnishings and baskets and people, the wreckage of lives uprooted.

“Take me to Pa’tice,” she says and manages to find some firmness for her voice. “And tell me how I can help.”

Pa’tice is busy in the midst of it all, a tall and unexpectedly thin human, white hair cut short and face shaven to leave the clean lines of his tattoos obvious where they line his cheeks, his neck, his arms and fingers. His robe is simple and understated - if it wasn’t for Verethi’s unerring direction she’d almost doubt who it is she’s been led to - but he turns when Verethi says his name and introduces her.

“Of the Air Ashari?” he says. His expression is severe but there’s interest in his tone beneath the tiredness.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m on my Aramenté. But-” She gestures around them. “Can I help at all?”

She doesn’t need to say your people are your priority. That was drilled into her almost more than any of the magic she picked up as easily as breathing.

“Yes,” Pa’tice says. “We shall see how things look tomorrow. Verethi will direct you.”

And so she helps.

She’s not set her task the next day, which makes sense with how much is left to do - but she’s not set her task over the next week either, which strikes her. She understands why, she thinks, because after this attack they’re not equipped to do as they would normally, because they need to bury their dead and tend their wounded and reinforce their defences. Instead she’s set to work, beastshaping into things big enough to haul building materials or swift enough to carry messages to this healer or that amongst the tribe. Sometimes she turns into a dog and sniffs out herbs and fungi useful in healing, and sometimes she simply sits with people, keeping them company as they recover.

But eventually, the time comes.

She knows the portal to the Plane of Air at Zephrah, a swirling vortex of wind that dances just beyond the cliff-brink at one end of the valley, carefully obscured from most of the settlement so the children don’t get mad ideas, and beyond reach of any who venture up the mountain to seek it. She’d had to spend years learning to use a Skysail before she ever went anywhere near it, the winds from the portal so powerful that no one unpracticed could ever be let near.

The portal to the Plane of Earth is very different.

Pa’tice leads her away from the relocated village, towards a canyon. With the steady trembling of the ground beneath her feet it’s deeply unsettling - while she’s always felt secure in the mountainous canyons of the Summit Peaks, these feel much more unstable as she’s led down the rocky alleys. The striated rock, clear heavy layers of stone, seem stable, though the pebbles around her feet shift regularly - she’s glad she has her staff - and it’s a good half-hour’s walk on uneven terrain and through a winding route before they reach it.

It looks, at first glance, like a cave, but Keyleth knows better than that. These are portals to the elemental planes and they reflect the element they’re of. The outer edge is rocky, the inner earthy and from the dark stone and ground spark bright colours which can only be gemstones and nuggets of metal.

It looks, some terrified, apprehensive part of her thinks, like it’s going to swallow her whole.

Pa’tice barely pauses, marching forwards into the darkness and she hears those who’ve come with them - Verethi included - step forwards as well.

Closing her eyes, she follows suit.

The cavern she finds herself in is larger than expected. Everything she’d read or been told had said that the Plane of Earth could be oppressive and close, claustrophobic and- well. She was raised in Air. Earth is the very opposite of everything she’s ever been. But the cavern is reasonably spacious and glowing crystals jut from the rock lighting their path just as well as the lantern in Pa’tice’s hand does. 

“This way,” the headmaster says, gesturing towards a narrow cleft in the rock. “This is merely the entry station; for your test we go further.”

Test. More anxiety floods through her.

She’s let through more caves, some vast and cavernous as a temple and others as narrow as the canyons outside, where she has to fold herself small to fit - even some spaces where they have to beastshape through - until finally they arrive where it seems Pa’tice had meant to lead them. It’s a small round chamber and the others break off immediately, Verethi setting down a bag and starting to fish through it. When she glances to Pa’tice she’s waved to sit.

“Rest,” he says. “Recuperate. Then we shall begin.”

“First,” Pa’tice says, throwing off his mantle onto a protrusion of rock. “We must gain some idea of your capabilities.” He rolls his shoulders, rotating his head and neck and Keyleth can see the first shifting shimmers of a wildshape on the Headmaster’s skin before it overtakes his body. The next words he says are in grinding, guttural Primordial but Keyleth can just about understand it. “Step up,” Pa’tice challenges her.

