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Fala Lefaliir was having a perfectly normal morning until a drow crashed through their greenhouse roof.

I thought the fireball was shocking, is their first thought. It’s only been a week since Trollskull Alley was blown up, after all, and the chaos has finally died down. Most of the neighbors are still keeping to themselves, in fear of a walk down the street leading to their untimely death. Even the nice—if odd—group of adventurers who moved into the old Trollskull Manor have been surprisingly quiet lately, possibly even absent (although the tiefling musician had publicly cried all over his gnome friend on the front stoop the other evening). Either way, the whole affair had been more danger and excitement than Fala tends to care for. 

A drow falling through Fala’s greenhouse roof is… well, not any less dangerous. Likely moreso, really. Fireballs are instantaneous, but drow might stick around until direct action is taken. The glass can be repaired, the plants can be healed, but Fala isn’t necessarily in the mood to deal with combat, if it comes to that. 

They haven’t even finished their morning tea. 

Currently, the drow on the floor of the greenhouse is cussing up a storm… or Fala thinks they are. There’s enough of a dialectical difference between high elvish and underdark elvish that perhaps the drow on the floor is cussing the sky blue about the Thorn Whip that Fala’s instinctively cast on them...or perhaps they’re simply commenting on the weather. 

The drow looks to be on the young end of adulthood. More petite than a surface-dwelling elf, and slim but lithe. White hair cropped in a very non-traditionally short style for an elf of any culture, with both sides shaved, bangs falling loose over an ink-dark forehead. Sharp grey eyes, the color of the sea, trained right on Fala’s own brown ones. 

The thing is, they don’t look… well, evil. The drow’s expression is difficult to read, but it doesn’t radiate murderous intent. Actually, mostly it radiates baffled consternation.

“Why were you on top of my greenhouse?” Fala blurts out. They pout at the drow, then at their own Thorn Whip. They hadn’t even meant to cast it, and as it digs into the drow’s arms they’re starting to feel a little bad about it.

“Why does your roof have an invisible box over it?” the drow retorts. They finally manage to get to their feet. Their fingers twitch toward a strange metal…weapon at their hip. The thing looks vaguely like a pipe with a handle, or a crossbow without the bow part. The drow tries to glance up at the greenhouse roof, hisses at the light pouring through it, and skitters backwards a few feet out of the morning sun. Fala stares at them trying to squirm far enough away from the Thorn Whip to duck under the large leaves of a hosta plant. 

“I feel like my question is more pressing.” The yew wand up Fala’s sleeve rests just barely in their hand. Druidry is not an oft-needed art in the big city, outside of growing unique and hard-to-acquire herbs and ingredients to keep the shop competitive. But when one happens to be casual friends with Zhentarim agents, one keeps a weapon up one’s sleeve in self-defense. Just in case.

Oh, Fala does not enjoy fighting.

“Who booby traps a roof garden?!”

“It’s not a trap, it’s a greenhouse. For temperature control.” Fala isn’t entirely sure why they’re dignifying their unexpected visitor with a response. “Are you going to try to kill me?”

The drow stares at them balefully. If Fala didn’t know better, they’d have thought the drow looked insulted. “And wake up half the neighborhood? No! Ever heard of stealth, surface dweller?”

Fala has zero idea how to respond to that. Without taking their eyes off the drow, they set down their tea on the nearest flat surface, and slowly remove the yew wand the rest of the way from their sleeve. With a flick, the Thorn Whip dissipates back into the planters. As it recedes, the drow’s eyes widen, first at the retreating vines, then at Fala. Disbelief is plain on their face.

“Please leave my house, if you don’t intend to kill me,” Fala says, as levelly as they can manage. “Through the back door downstairs into the alley, if you’re so concerned about panicking my neighbors.”

The drow, for what it’s worth, looks as surprised as Fala feels, and removes their hand from the hilt of their odd weapon. They step further backward, away from the scattering of broken glass, and trip over a planter box, sprawling to the floor with an undignified yelp. 

“More traps! You’re a crafty fucker, surface elf,” says the drow. Fala can’t quite stifle their giggle.

***

Here is what Fala was taught about the drow of the underdark, growing up:

• They are evil,
• They are untrustworthy, and
• They will kill you without hesitation.

This is a thing that most surface folks learn, regardless of culture or species. Elves in particular make sure their children know the story of how Lolth corrupted the other children of Corellon, turned them spiteful, ambitious, and cruel. How they were driven underground to live in the dark and then became the darkness themselves. The drow are in part a scary story to keep the children of men in their beds at night, and the children of elves trancing with one eye open when they’re alone. They are in part a cautionary tale of consorting with gods you haven’t met. 

The drow who fell through Fala’s greenhouse clearly had not killed them without hesitation, as Fala had been taught that drow would. Days later, Fala is still breathing easy, not even injured. In a burst of impulse, Fala had even offered to patch up the few scrapes and cuts the drow had sustained from the broken glass before showing him—and it turned out that “him” was correct, actually—to the door, which had startled him almost as much as falling through the greenhouse roof. He’d refused Fala’s help for his minor injuries, but his cheeks had darkened in a flush at the suggestion first, and the fact that he didn’t stab Fala over the indiscreet offer was far kinder than what was expected.

Here is what Fala has figured out for themself, since their childhood:

• Nature is neither good nor evil. 
• All beings, all creatures, all peoples, are each a part of nature, one way or another.
• Following that, no being is inherently or un-changeably evil. 

The more time Fala spends in the city, among infinite types of people, perspectives on faith, and versions of a “normal” life, the more their druidic practice grows to encompass those ideas. Nobody and nothing is evil in a vacuum. Fala has met goblins who live in the city, perfectly amiably. Tieflings by the dozen—there’s a whole tiefling neighborhood in the Dock Ward, and their yearly street festivals are the talk of the town for weeks. The odd private detective living next door to Fala is a rakshasa , for Corellon’s sake—everyone on the block knows it, and nobody says anything because he believes he’s very good at keeping the secret. And on the odd occasion Fala sees him out of his house, he tips his hat just as politely as the humans, dwarves, gnomes, and elves do.

Suffice it to say, Fala does not immediately slam the door when the drow who fell through their greenhouse shows up again three nights later. 

This time, at least, he’s at the front door. No inherent evil, they remind themself. A belief they’ve held for years, put into practice. This one might not be here to kill me. Might.

“You sell potions,” says the drow, warily. “Sell me some.”

