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Good night twin moons
Good night all Faerun
Good night Wave Echo Cave
Good night town they could not save
Good night Rockport’s Tom Bodetts
Good night battlewagon jets
Good night desert and Goldcliff
Good night Reaper’s fading rift
Good night messy science lab
Good night stadium so fab
Good night town out of time
Good night goddess’s shrine
Good night loss and good night hand
Good night gift from not your Pan
Good night town of Glamour Springs
Good night peace that truth brings
Good night roosts and good night ravens
Good night to all shattered havens
Good night pasts put to bed
Good night suffering ahead
Good night stories to be told
Good night songs for young and old
Good night each and every place
And good night, good night moon- base?!
But no sleep here, no not tonight.
And that’s something Brad wants to right.
It’s a warm spring night in Faerun, though not as warm as the small town the Reclaimers and Avi returned from only a week ago. The sun has long since set, draping the darkest of blues across the sky, offset by otherworldly designs from the pinpricks of light from far off stars. The moon, the actual moon, hangs full and glowing, seemingly close enough to reach out and touch but well out of reach of everyone, even those on Faerun’s second -fake- moon. A lively breeze dances over the moon base, stirring branches in trees and blades of grass on the quad, dragging wisps of clouds across the otherwise clear sky. It’s the sort of night and hour that you would, quite reasonably, expect everyone to be sleeping peacefully in their beds. This is not the case.
Very much to the dismay of our hero -no, not them, not tonight- Brad Bradson, bard and head of HR for the Bureau of Balance (also, really, the only representative in HR; it’s hard to find someone who will engage in the cat herding that is Fantasy OSHA training with every adventurer both rowdy and nosy enough to find themselves on the moon).
The Director, assuredly the most notorious culprit of them all, sits in her office, still working. She’s writing, as you might expect. One hand is detailing further notes from the Reclaimers about the behavior of the Temporal Chalice (they’d all been a bit… cagey… about the nature of the temptation offered by that Relic). The other hand is writing as well, though when Brad glanced down moments ago, that writing had been incomprehensible. Perhaps it is some sort of shorthand, or maybe one of the many languages the Director is fluent in. Or perhaps Brad himself is just too tired to get his mind to focus on the words, he thinks.
She also just brushed off Brad’s question about the possibility of her heading to bed for the evening (or, really, at any point, ever), posed after just happening to stop by after just happening to brew a fresh pot of good chamomile tea (apparently someone had sent Taako a box of teas) and just happening to think she might like a cup. She barely even looks up at the fragrant steam drifting tantalizingly from the cup. And Brad had used Prestidigitation to make it look that appealing, too!
Brad looks down at the table again. What could possibly be so-
As he looks, the Director moves a small piece of paper, something bright and colorful, some sort of flyer off her desk and into an open drawer that she slams shut forcefully. Brad looks up as she does. She doesn’t look angry. She looks almost afraid. Which is terribly unusual.
“So, this evening,” He starts, voice strangely high with nerves. “Excuse me.” Still high. Brad stops and clears his throat. “Madam Director, I really must- if you don’t- perhaps you’ll- it might set a good example to the other Bureau employees, and perhaps you’ll be, um, at your absolute best if you rest?” He’s not doing a terribly great job of this. He never does, not with the Director. She is his greatest challenge as well as his boss
“I’m fine, Brad.” She says, polite but firm.
“Madam Director. This might be… blunt, but you’re burning the candle at both ends.”
“Brad, I respect you, but I know what it is for something to burn too hot, too fast, and this is not it. I’m fine.”
“Oh, well then. I apologize. Sincerely. And since, ah-” He coughs, uncertain and drooping. The Director immediately softens. Brad speaks again. “-since I just happen to have this right here then, perhaps I could just leave it here. I’d hate to trip on the way back and waste the tea. You know, I can get quite, quite clumsy.”
“Thank you, Brad.” The Director smiles, and that reassures Brad, because it reaches her eyes, framed with lines from laughing. The lines that cut over her face are not cruel, only in the way that time is, but even smiling, they whisper of both joy and pain and love and fear. Not for the first time, Brad wonders what secrets his employer is keeping.
Right now though, he’d settle for the secret to get her out of her office and into a healthy sleep schedule. And, again, not for the first time, he wonders how effective it would be to barricade her out of her office.