His form has become huge, stony skin - she has no beastshape that could face this, pure elementals are beyond her yet, she doesn’t have the skill and-

Pa’tice is moving towards her, fist swinging and heavy; out of reflex Keyleth reaches for Minxie’s fur and swift muscles, for the quick leaps she can make out of the way. She remembers high above the ruins in the Crystalfens: Minxie had clung well enough to the hulk’s back. She hopes she can cling to the elemental’s shoulders perhaps, and stay out of easy reach.

The first blow is heavy, earth and stone a sudden rockslide slamming into her side and even as Minxie she’s not fast enough to escape the sudden impact. She wheezes out a breath, coming out more like a growl, but she can’t let the pain distract her - she leaps for an outcropping, aiming high, like air, out of reach of the heavy stone and dirt of Pa’tice’s elemental form.

Air comes naturally to her, after all. It always has.

She clambers to a ledge, hauling herself up with claws and strength, and her tail lashes as she watches down to where Pa’tice’s massive form paces. When he turns around and spots her - she sees something like a smile on his face, crystal teeth flashing in a smile… before he sinks into the ground and vanishes.

Air elementals fly, she knows. They can move like water through tiny gaps - and so can water elementals and even fire. Earth aren’t as mobile but-

A fist rises out of the ground beneath her, cracking her ribs and it’s all she can do to throw herself sideways, as far out of Pa’tice’s reach as possible.

“Keyleth!” The voice is loud and clear from below and when she looks she sees Verethi, hands cupped around their mouth. “Fight back!”

Across the chamber, Pa’tice cracks giant, stony knuckles. He doesn’t have the height now to terrify her, to stare down at her and remind her that even as Minxie she is small, but she knows how big he is in this form, how strong - how can she fight him? How can Minxie’s claws tear through dirt and stone?

But she has to try.

Minxie is fast, there’s that at least, she keeps moving even with the pain in her ribs until she spots an opening. She can see how it’s meant to go: she launches at Pa’tice’s back, her claws will dig into the shoulders and she can get her teeth to the stumpy neck, enough a threat even with them both in different forms.

So she launches herself. Pa’tice turns, eyes still bright and clear in the earthen face, and the whole memory returns to her, the sudden crack, the limp body, the light gone out - and she twists aside at the last moment.

This, this is why she’s avoided direct combat since the demiplane, why when she sought jobs she gravitated towards Arkhan’s promise of simple archaeology, why it was easiest to stand back and be support rather than-

A broken limb, bleeding skin, a person reeling or slumped on the floor: she can’t. Not with the memory of that child going slack in her hands branded into her brain. The last light going dim in their eyes.

She shakes back to her usual form. She doesn’t even stop to check with Pa’tice - all Ashari are allies, if she proves incapable they won’t see her dead, they’ll simply send her home. She wants to go home. She doesn’t know why anyone ever thought she’d be suited for this. Her own mother hadn’t managed it, had left and gone and-

A gritty hand is gentle on her shoulder.

“Up.”

She’s sat on a stone; Pa’tice on one nearby, the older man carefully brushing dust out of his hair.

“Not your strong suit,” Pa’tice says simply. “Not without tactics, but- are you a pacifist?”

“What? No. I- Nature isn’t one,” she says. “I don’t think it’s practical to refuse to fight at all. I just… don’t want to fight if I don’t need to.”

Pa’tice nods. “A noble goal,” he agrees. “But if you have to fight - can you? Will you?”

She has before. She nods.

“Hm.” Abruptly, Pa’tice stands. “Up. Let’s see your spellcasting. If beastshaping isn’t where your strengths lie, let us see about that instead.”

It doesn’t go well. Faerie fires are easy, ways to strengthen allies or inhibit enemies, to distract, deflect - that’s all easy, everything that helps her to stay out of combat but enable her friends-

She’s spent so long with friends. She wonders if she’s grown too used to relying on them when she needs to get better as herself.

“I can heal anything you can throw at me,” Pa’tice points out as he pushes her to cast again and again, to cast things stronger and more dangerous - a thunderwave here, surrounded by shifting rock and stone? - “Don’t be afraid to let loose!”

He even elemental’s-up again, gives them that extra buffer of safety but eventually she’s slumping exhaustedly against her staff and Verethi’s gravelly hands are gentle on her shoulders.