If Fala’s being perfectly honest, even without their non-traditional elven beliefs on the “inherent” evil of the drow, they think any elf would be hard-pressed to find this drow threatening. Though it’s late evening and the sun has already set, he is wearing an enormous floppy sun hat over his short hair, and though it is not especially cold out yet at this point in autumn, a massive scarf as well. Possibly it’s to disguise himself in the streets. Not a mage, then, thinks Fala, which is somewhat of a reassurance if things do turn nasty.

Fala wonders why he simply didn’t enter from the hole still in the greenhouse roof. It’s been tarped over, but yet to be fixed. Yet more reason to believe the drow is here for, if not noble purposes, at least neutral ones.

“Why were you on my roof the other day?” asks Fala. The drow pinches the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed.

“It’s none of your business.”

“It is, in fact, the roof of my business.”

Translating between dialects, the drow belatedly realizes the wordplay and smirks. “Fair. If I tell you, will you sell me a potion?”

Fala shrugs. “I may well do so, if you’re honest.”

The drow weighs this for a long moment, biting his lower lip in consternation. Eventually, he says, “Boss wants an eye kept on your adventurer neighbors.”

“Your boss being...?” Fala is not the greatest with the dialectical differences, but there’s a definite note in his choice of word for boss that they think implies crime boss. To his credit, Fala’s seamless use of a different word for boss-as-in-employer does catch the drow’s attention as well. 

“Now that’s none of your business.”

Many things in this city are none of my business, thinks Fala, musing on their unlikely friends in the Zhentarim. Funny what details people will spill unwittingly over drinks. Funny how everyone forgets that their friendly drinking companion, who gently patches them up after their skirmishes and scuffles, isn’t really a member of the Black Network. 

Fala has a whole mental scrapbook devoted to things that are none of their business. 

“Everything is the business of the local healer when the knives come out,” is what they say to the drow, because Fala knows perfectly well how to be a resource, and not collateral damage.

The drow stifles a laugh. “A fair point again. It’s none of your business yet, and if you know what your neck’s worth you’ll keep it that way.”

Fala smiles softly. They think about accidentally owing their life to a Zhentarim agent and inextricably linking themself to a whole underworld of chaos. Fala thinks about the tension in the streets between the Zhents and the Xanathar guild. They think about rumors of nobles getting into devil worship—none yet founded, but rumors to be watched all the same as Fala carefully curates their stock away from certain herbs oft used in ill rituals. They think about an unexpected drow on the rooftop, spying on the new adventurer neighbors.

Nature, in a vacuum, is not good or evil. 

Fala is good. They choose it every day, knowingly, because to them, good feels right. Nature, however, knows no cultures, no creeds, no laws. And often, Fala chooses that too. There are plenty of laws in plenty of places that would have Fala themself thrown out of the city gates or worse. Some laws, some unspoken rules of society, are meant to be broken, because the law, the norm, the tradition is not always good .

“What kind of potion do you need, friend?” they ask, smiling gently.

***

The drow’s name is Fel’rekt. He is curious and surprisingly friendly—if perpetually a bit on-guard—and the weird weapon he carries is called a “firearm.”

“But it isn’t an arm,” says Fala, who suspects they’re misinterpreting.

“Arm like armory,” Fel’rekt clarifies, the last word in the Common tongue. “And fire because you fire it like a—never mind.” He eyes the chintzy teacup Fala’s placed on the table before him. Sniffs the steam rising from it. “You don’t mean to poison me, do you, druid? I could kill you before I hit the floor. I won’t do it! But just so you know, I could.”

“I have no doubt,” says Fala, who began to suspect the moment Fel’rekt returned to their shop that he was actually about as dangerous as the fool of a tiefling adventurer across the street—which is to say, plenty dangerous, but not inclined to be by nature so much as pushed there by circumstance. Fel’rekt is genuinely pleasant, if not by elven standards then certainly by Waterdeep’s. Definitely pleasant by drow standards. Fala wonders what drow society is really like, because if it’s anything like they’ve been told it is, then they have no idea how in the world it managed to spit out an elf like Fel’rekt. 

(“Where do you get a weapon like that?” was asked, as well. Fel’rekt refused to answer, and it is not the first nor the last time that a topic of conversation enters the black box of Things Fala and Fel’rekt Do Not Discuss. As friendly as both of them are, the box was already very full even after the first meeting.)

Fel’rekt squints at the tea. “You take a sip first. So I know it’s not poison.”

Fala shrugs, and takes a sip from Fel’rekt’s teacup. It’s a soft jasmine blend, with a hint of vanilla. “Now if it is, we’ll both die,” they tease. Fel’rekt stiffens, and then realizes it’s a joke, and glowers at them. 

“You’re a bit mean for a surface elf. I like it.”

“What?” Fala shoots a confused glance at Fel’rekt over the top of a large flowering plant. Fel’rekt isn’t looking at them, but he is drinking his tea. 

“I don’t trust anyone who’s only ever saying nice things. You have to be a little mean to really mean it when you’re nice.”

“Is that a you thing or an underdark thing?”

“It’s a me thing because it’s an underdark thing. This is weird but good,” he adds, nodding to the tea. “Can I take some with me? It’s fun to watch everyone freak out about surface flavors.”

“Everyone?”

Fel’rekt purses his lips and scrunches up his face in irritation. He does not say who “everyone” is, and Fala makes quiet note of the fact that there may be several drow in Waterdeep. “I can package some up for you,” they say. And, “I’m not mean; I’m Waterdhavian. Now, I’m going to need one of your hairs for this potion. You can give it to me yourself, or I can come over there and—”

“Fuck you,” says Fel’rekt, already taking a dagger to the long end of his bangs.

***

The adventurers across the street are not all the same people that moved in two months ago. The day of the fireball, Fala finds out, several of them did perish, apparently not in the fireball but later, investigating it. It saddens Fala that they’d never gotten to know the ones who passed, and that they don’t yet know the surviving ones well enough to be more than an awkward condolence. The trio who were left alive, and the new few they’ve hired on, are apparently now mixed up in some “real crazy shit.”

Fala learns most of this when the tiefling bard, Mercutio, comes by for more healing potions, looking like he hasn’t slept in a week and inexplicably covered in jewelry he definitely can’t afford. Fala had hugged him, given him a potion on the house, and told him to come by if he needed a break or a pick-me-up. He’d shrugged and said he was caught up in something nasty that had to do with the fireball and the city’s safety. He left muttering something about “fucking pirates.”