Davenport is not asleep either. Brad is rather resigned to this. Every time he’s approached the gnome in the past to see if he can’t persuade him, Brad has gotten the distinct impression that he simply doesn’t have the authority to do so.
Davenport stands on the quad, gaze skyward, hands folded neatly behind his back. He seems to be stargazing, a regular habit, though his brows, as they often are, are furrowed with the smallest trace of confusion, as though Davenport is looking at a sky he does not expect to see. There is a difference tonight, more worry than bewilderment.
Brad watches the gnome for a few moments and receives no acknowledgment. And then he trudges away.
Catching Magnus long enough to ask him why he’s awake at this hour is a feat in and of itself. Brad is panting as he nearly sprints along to match the fighter’s pace, which seems to be a leisurely jog for him, as he runs around and around the moon base.
“Hey. Magnus.” Brad manages to spit the words out on his exhales, between massive gasps to intake air. It feels as though his lungs have forgotten how to do their job, to be quite frank. “What. Are. You. Doing. Up. So. Late.”
“Oh, this and that. You know.” Magnus manages to shrug while running. Brad thinks he might knock himself over if he attempts anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.
“I. Really. Don’t.” Magnus changes direction and Brad with him. At least the wind isn’t coming at him headlong anymore. That has to help, right?
“Just… late night run, you know? Havin’ a hard time with that whole ‘sitting still,’ thing.” Magnus makes air quotes around the words, as though they’re a foreign concept to him. Knowing Magnus, they might very well be.
“Oh. Yes. Totally. Understandable.” Brad wheezes. The change of wind has become a curse. His ponytail is blowing in his face. “But. What. About. Sleep.”
“Nah, I’m good. Not really feelin’ the whole sleep thing tonight. Still super energized from last night, you know?”
“You. Carved. Six. Ducks. Last. Night. And. Did. Not. Sleep. Then. Either.” Brad spits some of his ponytail out of his mouth and gets a glob of spit across his face for his efforts.
“Yeah! They were good ducks. Great presents, you know. I could hook you up, get you a nice duck. How ‘bout it, Brad? I still have another four miles, but after that, I’ll get carving. Should have the duck carved by the time the sun’s up! Ooh, and tomorrow night, I can polish it. Whaddya say, Brad? Little ‘I’m sorry about cutting off part of your ponytail,’ present!” Magnus claps him on the back, and Brad startles, tripping over his own feet enough that Magnus, continuing on at his seemingly breakneck pace, is soon out of reach. “Good talk, buddy!” Magnus yells behind him as Brad trails, the gap widening and widening.
Brad stops altogether, defeated. And with a sincere vow to himself to work on his constitution.
The end of Brad’s impromptu cardio leaves him near the icosagon, from which the familiar sounds of fighting are drifting out. Brad frowns. At this hour though? That seems a bit much, even for the Bureau of Balance, where justice never sleeps (Angus’s contribution to last week’s tagline competition).
Brad, still trying to breathe through the stitch in his side, enters the icosagon. And promptly has to duck to avoid a flying dagger. “Oops! Sorry, Brad!” Carey yells from her place hanging upside down in the rafters.
“Brad! How ya doing, bud?” Killian asks, shouldering her crossbow, panting with effort, though far less than Brad’s futile attempt to stop Magnus. Like a runaway train, that one.
“I’m… enjoying the evening?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s a great night for a practice fight!” Carey drops, easily moving through several flips before landing gracefully on the floor. And immediately leaning over to peck Killian on the cheek.
“Wow, Carey.” Killian says, stars practically visible in her eyes. Stars like the ones overhead, visible through the skylight of the icosagon, because, oh yes, it’s still the middle of the night.
“Anything for you, Killz.” Carey smiles. Killian blushes. They continue to stare at each other for a few moments, clearly lost in their own world.
“Ah. Um.” Brad coughs.
“Oh, right, Brad!” The two say in unison, turning away from each other to look at Brad.
“I’m. I’m gonna. I’m gonna go. You two. Uh. Don’t go working too hard I guess?” Brad finishes awkwardly and turns and walks right back out again.
Well. They’re competent women. They’ll probably get enough sleep on their own.
Probably.
Brad nearly runs straight into Noelle upon leaving the icosagon.
“Oh, gee, sorry, Brad. Didn’t right see you there.” The fuse containing Noelle’s soul flashes as she talks.
Brad frowns. She sounds glum. “Everything all right, Noelle?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Everything’s great.” She still sounds unhappy, and Brad feels something tighten in his chest at that.