“Here,” they say. “Sit, sit here. Breathe.”

Breathe she can do and as she watches Pa’tice beckons over one of the others with them as he rolls out their shoulders, the last mica-like shimmer finally fading to the rich earthy brown of their skin. Beside her Verethi is removing things from their satchel - a small stone that, with the knock of a knuckle, starts glowing cherry red. A small stand is next, set neatly above the glowing stone. As the glow gets stronger Keyleth can feel the heat of it - it’s less of a surprise as Verethi pulls out a kettle and pours water from a waterskin into it.

There’s stoneware mugs next, and a small tin of flowers and dried herbs - a spoon’s worth goes into all of the mugs and… it’s easy and soothing to sit there, as Verethi works, even as Pa’tice rejoins them, speaking quietly to them just out of her hearing. When they return they go fishing through their bag again and Keyleth has found her words enough to ask.

“Tea?”

“Hibiscus and chamomile,” Verethi says. “It’s refreshing. And this is oloore root,” they add, lifting a twisted, knobbly thing from their bag. Carefully, the take their knife to it, peeling off the rough outer skin and shaving a few slivers from it - it looks almost like ginger on the inside, pale and fibrous - and as she watches they drop the slips into one of the mugs before tapping their fingers on the small kettle they’d set up over the glowing stone. “Yes,” they say, nodding. “Hot enough. Headmaster?”

“Do you know what oloore root is?” Pa’tice’s voice is heavy and measured and Keyleth shakes her head before-

No, she does remember something about it; Percy had mentioned drinking an absinthe with a mild infusion of it at some point in his past when they’d been talking about medicinal plants versus toxic versus psychoactive. If she remembers rightly, it’s the lattermost.

“A hallucinogen,” she says. “Or… entheogen in the right context, I guess? Is this that context?”

Pa’tice’s weathered skin creases into a smile, his tattoos bending to emphasise it. “It is a psychoactive,” Pa’tice confirms. “Prepared in certain ways, it is used to achieve a high - we use it here for another purpose.” He pauses, tapping his knuckles together with a thoughtful expression. “Usually,” he admits, “We would do this last. A culmination of all learned, a chance to prove - but the vision quest of this… I believe it may help you.”

Slowly she opens her mouth. Closes it again. Opens it once more.

“You want to start me on the final test,” she says. Her mouth feels dry.

“You have a block,” Verethi says. “When it comes to fighting, to casting in combat - you can cast to help us, to heal, you can act in defence or small things to assist - such as faerie fires - but you stall when it comes to doing harm.”

The image of the child, body lolling limp, eyes going dull, flickers through her mind.

“The oloore will show you who you are. Who you could be. What it is stands in your way - even if that is some part of yourself. Usually we end with it to confirm they have learned their flaws - for you, we seek to use it to help you past them.”

“But it’s the final test.”

If she fails here, with this, she will never go further.

“We have tried sparring,” Pa’tice points out. “You will not fight back. We have tried casting. You struggle to. We cannot put you through the usual assessments first.” He nods at the mug as Verethi lifts the kettle and pours steaming, hot water into it. “This is what we have left.”

She hates this - here and alone, without a single friend to help her and she knows she shouldn’t. She’s going to rule alone, going to live longer than any of them; she needs to be prepared for this, to stand on her own despite her fears but all she can really think of is her friends, so much more easily confident than she is. What would Vex do here? What about Tiberius or Pike or Vax? What would Percy or Cass do?

Perhaps it is only that it’s Percy she’s seen most recently: she can almost hear his voice in her mind. You cannot know if you do not try.

But if she fails here, that’s it.

Percy’s voice, soft but firm: And if you succeed, it isn’t.

She cannot know if she does not try. She picks up the mug.

It tastes at first like tea. Chamomile soft and grassy, the tart, berry-like edge of hibiscus - she’s familiar with both. There’s a slight earthy edge to it but if she hadn’t known of the oloore root it wouldn’t have been her first guess.

Mostly, it tastes like tea.

“You won’t feel the effects immediately,” Pa’tice says. “Drink it all, then close your eyes.”