Fel’rekt confirms the details to Fala over a meal of street meat on sticks the next evening at the Sea Maiden’s Faire, with a borrowed hat of disguise rendering him human-looking to the people of Waterdeep. “My boss is, well… sort of—helping? Helping is a strong word—dealing with them. He’s been… he’s got me keeping an eye, in any case. ‘s why I was trying to get up on your green roofhouse.”

“I see,” says Fala, who absolutely does not see, but that’s the most detail they’ve been able to pry out of Fel’rekt about his job yet. They hope Fel’rekt’s maybe-a-crime boss has good intentions for the adventurers, because Fala’s gotten rather attached to poor Mercutio. Fala supposes if worse came to worse, they could ask Ziraj to kindly and discreetly deal with Fel’rekt’s boss, but Fala also gets the impression that Fel’rekt likes his boss, and they would hate to ruin this new budding companionship. 

Also, the less favors they owe to the Zhentarim’s most notorious assassin, the better. A life debt is already plenty. 

“It’s just ‘greenhouse,’” they add offhandedly.

“Ah, is it? Huh. Well, anyway, the city’s been turning itself inside out over the Sto—the crazy shit,” Fel’rekt says. He takes an enormous bite of food before Fala can question him about what he was about to say; they share a begrudging glance that says we both know there’s a question going unanswered here and it’s going to remain unanswered. “Boss is hoping to get a handle on the situation with the… help of your neighbors, but y’know how it is.”

“I really don’t,” says Fala. “I’m just an herbalist. A potion-seller. Not a… whatever it is you do for a living.”

“I’m a pirate,” says Fel’rekt, grinning sharply. As far as Fala knows (“fucking pirates”), that’s true.

“Bullshit,” they say anyway.

“A spy.” Felrekt wiggles his fingers dramatically.

“Maybe.” They don’t think it’s anything that official.

“A mercenary.”

“In Waterdeep, that’s half the population.” Fala laughs, and Fel’rekt shrugs noncommittally. “But I still think you’re keeping ninety percent of it from me.”

“Might be, herbalist. Might be. As you say, it’s Waterdeep; you probably are too. Just a potion seller, my ass.”

At the end of the street, the duo finds a low seafront wall to perch on while they finish their food. Fala digs through their shoulder bag and hands Fel’rekt the cloth-wrapped mason jar full of finished potion. “Take this in two-ounce doses weekly, not all at once. It’s different than instantaneous transformation magics, it’s a more permanent restructuring—I don’t know if you’ve ever been polymorphed or transformed with magic before?”

Fel’rekt laughs. “Now it’s my turn to think you’ve said something unbelievable. Who’s been polymorphed on the regular?”

Fala smiles, sets their food down, focuses their druidic power, and transforms into a fox. Fel’rekt nearly drops his street meat. He stares at Fala for a long, long moment, before curiously reaching out and patting their flicking fox ears.

“Lolth’s saggy tits, what sort of magic is that?” Fel’rekt is downright giggly as Fala tilts their head to let him pet their fur for a moment, before transforming back into themself. Fel’rekt’s hand twitches in the air just short of stroking Fala’s long, braided hair, but he pulls it back quickly enough that it might have been Fala’s imagination. Might have. 

“Druidic magic,” Fala says. “Are there not druids in the underdark?”

“None that turn into—whatever that was.”

Fala is struck, suddenly, with the true breadth of difference in their life experience. The underdark and the surface might as well be different planes of existence, for all their cultures, laws, and ecosystems cross over. It feels almost ridiculous to them when they ask, “You’ve never seen a fox?”

Fel’rekt gets a strange, far-off look in his eyes as he gazes out over the vibrant autumn cityscape. “I’ve never seen a lot up here.”

***

“Oh my gods, look at them all.”

Fel’rekt is covered in cats. 

Manycats Alley, aptly named for the horde of strays that frequent it to mooch scraps off the butcheries, is one of Fala’s favorite Weird Places in the city. They try hard not to look at the mysterious stone heads protruding from the alley’s buildings, which are spooky, but not spooky enough to deter them from a regular stroll to pet dozens of cats at once.

“Do they bite?” asks Fel’rekt, holding a black cat up to his face. The cat licks his nose and Fel’rekt chirps in surprise. Fala fights down the urge to squeal at how cute it is. The cat, of course. Fel’rekt is… well, that’s the thing. Fel’rekt is also cute. Despite his rough exterior, his enthusiasm is catching, and his open wonder is so pure, it tugs at Fala’s heartstrings.

“Sometimes.”

“Is it poisonous?”

“No. They have retractable claws, though.”

Fel’rekt almost drops the cat. It meows at him indignantly

“Tiny claws. Harmless. People keep these as housepets.”

“Back in Menzoberranzan, folks keep venomous tarantulas as housepets.”

“Point made.” So Fel’rekt is from Menzoberranzan. Another note in the list of facts accidentally let slip.

Fala has, by this point in their new friendship, learned to roll with the wild things they’re learning about the culture of the underdark. They processed some of it over hookah the other day with Mercutio, the tiefling bard from across the street, who has apparently also been dealing with the “boatful of drow bullshit.” Fala tried not to read too far into that, but “boatful of drow” coincides startlingly well with the arrival of the Sea Maiden’s Faire and Fel’rekt’s pirate comment, and Fala is certain now that they saw a spider on the shoulder of one of the Faire’s crew members. 

“Boss wants more of that tea of yours, by the way,” says Fel’rekt. “And any sweeter ones, if you have ‘em.”

“I can do that. How does he feel about florals?” 

Fala Lefaliir, local herbalist and minder of one’s own business, may very well be supplying sweet tea to a drow pirate ship masquerading as a traveling circus troupe. Stranger things have happened in the Realms, but not by much. And not to Fala—well, except the part where the Zhentarim’s scariest lich-hunting assassin and local roof-hopping vigilante cryptid saw fit one day to rescue them from being mugged, and now crashes at their house so regularly he has his own room. 

Stranger things. 

“I’m taking this one home,” Fel’rekt adds, holding up a kitten in one hand. She is black and white, with a spot on her chin that makes her look like she’s got a goatee. “I’m going to name it Spider.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

***

Over the next few weeks, Fala learns a lot of wild shit about Fel’rekt. Some of it, they don’t even learn from Fel’rekt himself—getting drinks every now and then with the Doom Raiders makes one privy to a litany of underworld gossip. 