“Are you sure?”
Noelle sighs, the light inside her body flaring more brightly than usual. “You know what, Brad. Let’s walk. Or, uh, you walk, I’ll… float.”
They start on their way along the edge of the quad, path lit by the moon glowing overhead.
Magnus passes by again. “Just three and a half more miles, Brad! Then I’ll make you a duck!” He yells, still as energetic as ever, and Brad feels winded all over again as he runs away.
Noelle appears to be watching him go, and she sighs again once he’s out of earshot. “Wish I could do that.”
“What, have that much energy for running? Me, too.”
“No, not just…” Noelle sighs a third time, and this one sounds more frustrated than anything else. “Brad, I… I don’t talk about this much, barely even with the Regulator crew, but… I miss being alive.”
“Oh…” Brad’s stomach drops. This is something he is ill-equipped to handle, he thinks. But then, there really isn’t anyone on the moon base with much experience in dying and not being entirely dead (well, the Reclaimers now, apparently, but Brad isn’t sure how much help they would be). “I’m… I’m sorry?” He tries. “I can imagine that must be quite difficult for you.”
“Yeah, it, it really can be. I miss… I miss running barefoot through the grass. I miss wiggling my ears. I miss climbing trees to pick apples for cider. Like, this is great and all-” She says, waving her arm and arm cannon, “-even though, uh, I don’t think Lucas really, uh, planned things out all that much… but it ain’t the same, you know?”
“That makes perfect sense. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“Shoot, Brad. Just talkin’ about it helps some.”
“I’m glad for that.”
They stop talking, just continue on, Brad walking, Noelle floating, quiet save for the hum of Noelle’s fans.
“Hey, Noelle?”
“Yeah, Brad?”
“Are you planning on going to sleep anytime soon?”
“Robot. Undead. I’m still not sure I can sleep.”
“Oh.”
Music emanates from somewhere around the Fantasy Costco, quite possibly the only building on the whole moon base with the lights off (and thank the gods for that, in Brad’s opinion). Violin music. Brad follows it to Johann.
“Oh. Uh, hey, man.” Johann stops his playing to nod to Brad.
“That was beautiful, Johann.” Brad stops and claps a hand on the other bard’s shoulder.
“Thanks, I guess. It’s just gonna go to the voidfish when it’s done, so, uh, it’s nice to know someone likes it.”
“We all appreciate all of your music,” Brad says.
“Yeah, ‘course everyone appreciates it, cause it feeds the voidfish.”
“No, no.” The corners of Brad’s mouth turn down, brings his tusks with them. “No, we all appreciate having the opportunity to listen to such beautiful music all the time.”
“Yeah, when people listen.”
“Johann, I will have you know that I listen to your music box quite often. Especially when I’m doing… paperwork.” Brad shudders at the thought of the pile of paperwork still on his desk.
“Oh. Cool.”
“And we all appreciate you! It’s, it’s amazing that we’ve managed to get a bard of your caliber up here. And think about this: none of this, none of what we do, would be possible without you.”
“Hey, thanks, man.”
Brad’s grin returns. “Say, why don’t you turn in for the night? Come back to the piece with fresh ears in the morning?”
“What, no, are you kidding me? You just gave me some serious, serious bardic inspiration, Brad. I’ve gotta finish this piece up right now, cause I’ve already got another one planned.”
Brad gets the feeling that, while he’s helped Johann, his original plan has quite distinctly backfired.
There’s a racket coming from the kitchen. It sounds practically like some kind of demonstration or show, though the only voice Brad can hear is Taako’s.
“All right, so, uh, what we’re doing next is cinnamon scones. Scones cause, uh, gotta compete with Paloma’s fuckin’ scone magic somehow.” There’s a brief pause. Brad can’t hear a response, but there must have been something, because the next moment Taako is saying, “Listen, just because Agnes likes cinnamon shit does not mean I’m making these for him.”
“Taako?” Brad calls as he enters. Well. He stops in the doorway, surveying the kitchen. Taako has to have been cooking for hours, judging by the sheer number of foods spread out, everything from pancakes to pasta to more macarons to an entire turkey. Taako himself freezes as Brad enters, looking, not worse for the wear, but rather messier than Brad is used to seeing the elf. Splatters of various foods crisscross an apron that looks like an embroidered patch was ripped off the middle, and there’s even a stripe across Taako’s cheek. Taako is also entirely alone in the kitchen. “Who were you talking to? Or were you talking to yourself?” Brad asks curiously. And then immediately backpedals. “Not that there’s anything wrong with talking to yourself of course.”