Okay, okay, she can do that. And - she has taken psychedelics before, learning to recognise the effects in case she ever gets slipped any on her travels. And these are fellow Ashari: even here on another plane of existence, she is safe with them. In the end, this shouldn’t be too strange; even though she’s never had oloore before, she has safe company and a purpose.

She drinks slowly, steadily. It’s hot enough to scald her mouth if she’s not careful so she doesn’t go gulping it down. Little sips as it cools, larger draws until it’s gone. As she drains the last there’s something almost fuzzy to the edges of everything. 

“Close your eyes,” Pa’tice says, taking the mug. Verethi’s hands are glowing - so are Pa’tice’s now he’s set the cup down. “Eyes closed,” he repeats. “Let us guide you. Remember your purpose here. Know your struggles. See how to surpass them and achieve your purpose.”

She closes her eyes and chokes back a bitter laugh. The oloore is already loosening her mind and she doesn’t want to tell them how often growing up she’s heard that last.

Achieve your potential. She didn’t need her or her father’s grief to know what else was meant. To succeed where your mother failed us.

Her mother never failed them. She wouldn’t have. Her not returning - it meant they set her a task she could never match. Keyleth fears she’s just the same.

“Find your heart.” It’s Pa’tice’s voice, calm and steady. “Find your core - what drives you, what leads you. What brought you here.”

Her Aramenté brought her here. As for her core… that’s a meditation technique. She can do that. Long breath in two, three, four, hold breath two, three, breathe out two three four five. Lengthen the cycle, slow her breath with her racing heart-

“Good.” Pa’tice’s voice is approving. “Remember what you've experienced today. What halted your path of action each time - think what might happen if that halts you in future, in other circumstances-”

Death. She knows it’s death. She feels a hand on her shoulder, warmer than skin should be, warm with magic, maybe?

“Lose yourself to the oloore root, Keyleth,” Pa’tice says. “Now - what do you see?”

And there’s a woman in front of her. She’s tall, a staff in her hand, grey in her ginger hair, lines on her face but they’re lines of smiles more than frowns, of a life well lived and as Keyleth watches the woman’s steady pace leads her towards her, past her - and behind her are Ashari, Air Ashari predominantly but she recognises sigils of the other tribes too, and of the farther flung patrols that check on the Frostweald’s ice rift and the magma primordium at the Daggerbay, the duststorm sliver in the Marquesian desert-

They all follow her, young face after young face and dread fills Keyleth at the idea - how can they think that wise, blindly following anyone? Mistakes can always be made, power doesn’t mean the capacity or willingness to use it appropriately and the sudden surge of fear sends her fleeing, through the bright and windswept meadow, away from the woman who reminded her of her mother, of her own reflection on the worst days - until she finds herself hovering to a halt before a tree.

Is this how Cassandra feels, floating? It's nothing like flying under her own power as a bird or bat.

The tree draws her eye, something about it familiar. When she presses a hand to its bark she finds it smooth, almost silky, like birchpaper for all its golden-sunset colour and she swears she can feel the slow pulse of its sap through the xylem and phloem. A heartbeat on a hundred-year scale. 

How many other plants is this tree tied to, she wonders. How many roots tangle with its own, warring or bartering for nutrients and water and the essence of energy that sustains them all?

And then she's in the roots, following their twisting flow, link after link after link, roots spanning everywhere and then something brighter, glowing, a river of power and along its line the plants flourish yet more, an oak stretching into an immense, colossal treant, rising over and guarding a stretch of never-silent forest, a tree with leaves that always feel full of sunlight no matter the time of year. The trees of the Frostweald, empowered to live even through their eternal winter.

All connected, all connected.

The trees shelter the animals, the animals and plants feed the people. She remembers Vex and Vax foraging berries and hunting rabbits for them and suddenly she’s spat out of the root network, rising over a grassy hillside and- 

They’re there. All of them - the twins, dark and darting, Scanlan with his lute, Grog’s great axe hoisted over his head, Tiberius bright scarlet next to Grog’s grey, Percy’s hair strikingly pale but not quite as striking as Cass floating out of his back or Pike’s bright streamer of pale hair, all her friends, all charging towards the fray and it takes her a moment to realise she isn’t there with them.

She should be with them. She doesn’t know why she’s not and she draws closer to them - she must have beastshaped, she wouldn’t leave them behind - and as she does so she hears them.