Most of the gossip at large is stuff Fala wishes they could spend their entire life living completely unaware of. Notions like “There might be a clone of the Zhent’s old archmage boss running around fighting his other clones for supremacy,” and “the Cassalanter children may or may not be undead and/or possessed, but it’s genuinely hard to tell, they might just be going through a phase like kids do,” and “someone stole and killed the Xanathar’s gods-damned fish, watch your back at all costs.”

Despite appearances, Fala Lefaliir has lived the kind of life where they not only know that Waterdeep is home to a Beholder crime lord, they know about the Beholder crime lord’s favorite pet. This is a fact one just has to come to terms with, or risk losing one’s marbles. 

In their most unguarded moments, though, Fala might admit to themself—only just barely, just quietly, in the furthest back reaches of their mind—that they’re really intrigued. That they like to know. They like to be involved, to see the city’s darkest secrets yawning open before them like a book they’re not supposed to be reading. It feels like mischief. It feels like power. It feels—   

“The whole boatful, I swear.”

“All three boats, I heard.”

“Definitely not all three.” 

“Three whole boatsful of drow. A drow mafia dressed up as a circus. Wild if true.”

Fala has long since learned that it’s best to smile and nod when listening to gossip at drinks with Ziraj and the Doom Raiders, even if Fala nearly chokes on their ale at the word mafia. They learn a lot more Zhentarim secrets by subduing their usual joviality and fading into the background of conversation, because aside from Ziraj, who knows Fala won’t go talking to the neighbors about it, the others tend to forget they’re there. They can get away with a lot more listening when the Doom Raiders get deep in their cups.

“You know who they are, right?” says Davil Starsong, leaning in conspiratorially, pointy ears twitching excitedly. “Or who they probably are. So few famous drow outside the underdark, it can’t be nobody but them.”

“Drizzt Do’urden?” guesses Tashlyn. Fala can already see her fingers twitching toward her axe, eager for a challenge against a worthy opponent.

Davil scoffs. “Since when did the legendary Drizzt Do’urden have a gang? Much less a mercenary crew.”

“Then who, O Great Master of Opportunities?” Skeemo Weirdbottle teases, but Fala can tell he’s just as interested as the rest.

Usually, it’s just gossip, and Fala loves to be up to date on the local gangs’ gossip so they know when to corner the market on healing potions and salves. But increasingly, after the explosion in Trollskull Alley, after half the adventurers across the street were killed, and the poor sweet bard came back darker and brooding, after a certain drow with a firearm started visiting on the regular… Fala listens a little more carefully.

Davil whispers the supposed identity of the organization, and names its notorious leader. Fala watches eyebrows raise and hears breaths intake amongst the sharpest knives in Waterdeep’s underworld armory, and mentally takes a lot of notes.

***

Later, Fel’rekt says, “Of course we aren’t mafia.” His voice is deepening, thanks to Fala’s potion of gender realignment. Fala preens a little; they haven’t brewed that potion for more than maybe six customers over the years, and they’ve never had the privilege of getting to watch its effects in real time. Fel’rekt, jaw a little sharper, eyes definitely brighter, is perched under a table of tomato plants, spyglass in hand. He’s peeking in on Trollskull manor again. Fala agreed to let him use the greenhouse if Fel’rekt would pay to fix the roof, and also condescend to use the door like a normal person instead of dropping in from above. Fel’rekt had agreed, on the condition that Fala continue to keep him company, and quite frankly that was hardly a condition at all.

Fala had not mentioned where they’d heard the mafia rumor, or even that there was a rumor at all. They’d pitched it as another wild hypothesis as to Fel’rekt’s true profession, and been shot down with a laugh.

“Organized crime implies we’re organized,” adds Fel’rekt under his breath. “Like herding flumphs, I swear.”

Fala shrugs. “You have a boss, which implies hierarchy and leadership.”

“And the majority of it below the neck is steeped in chaos. Half the time, so is above the neck. Tell nobody I said that.”

“My lips are sealed. Speaking of steeping, your tea is going cold.” Fala nods to the cup on the rim of the raised planting bed behind Fel’rekt. He blindly reaches behind himself to grab for it; Fala pushes it gently into his hand. Their fingers brush, and Fala bites their lip. Touch is more casual, now, and Fala almost wants to start pushing the limit of what Fel’rekt will allow. A hand on his arm, to guide him on the street when the sun is too bright? Their legs touching as they sit side by side?

“I can’t believe they’re still talking about this fucking automaton.” Fel’rekt nods across the street.

“They haven’t found it? I know for a fact two of them can cast locating magic.”

“In their defense, half the reason the boss even likes that tiefling is because he’s a pretty face with absolutely nothing going on behind the eyes.”

Fala scoffs. While true, they think Mercutio deserves maybe a little more intellectual credit for surviving this long.

Fel’rekt scrunches his nose up, pouting. “But…these are the people we’ve put our faith in to find the Stone, unbelievable.” 

Fala doesn’t question that at all, even if they’re deeply curious about what “the Stone'' is. It’s almost certainly one of those Things They Don’t Talk About. They’re certain if they mention that Fel’rekt said that aloud, that it’ll be the end of their little arrangement.

Fel’rekt is nonetheless right about Mercutio though; he’s a handsome fool who merely thinks he’s extremely clever. Wiser than expected, though; they wonder if Fel’rekt’s boss knows how insightful the bard can be. It may just come back to bite him if he's not careful. He has a feeling Mercutio probably thinks he’s playing Fel’rekt’s boss like his trademark fiddle. For all any of them know, he may well be.

 “Captain says he’ll give you fifty gold for a whole sack of that tea to take home with him,” he adds, sipping his drink.

“Oh, it’s Captain now, not boss?” Offhandedly, they tease, “So is there truly a crew of drow aboard the ships of the Sea Maiden’s Faire?”

Fel’rekt flushes a deep purple, and Fala realizes that in their specificity they’ve somehow gone too far. They’ve never outright strung the whole line of details together aloud. He rounds on Fala, and Fala is struck, suddenly, with the realization that they have absolutely zero fear of him, despite the fact that he’s almost certainly an actual member of a drow mercenary gang. 

Fel’rekt’s fingers twitch on the hilt of his gun. Fala doesn’t blink. 

“How do you—forget that, how much do you know?”