Taako snorts. “Nah, homie. Well, I guess, uhhhhhhhhhh, kind of? Just talkin’ to the ol’ arcane focus.” Taako nods in the direction of the Umbra Staff in the far corner of the kitchen, sitting on a chair dragged in from the cafeteria. “Just... dunno. Seems right.” He shrugs.
“Oh. Um. Taako, listen, it’s great that you’re taking advantage of the kitchen-”
“Hell yeah, my dude, Taako’s finally good-to-go and work in here again.” Taako’s grin widens before he turns to stir a pot on the stove. It smells heavenly.
“But don’t you think… I mean, it is late… Perhaps you ought to get some sleep?” Brad approaches cautiously, but the wizard moves confidently around him to the various tasks in progress, dumping a bit of this in that and that in this before returning to starting the preparations for scones.
“Nope! Taako is good right here.” He says as he continues assembling ingredients.
“But it seems like you’ve been working a while. And you’ve been working a lot lately.” Brad tries.
Taako chuckles, “Cooking isn’t work, my dude, not if you do it right.” He begins sifting flour.
“Even so, I-” Taako steps, moves the bowl like he’s preparing to hand it off to someone else. Or rather, throw it to someone else. Who, Brad can’t imagine, and it appears Taako can’t either, because at the last moment, he catches himself, and the bowl. Just not the flour, which is thrown up and out and all over the pair.
“Fuck!” Taako yells, spitting flour out of his mouth. Brad blinks behind his flour coated glasses before pulling them off to try to clean them off. He’s mostly successful. “Shit. Sorry, man. Oh, shit. I don’t know what I- fuck.” Taako quickly brushes the flour off himself, shaking it from his ears and hair onto the floor.
Brad departs the kitchen, still brushing flour off his face and shirt.
Coincidentally, the main cafeteria and kitchen is right by the office of Leon the artificer.
Coincidentally, the lights are on in the office of Leon the artificer.
Brad knocks, politely, before entering.
Leon’s eyes rise from the book he is staring at unblinkingly to look at Brad. Well, not really look at Brad, as Leon’s bloodshot eyes don’t seem to be focusing on anything in particular. And most curious of all, Leon has covered his ears with two pillows, held in place by a belt strapped around his head.
Brad becomes very, very aware that he can hear every pot banging, every knife chop, every bubble, simmer, and sizzle from the kitchen, seemingly amplified somehow. Perhaps by the ventilation system Carey is so fond of?
Leon stares ahead. Brad hesitates, considering what to do.
“Go.” Brad nearly jumps as Leon unexpectedly speaks. “Go. Save yourself. It is too late for me.” And then Leon plants his face in his book.
“Avi?” Brad calls out into the hangar. Avi has not been in bed, nor anywhere else that Brad has checked (not the icosagon, nor with Johann, which leaves the hangar).
The clang of metal against metal and some swearing is his answer. Brad sighs and then begins jogging over to where the noise came from. Avi is half under the cannon, fiddling around with the internal machinery, with the cannon itself propped up in a way that Brad is certain is against every safety regulation that applies in a normal place of work. “Avi?” Brad asks again “Everything all right in there?”
“Oh, Brad! Yeah, man, everything’s great.” There’s another loud clatter. “…Shit.” Avi says more quietly.
“Do you need any help under there?” Brad asks.
“Nope! Totally under control.” A loud BANG, followed by yet another clatter, though this one isn’t accompanied by any swearing.
“Surely this is something that can wait until morning?” Brad asks. “You know, after you’ve gotten some sleep?”
“No can do, Brad-man! Gotta get the VFR up and running; it’s not talking to the QXFD right now, and I have to figure out why or we’re not shooting anyone anywhere. I think it’s the ULR valves, but gotta-” A clatter, a wrenching sound, and then a whoop from Avi. “Yep, that’s it!”
“And you’ll stop for the night after you fix it?”
“Huh? Yeah, yeah, sure, say, hand me that 98 wrench, would you? I forgot the bolts on the cann-comm were such a pain in the ass; why did I design it like this?” As Avi prattles on about the mysterious inner workings of the cannon, Brad looks out at everything Avi has spread out around him. He has no idea what any of it is.