“For Keyleth!” Vax cries and darts forwards with his knives, as Vex draws her bow back, eyes jewelled with tears. Tiberius’ roar is something awful, the fire that jets from his hands and mouth bright and fierce. Grog’s charging too, but he’s not in a rage, no red in his eyes or foam in his mouth and she hears him yell too, “For our Keyleth!” even as Tiberius’ roar ends only for his voice to pipe up, “For our Highness!”

Scanlan is singing something - that ditty he’d made up when her sniffing around as a dog had helped hunt them out answers, the one he hums as a reminder sometimes. Pike’s face is set with purpose, fierce and certain, no words needed to make clear where her thoughts are. Percy is silent too, but he’s lifting something to his shoulder, that new creation he said he was working on, Cassandra curling over his shoulder to guide his sights, their perfect coordination that only happens when they’re both set on the exact same purpose.

She knows Percy well enough to read the words he mouths as he fires, the echo on Cassandra’s lips. For Keyleth.

She’s left behind them as they surge forwards, by the young tree, sapling branches reaching to the skies, each like antlers, garlanded with flowers that should never all be on one plant but are all ones she knows, all ones her mother’s circlet produces-

Oh. She’s that tree. She died to become that tree.

She’s dead.

Down below, combat meets. Grog’s axe cuts a bloody swathe through the faceless enemies, Pike’s mace taking people out at the knees as Vax’s daggers flash, Percy’s bullets and Vex’s arrows pinning people only for them to be destroyed by the spells of Tiberius and Scanlan. Trinket’s on his hind legs, roaring, Cassandra obvious and visible at Percy’s shoulder as she never usually is unless they can be certain no one will survive, but there’s too many here for them to know that for certain and she doesn’t know why they’d take that risk. Are they beyond caring, with her gone? She knows Percy’s reckless sometimes-

And one of those dark thoughts Percy’s mentioned to her rises in her own mind. Maybe they don’t expect to live.

But they have to - she wouldn’t have died wanting them to join her, they have to know that, they have Cass to tell them that no one dead wants their loved ones to join them-

But down below the blood is spreading, and it’s not just that of the faceless enemies.

There’s more than just the enemies bleeding below. More than just her friends. There are others too, strangers but that some of their faces remind her of those young Ashari following that older woman, but they aren’t all equipped to fight and there isn’t that strange, strong older woman there to defend them and they’re falling, screaming, bleeding, hurting and she can’t do anything.

Someone is screaming - she can’t tell where - but the noise is loud and awful, louder even than everything else, the high thin cry of a terrified child, the awful, impossible-to-hold-in cries of an adult in pain, the desperate sobs of someone without any hope left remaining. There’s the ragged, whimpering sounds of someone barely able to cry and it’s awful, it’s worse than anything Keyleth’s heard before, worse than any of what they’ve heard in battle or from people they’ve healed and herded to safety, it’s the same kind of awful as the mute terror of the children in the Dread Emperor’s demiplane, the silence they’d all fallen to around Pike’s body, because these are the noises of people unable to be silent, where even fear cannot make them hold in their horror, where they are still alive to be horrified.

It’s not one person crying, she realises. It’s many. Because she isn’t doing anything. Because she can’t do anything.

Because she’s frozen.

No. Because she wants to flee.

The battle is gone, but the parade of young Ashari don’t follow the older woman now. There’s no one there and her face is older, harder, more weathered, scars climbing up her arms to the mantle of leaves she wears.

“You cannot flee,” she says and Keyleth knows that, knows she can’t flee no matter how much she wants to because someone has to do this, someone has to be Voice of the Tempest. She just wonders why it has to be her. The older woman’s smile is understanding. “It is your life,” she says. “It’s your choices and decisions that make it. But you are the only one who can live it - your future is as important as it is fragile. You must protect it.”

It takes a while to ebb. Even as the vision fades and her own thoughts come crowding back in, as she feels the stone beneath her and hears her heartbeat in her ears, she hears echoes of song too, smells flowers on a breeze that isn’t there, sees colours playing across the lids of her eyes. It’s strange - just as strange as the first time she’d ever taken psychoactives - but it’s a relatively simple tapering out. Oloore seems to be good for brief but intense hallucinations, it seems, at least as it’s used by the Earth Ashari, though she wonders if it’d be as effective for the Aramenté without the guidance given as it took effect.