“I’ll take it I’m correct, then,” Fala mutters under their breath. “Barely anything, is what I know. You’ve been tasked to watch my neighbors because of some stone your boss is in search of, and that boss is apparently the infamous Jarlaxle of Bregan D’aerthe. Making you a member thereof.”

There’s no reason to lie. In fact, lying might be worse. If they lay all their cards on the table now, maybe Fel’rekt will forgive it. Maybe this is salvageable.

“That’s already far too much, how in the nine hells do you even know that?!”

Fel’rekt draws his firearm. His hand is shaking. 

“Who am I going to tell, Fel’rekt?” Fala murmurs, reaching a gentle hand towards their enigmatic companion. 

Fel’rekt just stares back, eyes wide. “Whoever you heard those rumors from, I don’t know. You know too much. And it’s just hitting me that I know nothing of you.”

Fel’rekt doesn’t know who you know. That’s the thing, is…Fala could tell people. They could tell Ziraj. They could tell Mercutio, who despite being allegedly wrapped around Jarlaxle’s finger, also has the ear of the Blackstaff. Even though Ziraj and his friends would have a real laugh at the idea that Fala accidentally befriended a Bregan D’aerthe mercenary over potions of gender changing and tea, and they wouldn’t care enough to interfere in it without being paid (probably). Even though the Trollskull Manor crew—or at least Mercutio—already knows about Fel’rekt’s crew.

Fala backs up, placating, shocked to find that they really are in deep enough with Waterdeep’s underbelly that they have to spit it out in half-truths. “There’s not much to know. I’m an apothecary. I’m a civilian. I’m a good neighbor and I give my friends discounts on the merchandise, especially if they’ll smoke it with me. What more do you—”

“You’re a mage, I don’t know how powerful. You’re at least tangentially involved with them.” He nods in the direction of Trollskull manor. “And the boss’s intelligence says you have Zhentarim ties.” Fala flinches. Zhentarim ties sounds much more insidious than “friends with Ziraj, who incidentally is a high-ranking Zhent." Fala cringes at what it must sound like to someone who’s apparently been in competition with the Zhentarim for something this whole time.

“I’ve let you tease me about my background this whole time and I’ve shown you a lotta lenience in never pushing back. Give me a reason to trust you,” Fel’rekt demands. It almost sounds to Fala like he’s begging. 

Fala inhales deeply, steps forward, and lays a hand atop the barrel of Fel’rekt’s firearm. They summon all their bravery, holding it close in their chest. “I chose to let you get close to me knowing nothing of your affiliations and origins. I was never after your information, never spying on you. I simply saw a kindred spirit in need of, well, kindred. I thought we could be friends.”

“I thought—I never knew what to think. I was hoping one day you might just fucking tell me what your real deal was.” 

With a dawning, heartbreaking realization, Fala asks, “Were you trying to get closer to me because you thought I was the enemy?”

Fel’rekt’s expression drops from guarded to pure guilt, and Fala’s heart drops with it. That’s all they need to know.

“Your secret is safe with me, Fel’rekt Lafeen,” they say softly. “But I’m going to have to ask you to get off of my roof once more.”

***

Whatever the hell is brewing in Waterdeep comes to a head a week later.

Fala hasn’t seen even a glimpse of Fel’rekt on Trollskull Alley, so they presume he’s found someone else’s roof from which to spy on the neighbors. They also haven’t seen Ziraj or the Doom Raiders since drinks the other night, save for a brief paper bird from Ziraj letting Fala know that he might drop in unexpectedly “if things go weird in a day or so.”

Things, in fact, do go weird in a day or so. Fala happens to be out of the house when it happens. They’d gone on an errand to Phaulkonmere, to deliver a tincture for dealing with aphids to the Emerald Enclave, of all things. 

On the way home, from the slight incline of the South Ward, Fala pauses for a moment to take in the view of the Dock Ward, and sighs in melancholy at the sight of the Sea Maiden’s Faire. They haven’t been back to the carnival since the last time they saw Fel’rekt; it feels strange to wander through what Fala considers his territory without him.

A flicker of gold-red light bursts out of the corner of their eye, over the northwest end of the Dock ward. It shimmers, puffs up larger, and— oh, gods—balloons into an enormous fireball over the docks, and Fala’s eyes go wide. 

It’s a long way away, but Fala can make out the tiny pinprick of a figure floating in the air, near where the explosion originated. In the distance they hear a bell begin to chime, alerting the city guards to an emergency. A second explosion goes off, just as big as the first, and then a third—surprisingly far away from the first, as if a coordinated attack on two locations. Then more, like horrible fireworks, and it’s all too late before Fala realizes the Sea Maiden’s Faire is going up in flames.

Fala’s yew wand is in their hand in a heartbeat, and in the next they’ve changed themself into a gull, soaring out over Waterdeep. They want to curse Ziraj for downplaying the magnitude of what was about to go on in the city—if this is even what Ziraj was anticipating. 

In mere minutes, Fala is swooping over the bay, taking in the damage—the ongoing damage, as the fires keep blazing, and arcane comets streak across the sky. Up close, Fala can see the silhouette of a figure in a flowing cloak against the flames, one hand reflecting the light as if it were made of metal. Fireballs detonate one after another, and Fala’s avian throat goes dry from both the heat and the sheer understanding of how powerful a mage must be to wreak such total destruction.

The Sea Maiden’s Faire is unsalvageable. There’s nothing Fala can do at their caliber of druidic skill to stop so many flames, especially if it means risking notice by this devastatingly powerful wizard.

The most they can do is pay forward Ziraj’s favor of saving their life, and try to rescue whoever they can.

Fala flies low, dives beak-first into the sea. As they break the surface, they drop from their seagull form and change shapes again into a dolphin. It’ll cut off their easiest escape route, not being able to transform again, but for the next hour it means they can pull people out of the water to safety with ease. They start at once, making trip after trip, dragging people to shore in twos and even threes where size permits. 

Most of the people Fala pulls out of the water are alive, if varying degrees of injured. Some are not, and Fala chokes down regret and horror even as they pull the bodies out of the water. Someone will want to know, after all. Every one was somebody’s friend, someone’s family. 

There must’ve been an enormous enchantment on the Faire’s ships to disguise people, because Fala can’t imagine how else they were hiding this many drow . Fala makes sure to drop them off on the more secluded end of the beach, under the rocky cliffs of the Castle Ward instead of the waterfront where everyone could see them. After all, any number of them could be another Fel’rekt, running from a society bent on beating them into shape as killers and cultists.