Brad doesn’t check Angus’s room. If the boy is sleeping, then Brad has absolutely no desire to disturb him. Actually, he’ll cast Silence around the boy’s room himself if he has to. It’s one thing if adults make bad choices regarding sleep hygiene and their health (and indeed the BoB is rife with these decisions and non-existent healthcare coverage), but it’s another thing entirely for a small boy to forget to eat regular meals or proclaim that he’s absolutely fine to do some insane stunt with the Reclaimers after having slept all of four hours the night prior (Brad still has a visceral reaction at the thought of Angus running around in an oversized inflatable hamster ball on the quad on a particularly windy day).
So Brad bypasses Angus’s room (crossing his fingers that the boy is in there and sound asleep).
No such luck, of course. Angus is in his favorite nook in the library, nearly hidden behind a positive fortress of books, some of the tomes nearly as big as the boy is around the middle. Granted, he is a small boy, but that still makes for an exceptionally large book.
Angus is poring over an old text written in what is probably Elvish, constantly pushing his glasses up his nose and heedless of his bad posture as he leans over the pages. At least the light (magic, likely cast by one of the cantrips Taako has taught Angus) is even and good for reading. But still.
What is Angus doing up at this hour?
“Reading, sir,” is Angus’s answer to that question, with a raised eyebrow silently communicating the second half of the statement, “And I should think that obvious.”
“Yes, Angus, I understand that, but-” Brad struggles to remain patient and understanding. It’s especially important to maintain a patient and understanding attitude with the youngest member of the Bureau. He makes a mental note to have another conversation with the Director regarding her policy on the hiring of literal children. “But it’s late.” Brad continues. “What could be so important that you’re up at this hour.”
“It’s not that late.” Angus scoffs. “Sir, I do this all the time.”
“That- that- that doesn’t make it better.” Brad tries.
“I still do it, though. Besides, elves only need four hours of meditation.”
“Angus, you’re not an elf.”
“Try telling that to Taako, sir.”
Brad pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “So what are you reading?”
Angus brightens at that, clearly enthused about the subject matter. “Liches and the associated rituals!”
If Brad were still drinking his tea, he would have spat it out at that (the other cup of chamomile tea has long since gone cold on the Director’s desk, forgotten in favor of her work). “Liches?” Brad asks, weakly and disbelieving.
Angus nods however, enraptured at the material. Brad makes a mental note to make sure the boy steers clear of the Fantasy Costco and its proprietor. “It’s fascinating. Oftentimes, there are blood sacrifices and some pretty dark shit associated with becoming one, and of course they’re usually very unstable, and-”
“Angus. Why?”
“Oh. I was curious about the Red Robe. And I’m almost done with the chapter; you interrupted me as I was reading my last paragraph.”
“Oh, I do apologize.” Brad says automatically. “But, then, if you’re almost done with the chapter, surely that’s a good stopping point?”
“Oh, I agree entirely, sir.”
So Brad waits, with bated breath, for Angus to finish his chapter. He lets it out as Angus closes the book, both Brad and book seeming to sigh as it’s closed. “So, in that case, why don’t you- Angus, what are you doing?” Angus has pulled out another, much smaller book. And looks surprised.
“Reading Caleb Cleveland, sir! I’ve finished my work reading for the day, so now it’s time for my fun reading!”
Brad walks out of the library and nearly straight into the wall opposite. At the last moment he turns, so that he crashes into it back first, before slumping to the floor in dramatic fashion. Johann may easily hold the title of bard-iest bard in the BoB, but Brad is one as well, and there are times when his dramatic tendencies come out as well.
Times like this, when all his work and all his skills in persuasion and inspiration and motivation seem to fail in the face of the bad, bad sleeping habits of quite literally everyone in the whole organization.
Brad lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes. And all this, to say nothing of the fact that Brad is, in all honesty, quite tired and sleepy and desiring of a good long night’s sleep as well. It’s just nearly impossible for him to get that when he’s preoccupied with tossing and turning and thinking about how no one else is even making the effort at sleep.
“Oh, uh, hey there, Brad.” Brad looks up to see Merle. With Brad sitting on the floor, legs stretched out toward the wall opposite, his face is near level with Merle’s. “Oh. Hello, Merle.” He says politely, with a smile that is by now more exhausted than enthusiastic.