Well regardless - it’s let to taper out. She’s reasonably sure Pa’tice could end the phantom sensations with a touch and a spell but he doesn’t. If she had to guess, it’s probably a part of the process, a time for the student to contemplate what they saw or were shown.

Honestly, hers was pretty straightforward - though that doesn’t make it any easier to address.

It’s mostly done with when she finally opens her eyes - it didn’t feel right to before, it felt like it would become rapidly overwhelming - and so all she's getting is occasional phantom smells and tastes when she finally looks over to Pa’tice again. (The smell that had lingered on her mother’s clothes for a few months after she left; the taste of the barley-and-thyme bread of Zephrah, the one that tastes like home.)

Pa’tice says nothing.

They’re alone, she realises. Even Verethi has gone, no sign left of their lantern or little satchel or the kettle and stand and burning-hot rock. Just two horn beakers of water, one in Pa’tice’s hands and one waiting for her. She drinks.

It’s- god it’s refreshing, refreshing in the way water only is after a day’s hard work or a long journey.

She supposes it has been a long day; that her mind, at least, has come a long way.

She drinks the rest of the beaker’s worth before Pa’tice speaks.

“So," he says, a rumbling edge in his voice that she imagines can only come from them having spent so long on the Plane of Earth. “What did you see?”

So she opens her mouth and tells him.

She’s glad it’s Pa’tice she’s with and no one else. Verethi’s perfectly nice and all but- well. This is her Aramenté, this was her task. It makes sense, she thinks, to talk about it only to someone who’s been through similar things themselves. Someone with the experiences to understand. Pa’tice listens with patience, his expression barely changing as she speaks and when she’s done he nods gently before lifting his beaker.

Earth is the opposite of air, but opposites are more similar than most think. Air moves constantly, yes, but earth is never truly still. Earth moves unseen, until the change becomes clear.

She tells herself this, but it doesn’t really stop her anxiety; she taps her foot, taps her fingertips against the beaker, glances around the chamber at the glinting stones in the rock and earthen walls and tries to distract herself by wondering how this chamber formed. Caves are usually worn away by water, and the nature of the elemental planes makes them more their elements than anything else - how could tectonics make this? Lava tubes would mean fire, an underground river would mean water, even a collapsed canyon would imply air - but here, earth reigns supreme and it’s at least a puzzle to turn over as she waits.

“You’re not prideful,” Pa’tice says, breaking the silence. “You asked work when you arrived, to help us. You don’t hold yourself above anyone but are willing to show as much effort as everyone else.”

“It’s-” she pauses. “I was just doing what’s right.”

“Yes,” Pa’tice agrees. “You were. That’s good.”

That’s good? But- with everything else… she couldn’t make it through the vision test, she couldn’t make it through sparring or spellcasting, she’s been failing every task they set her so far-

“You have a good heart,” Pa’tice says. There’s a smile on their craggy face as they look at her. “Believe me, I would know. And that is a good thing. It means you are the kind of person we want to lead our tribes. To help guide the paths of the Ashari.”

“But I failed.” The words break out of her without her meaning to let them. “Every task you’ve set me, I’ve failed.”

“I would not say that you have failed,” Pa’tice says gently. “Not succeeded, no, but I do not think you have failed either.”

Hopefully, Keyleth glances up and Pa’tice’s craggy face has softened.

“A vision quest is more than a simple pass or fail,” he says. “It is not one of those written tests they love in the cities, nor a fight such as the Pyrah like to use to challenge their people. It is a question of what your troubles are, of what you must work on. It reveals the self and in doing so reveals your strengths and weaknesses. You struggle to accept yours, yes, which is not uncommon and not ideal for one on their Aramenté, but that does not mean you have failed.” Pa’tice pauses, and then spits out something in a rumbling dialect of Primordial Keyleth isn’t familiar with. When she frowns, Pa’tice gestures a weathered hand. “You will have succeeded when you have accepted these things. But that does not mean that, as you are, you have failed.” Slowly, they bow their head. “Continue on to the rest of your trials,” they say. “And go with the Blessing of the Terrah.”