Oh gods, Fel’rekt. Fala is rarely the praying type, but one does not name one’s apothecary after Corellon themself without owing some degree of fealty to the deity that gave the elves life. Let him be safe, Fala prays, searching the sea for any familiar wisps of short white hair. Let him not have been caught in this maelstrom. Even after everything, even if we were never really friends in his eyes—let him be okay. That’s all I ask; let him be alive.

***

Fala doesn’t make it home for another two hours, taking time to be as careful as possible when navigating the streets. It’s enough already to be an elf who appears out of nowhere after having just been a dolphin, but it’d be extremely obvious to a flying pyromaniac wizard if a dripping-wet elf who came crawling out of the bay was seen skulking around the city. They have no idea how thorough the wizard is being in wiping out the competition for… whatever it is that every dark faction in the city seems to be after. Either way, Fala doesn’t want themself and the nearest city block to become collateral.

When Fala gets home, there are two drow in their kitchen, which is 100% more drow than Fala is used to seeing there. One is lightly injured but clearly on edge, and the other is bleeding quite badly, and beside them is a life-size stone statue of what appears to be a third elf, firearm drawn and expression dire.

Fala stands stock-still for a solid minute in exhausted shock, and almost walks back out their own back door before they realize the badly-injured drow is Fel’rekt.

Their jaw drops. They have not yet found the words for what they’re seeing. Fala is dripping all over the floor, their hair is falling out of their braid, they’ve seen death up close today, and Fel’rekt Lafeen is beaten and bloody and slumped against their kitchen counter, looking ready to faint. 

Fel’rekt looks up at the sound of Fala’s entry. His face is covered in blood and he’s horribly burned all the way up his left side. He lets out a shuddering wheeze of breath that turns into a desperate little laugh. “You’re definitely not in with the Zhents,” says Fel’rekt. “Not with fucks like that running around with ’em. I owe you an apolo—”

“You owe me nothing,” Fala gasps. They roll up their sleeves, take out their wand, and get to work.

To begin, they get Fel’rekt’s companion to help carry him to the sofa in the sitting room. Fel’rekt’s friend is taller and wirier, with a thick wild mess of hair and several more scars. He doesn’t speak any common besides swear words, but the elven dialectic barrier is negligible by now. Fala has even figured out some Undercommon, by context clues. The friend curtly introduces himself as Krebbyg. He definitely cusses the sky blue in elvish and undercommon alike when Fala presses a cool, damp washcloth to his burns and tells him to hold it there while they treat his more injured companion.

“Shit, fuck, nipples on a yochlol , what in the nine hells is that, are you trying to hurt me worse?”

Krebbyg seems more or less fine despite his complaints, so Fala pats him on the burned arm for good measure. He yelps, eyes narrowing at Fala. But then he grins through the pain. “Oh, Fel wasn’t kidding. You’re fun for a surface elf.”

“I expect that’s a compliment,” they mutter offhandedly. With a glance at the statue, which Fala is coming to suspect in a stomach-churning fashion is a third drow, turned to stone, they say, “What sort of monster did this to you?”

Krebbyg laughs until he topples over into an empty chair. Fel’rekt cringes, but puts on a valiant face nonetheless. “Manshoon,” he croaks.

If the name’s meant to ring a bell, it fails to. Fala makes a note to grill Ziraj later, if they can find a way to do it that preserves Fel’rekt’s anonymity.

With the smallest, most delicate scissors they can find, Fala cuts Fel’rekt’s burned clothing off of him. He’s clearly uncomfortable with exposure, even this far through the transformation process wrought by the potion of gender change Fala had made for him, and Fala turns the stool they’re on to put themself between Fel’rekt and his friend’s line of sight.

“It’s just me,” they reassure him, even if it feels hollow in the face of Fel’rekt’s admission that he’d mainly gotten close to them to determine their true allegiance, if they were a threat or not. “I swear I will not hurt you.”

Fel’rekt takes in a shuddering breath. After a tense moment, he nods tersely, and allows Fala to begin treating his wounds. It’s a much more extensive job than his friend, for whom Fala will barely have to apply a salve and wrap his forearm in gauze. 

With a crack of their knuckles, Fala prepares to cast a healing spell they hadn’t planned to cast today. It’ll be a draining effort, but they’re not about to leave Fel’rekt to suffer, even after everything.

Fine time to come into your own as a back-alley doctor for the gangs of the city, Fala Lefaliir, they chastise themself. All it took was falling for the wrong person, and you’re prepared to do it all? Ziraj will never let you hear the end of it. If he ever finds out. 

“May I?” they ask, yew wand poised in their hand. Fel’rekt nods again, and Fala begins weaving a gentle stream of healing magic over his side. As soon as the magic touches his skin, Fel’rekt sighs, eyes dilating.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

“Do they heal differently in the underdark as well?” 

“I never—”

“We ain’t got that many holy mages on the crew,” Krebbyg interrupts from the other side of the room, still poking experimentally at his injuries. “Most of us get let off after a bad fight with gettin’ bandaged up by some’n less hurt, an’ a slap on the back to send us on the way.”

“Not a holy mage,” Fala corrects. “I’m a druid.”

“Well, still, not all of us are used to magic that ain’t used for harm. We got a healer or two, but—well, usually if you get got that bad, you don’t make it back to ’em in time. Only dragged Fel’rekt and Soluun here—” and here he nods to the statue, definitely a third drow, by the gods, “because Fel’rekt insisted you were safe.” 

Fala looks up at Fel’rekt to confirm this. His eyes have fluttered shut, his mouth hangs slightly open, and he’s just leaning into Fala’s touch where their hand is braced against his thigh.

Oh, thinks Fala. Oh, indeed.

***

“Maybe you should stay in the other room for this one,” suggests Fel’rekt, some time later, trying shakily to take the just-brewed pot of potion out of Fala’s hands.

“I’d rather apply this properly, it can be delicate.” Fala lies, trying to cover for the fact that they’ve never had to brew anything to reverse petrification before. Half the process had been leafing through every book and almanac they owned, and the other half had been desperately praying to Corellon in druidic so the pair of drow recovering on their sofa couldn’t tell how anxious they were. Fala genuinely has no idea if the potion has come out right. Grimly, they hope Fel’rekt and Krebbyg aren’t too attached to their statuesque comrade.