“Whatcha doin’ down there?” Okay, Merle’s head is slightly higher than Brad’s at present, a fact he seems to be taking joy in. “And whatcha doin’ not in bed? Don’t you know it’s late, Brad?”
At that, Brad groans. “I do. It’s just everyone else doesn’t.” Merle hums, and shrugs. His soulwood arm is sporting some fairly rare flowers today, some only found in that botanic garden in Neverwinter. Brad spares a moment to wonder if that’s what Merle’s arm is mimicking, and if so, what Merle was doing in Neverwinter.
“So. Why’s that your problem?”
Brad groans, a second time, more loudly. “Merle. I work in HR. I’m supposed to, to make sure that our usually humanoid assets are happy and healthy.”
“Seems to me that you can only do so much there.”
“As I learned tonight.” Brad exhales, frustrated, wrapping a hand around his jaw and brushing his thumb over a tusk.
“Hm, what? Oh. You tried to get people to go to sleep?” Merle starts laughing, shoulders shaking with it. “They’re never going to listen to that!”
“I know. But I had to try. I couldn’t just not try. But I failed. I can’t do it. It’s like… it’s worse than herding dragons.”
“You know, I have a friend with actual experience in that.” Brad can’t tell if Merle is joking. “But, uh, you know, Brad. You don’t have to, uh, go about it directly, you know.”
“What, cast Sleep?” Brad asks sarcastically. “Yes, I’m sure that will work on the Director, without a doubt.”
“I didn’t say that.” Merle huffs, but there’s no irritation to it. “Look. I, uh, okay, you can’t talk about this, by the sacred bonds of HR and Fantasy OSHA or whatever, so I’m gonna tell you this. I got kids. Went to see ‘em just a day ago, too, first time in… too long.” Merle’s sigh sounds regretful.
“You’ve never mentioned them before.” Brad states, curiosity piqued.
“Well, yeah! You think I’m gonna let these chucklefucks know about them? No, sir. Plus, uh, it really has been a while since I last saw ‘em. Had to, had to sort a few things out, you know. And no questions there!” Merle says hastily. “By the power of the Fantasy EEOC, you shall not ask!”
Instead, Brad chuckles. “So. You have kids.”
“Yeah. But, uh, with kids, it’s like, well, it’s worse than herding dragons. So, what I do, though, uh, I’m not whatcha call a great dad, but, uh, you gotta, sometimes you gotta make a game of it and make ‘em think it’s their idea. Ya know? Otherwise, you end up with a kid tryin’ to chew your wooden arm clean off!”
Brad nods. It makes a surprising amount of sense, even if he thinks that the only one to ever have the last experience will be Merle.
And Brad, HR expert and bard, begins to put his considerable experience to work. Brad starts to plan. And around 50 minutes and half a dozen spell slots later, that plan has taken shape.
“So. I bet you’re all wondering why I gathered you here today. Tonight.” Brad amends, looking out at the crowd of beings standing before him.
“Yes, I would like to say that I am wondering why you pulled me from my work, Bradford.” The Director states, voice full of gravitas and reproach.
“Brad’s name is Bradford?” Magnus, having thankfully cleaned himself up after his run (though Brad had seen rather more of Magnus than he ever thought he would when he went to fetch him), booms out.
“No, it just seemed appropriate.”
“What kinda jerk would intentionally get someone’s name wrong like that? Scone, Agnes?” Taako, also considerably cleaner and flour-free, lowers the plate to Angus’s level. He takes a scone, yawning.
“Thanks, sir. Can’t imagine why either.” Brad had given up on convincing Angus to come and had eventually just scooped the boy detective up. It probably says something about how tired Angus actually is that he hadn’t protested.
“Yeah, Brad, really, the fight was just getting good!” Carey whines, and Killian grins, still looking lovestruck over her girlfriend.
Leon grumbles something Brad can’t make out, still hiding in his corner as far from Taako as he can get.
“Yeah, Brad, I don’t know. What’s going on?”
“Is this, like, some kind of HR emergency or intervention?”
“Yeah, did something happen?”
Noelle, Johann, and Avi ask in turn.
“All right, all right, everyone shut up and let the man talk!” Merle yells, shooting Brad a grin. Davenport nods from where he’s standing next to the dwarf. It had actually been Merle to bring the gnome in, too, comfortably hand in hand.
“Thank you, Merle. Please, everyone, be seated.” Brad says, and everyone hesitantly, somewhat confusedly, sits on the mattresses Brad conjured up in the cafeteria. Brad himself sits in a rocking chair. “So. I, uh, it has come to my attention that-” Brad stops. This is all wrong. Too formal, too closed off. Definitely not going to work this way. So he jumps ahead in his plan and pulls out a book. “My, uh, my grandmother used to read this to me when I was a young orc. She probably regretted it, too, considering I ended up as a bard, but-” He shrugs, and holds up the book.
“Hey, uh, Brad, man? Why do you have a kids’ book? Like, no judgment or anything, but why?” Johann asks.
“Good question, Johann. Gold star.” Brad successfully manages to throw the lightweight sticker over to Johann, who looks a touch confused, but gratified. “You see, this book, this book is very important to me.”
“‘Good Night, Moon’ is important to you, sir?”
“Yes, Angus. Gold star.” Brad throws another sticker to Angus. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to read it to all of you, and then, uh, really explain things, though I think this book might actually help with that.” And so Brad cracks open the familiar book, the unmistakable scent of aged pages and older words meeting his nose. Brad smiles and begins to read.
And, lest anyone forget, Brad is a bard and words his instrument. A spell falls over his audience, soon becoming captive to the familiar, but not too familiar, almost forgotten story. There is silence as Brad finishes, but a comfortable one, one that drapes over them all like a warm blanket on a cool night. It seems like no one is prepared to break it.
So it’s Brad who does. “So.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to, to share this, to have this-” He gestures out at the tables moved to the side, the mattresses, pillows, and blankets spread across the room. Taako has already accumulated a positive fortress of pillows around himself. “-because it has come to my attention that none of you are sleeping properly.” There are some murmurs at that, some indignant straightening of spines, but Brad holds up a hand. “Look at the hour. Look at how I found you all in the middle of the night, awake. That isn’t healthy. That isn’t how we save the world. We, all of us, have to care for ourselves to care for the world. Please. You need sleep.”
There’s a few beats of silence. No one says anything, but Merle gives him a thumb’s up. That’s, that’s good, right?
“I’m sorry, Brad.” The Director says from her mattress, still stately even sitting cross-legged in her robe “You’re quite right. We should all be taking better care of ourselves. There’s… there’s enough darkness ahead, and we need to be prepared for it.”
“Thank you, Madam Director.” Brad says. Angus yawns. Then Noelle. Then a whole chain of yawns. “So. I, uh, I realized that everyone might be a bit sleepy after this, so, I uh… made a slumber party of sorts?”
“Hell yeah, my dude! Fuck! It! Up!” Taako says as he flops back onto his mattress.
“But I wanted to finish my chapter.” Angus’s lower lip is jutting out in that way children get when they’re overtired and liable to turn teary-eyed as well.
“Oh! Oh! I know what to do!” Magnus leans over and grabs Angus’s book. Unlike other instances, it doesn’t turn into a game of keepaway though. Magnus crawls over the floor, book in hand, and hands it to Brad. “Come on, Brad! One more story?” Magnus makes puppy dog eyes. Brad understands why the Director has such an easy time with his persistent requests to get dogs on the moon.
“I don’t-”
“I think that’s a great idea.” Merle calls loudly.
“Hell yeah!” Taako scrambles up to join him and Magnus. “We’ll do voices and everything! Ango’s nerd book is great for that shit!”
“Gee, thanks, sir.”
Brad looks around. Everyone does look sleepy, but also eager. Surely one more story couldn’t hurt. Brad opens the book.
And when morning comes, the sunlight slowly peeks through the cafeteria windows to alight on thirteen beings, spread out across mattresses and blankets and pillow nests, sound asleep at last.
Good night twin moons
Good night all Faerun
Good night Neverwinter town
Good night everyone around
Good night mountains sharp like Teeth
Good night Swords in their sheath
Good night Bottlenose Cove
Good night trees and Druid grove
Good night fighters, rogues, and rangers
Good night those who started strangers
Good night those who magic cast
Good night those whose strength will last
Good night captain and good night ship
Good night tongue that soon won’t trip
Good night one in hidden cave
Good night club and helm and glaive
Good night fire waiting to burn free
Good night her forgotten memory
Good night she who writes the words
Good night to the seven Birds
Good night to Tres Horny Boys
Good night past and future joys
Good night each and every place
Good night, good night, dear moon base
So rest well, heroes, it won’t be long
Until we reach our story and song
Now, you all, yes, you, go the duck to sleep.