“No, I have to insist,” says Fel’rekt, still reaching for the potion with his good hand. “Soluun’s just—he’s not going to take it well, he—”

“He’s not as charming as you?” Fala teases on instinct, and then bites their lip, feeling awkward. Fel’rekt flushes slightly, fumbling his next attempt to take the pot.

Krebbyg, slightly taller than the pair, snatches the potion from Fala’s hands from behind them and holds it over their head. “Soluun’s been known to hunt your cousins for sport,” he says. “And I’d hate t’see Fel’rekt moping all over the boat if you got shanked.”

Fala’s stomach flips uncomfortably. Lips pursed, they remind themselves that Fel’rekt’s kindness is still pehaps an outlier, even amongst such a decidedly counter-culture group as an organization of renegade male drow. They suppose that, while some join the group for reasons like Fel’rekt, others are simply out for their own gains. Society is society no matter where it is, and there are always selfish people. 

A knock on Fala’s front door makes the final decision for them, and they begrudgingly leave the potion in the hands of Fel’rekt and Krebbyg while they go to answer it, hoping desperately it isn’t the city guard. 

On the doorstep stands, of all people, an audaciously-dressed human man with long wavy hair and a prodigious mustache. He wears a getup that, due to its lack of shirt, looks like it would best suit a pirate out of a bawdy stage play. Most of the outfit is actually just leather straps. The red leather boots cover far more skin than the equally red leather shorts. 

Fala vaguely recognizes him as the captain of the Sea Maiden’s Faire, and wonders if this might in fact be Fel’rekt’s boss. They’re genuinely not sure if they hope so or not. 

“Ah, good evening, my dear,” he croons, deep and satin-smooth with a faint accent placing him as coming from somewhere near Luskan. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, and I do thank you for the phenomenal tea… although I might be in need of an emergency re-supply. I seem to have suffered a catastrophic loss of the initial stock. Might I come in?”

He smiles, eyes sharp and narrow, teeth showing. Definitely Fel’rekt’s boss. Corellon Larethian have mercy.

The leader of Bregan D’aerthe, the legendary and infamous Jarlaxle, easily the most dangerous drow on the surface of Faerün—currently in disguise as a saucy scantily-clad human pirate-slash-carnie—waltzes into Fala’s apothecary without waiting for an answer. He braces his hands on the counter, swings his legs over it, and proceeds past the potion rack into the back of the shop as if nothing is wrong. 

Fala takes a deep, steadying breath, locks the front door, and draws the blinds.

When Fala returns to their kitchen, instead of seeing two drow, a statue, and a flamboyant human pirate, they instead find four drow. In Fala's few moments of absence, Fel’rekt and Krebbyg have used the potion to successfully (thank the gods) revive their friend: a flushed, pointy drow with pin-straight hair cut in a bob, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The fourth one, Fala can only imagine, is what was under Jarlaxle’s piratically pornographic disguise: a very elegant elf with dark grey skin, head shaved and topped with an enormous hat bearing an even more enormous feather, eyepatch and ornate leather duster jacket making him up to be a much more realistic pirate than his disguise. The heeled thigh boots and tight pants, maybe not so much, but regardless he cuts a handsome, intimidating figure. Jarlaxle might be a mercenary, but he could kill with looks alone, if need be. Everything about him, no matter how dashing, looks weaponizable. 

Fala fights to keep their jaw from dropping. It’s a quickly-losing battle. Even after all their time spent with Fel’rekt, it is a lot of ex-cultists of a spider demon goddess to have in one small room at once. Especially when one of them might be seriously inclined towards murder for fun. 

“It’s two in the morning,” Fala squeaks out, because two in the morning is the only time this kind of thing could possibly happen.

“That early?” muses Jarlaxle. “I’ll call it a head start, then! I appreciate you patching up my dear lieutenants.” He rests a gloved hand on Fala’s shoulder and smiles. He shows just enough teeth in the smile that Fala knows it is a gentle, amicable threat: you’d do well to maintain your status as a resource rather than a liability. 

I saved the lives of more than a dozen of your men in the harbor today, they think, and wonder if Jarlaxle knows. Instead of bringing it up—they might need leverage later—they shoot a glance at Fel’rekt and mouth, Lieutenant?  

Fel’rekt shrugs, and then winces, reaching towards his burnt shoulder. It’s mostly-healed, but he’s not going to be using it for a week at least.

“Are you telling me that saved my life?” the previously-stone drow—Soluun, they’d called him—sneers, turning a derisive glare toward Fala. “I refuse to accept it.”

He starts toward Fala, and Fel’rekt immediately throws an arm in front of him. 

“I can turn you back,” Fala lies darkly, and Soluun rocks back on his heels, seething in silence. Krebbyg and Jarlaxle both laugh.

“I can see why Fel’rekt is fond of you,” says Jarlaxle. “Unfortunately, we do have business to attend to, and it has no intention of waiting for me to set my affairs in order. To which, I again thank you for seeing to this particular business for me.” He offers Fala a surprisingly earnest, thankful smile this time, and a courteous tip of his hat. Fala’s nails dig into their palms as they do their best to hold their ground and not flinch, or bite their lip, or both. It’s easy enough for one with the wisdom of a druid to catch on that the overall tactic in play here is clearly manipulation through charm—but unfortunately, being of elven heritage only lowers one’s susceptibility to magical charm.

“Captain,” Fel’rekt hisses. Jarlaxle smirks at him, and tosses Fala a wink. Fala feels oddly as though they’re trapped in the room with a particularly salacious dragon.

Jarlaxle straightens up then, suddenly attentive and serious. “Krebbyg—take Soluun out the back door and catch the trail of our dear adventurers, why don’t you? Find out if they have the—”

“They do,” Krebbyg interrupts. “When shit got hairy, I made sure I passed it off to ‘em myself. Less suspicious. Your pet bard’s picked up a spell that can hide it from scrying. I’m pretty sure they’re home, actually.” He nods in the direction of Trollskull manor across the street.

“Not ideal, but better than any of the rest of them having it. I’d rather charm it out of Mercutio than have to show my hand. In that case, tail the Zhents and track down what’s left of the Xanathar’s fools. And put whoever’s still standing in the harbor onto intimidating the Cassalanters out of the running, if they haven’t yet gotten the message that they’re egregiously outgunned. Report back by dawn. I’ll handle our situation across the street.”

Both drow snap to attention, and after a bit of bustling, find their way out the back door of Fala’s home. Krebbyg smirks as he goes; Soluun flashes a vicious look in Fala’s direction, and Fala silently resolves to change the locks.

Jarlaxle sidles past Fala with a gentle hand on their lower back (dear gods, he is laying it on thick). He leans over their potions rack to peer out the window at Trollskull manor, where a single light is on in the corner tower. He hums something under his breath, and Fala dimly recognizes the tune of a shanty they’ve heard Mercutio play on his fiddle. Fala scrunches their eyes shut and says a prayer for Mercutio.

“Sir, what about me?” Fel’rekt asks, trying to stand up straighter, fighting his injuries with every inch. Healed though he is, he still looks ready to keel over at any moment. 

Jarlaxle eyes him up and down with a pout. “Much as I would love to deploy you as well, Fel’rekt, I’d be loath to lose a sharpshooter when I don’t need to.” He turns to Fala. “Have you a spare room where my faithful lieutenant can rest his head for the night?”

At the mention of a spare room, Fala suddenly recalls Ziraj’s insinuation that he might be dropping in, and hopes desperately that he’s not already upstairs listening through the pipes to every word of this conversation. If the Zhentarim is amongst the factions Bregan D’aerthe is going toe to toe with, well… that’s not something Fala would survive getting in between, friendships notwithstanding. This flamboyant elf before them might be cordial and grinning, but Fala has no doubt that, unlike Fel’rekt, he would kill them the minute they became a liability.

“He can stay with me,” says Fala nonetheless, with a confidence they don’t feel they truly possess. Corellon, do not ruin this for me.

“Splendid,” says Jarlaxle. He leans in to speak softly, so only Fala can hear. “I assume I don’t need to tell you not to breathe a word of what’s gone down here this fine early hour of the day.” 

Jarlaxle retreats, flashing a toothy grin at Fala. Nothing about the grin itself is violent; it’s a perfectly charming grin, all things considered. But Fala feels a dreadful chill run down their spine nonetheless.

“No, sir, absolutely not, sir,” they agree. “I can only imagine.”

“Good! Wonderful. I’ll stop imposing upon your gracious hospitality, then.” He turns to follow his men out the door, then wheels around on his pointed heel. “Although, might I trouble you for a cup of tea for the road? It’s going to be a long night yet, and I could do with a pick-me-up.”

***

Jarlaxle leaves with enough loose leaf tea to caffeinate his entire remaining crew. Fala watches him assume his disguise as Captain Zord, and then after a moment, chuckle darkly to himself, and the disguise shimmers and changes once more. Jarlaxle-as-Renaer godsdamn Neverember struts across the street toward Trollskull manor, humming to himself all the way. Fala sighs, says a final prayer for Mercutio’s sanity, and helps Fel’rekt up to their own bedroom. This proves to be a wise decision, as not ten minutes later, Fala hears Ziraj arrive in the guest room via the window.

“What in the nine hells is going on in Waterdeep today?!” Fala hisses under their breath as they lock Fel’rekt in their bedroom to check on their friend. He’s mostly uninjured, which is a huge relief; Fala doesn’t think they have another unprepared healing spell in them. But by the telltale scent of ozone and smoke, he seems to have been in the vicinity of the same fight that had nearly done in Bregan D’aerthe’s sharpshooters. As stressful as this is, Fala has learned their lesson about knowing too much, so they don’t ask directly about what “Manshoon'' might have to do with the Zhentarim, but they do question him about the fireballs.

“Far’s I can tell, a heist is goin’ on.” 

It’s more information than Ziraj usually directly allows, and more words than he usually uses in a sentence, so Fala doesn’t poke much further than that. They bring Ziraj something to eat, hug him, and leave him a healing salve on the bedside table, at which point someone knocks on the front door again. Fala hisses a particularly potent cuss under their breath as they leave Ziraj in the guest room.

At the door of Fala’s shop is Mercutio. He also looks suspiciously charred and seriously rattled. Seems half the city got into the same street fight, although the rattled expression might instead be because of his surprise visitor. 

“Mercutio,” Fala greets him, trying to look less like they crawled out of the bay, or spent the last few hours patching up grievous wounds and brewing mysterious potions, or pretending it’s not terrifying to have mercenary agents crawling all over their home. “It’s late—well, early. Is everything alright?”

“Fala, hey,” Mercutio drawls, leaning casually against the doorframe, trying in equal part to pretend he doesn’t look like he’s just been through at least six of the nine hells. “Don’tcha dare read into this the wrong way, uh. Gods, there ain’t no proper way to ask this, but—”

“I am not interested in amorous intentions, and I am out of healing potions, I’m so sorry.” Fala pinches the bridge of their nose, and hopes Mercutio doesn’t ask why. 

“What? No, neither of—amorous?! No, I need like, a fuckin’ powerful laxative. Not for me!” he elaborates quickly, turning somehow even redder than his natural tiefling skin tone as Fala stares in consternation at him. “We may have hired a goblin, who may have ate the Stone of Go—he ate somethin’ he weren’t at all meant to, and we need it outta him post-haste, ‘fore someone kills and guts him over it.”

I am not going to ask, Fala resolves. I am not going to ask, I am not going to ask. This is beyond none of their business and in fact bordering into audacity. They hope Mercutio’s stubborn foolhardiness and penchant for getting deep into bullshit gives Jarlaxle a run for his money. They hope Jarlaxle’s weaponized charm and biting grin give Mercutio a run for his money. Fala hopes both of them ruin each other’s nights enough that it gives Fala at least fifteen minutes to recuperate from the past twelve hours.

It takes hardly ten minutes to brew something useful for Mercutio and send him on his way, after which Fala locks every door and window, draws every curtain, puts out every light, and returns to their own room. They shut and lock the door behind themself, and slump back against it in exhaustion.

“Corellon preserve me,” they hiss. It has been a long, long day.

“Taking your god’s name in vain? I must be a sight for sore eyes.” 

Fel’rekt.

Fel’rekt is, Corellon preserve, in Fala’s bed, because with Ziraj in the spare room, where else would he be? He’s still shirtless, even if bandages are covering most of him. And for some reason, he’s smiling at Fala, although he won’t meet their eyes.

“I really do wanna apologize,” says Fel’rekt, softly. “It’s a hard thing to—I mean—nobody trusts, in Menzoberranzan... Everyone’s out to get you, and if you let anything slip, they will. Especially when you’re—like me, like us." He looks meaningfully down at his chest. "They can never know and you have to know more about them than they do about you, just in case they find out and you need leverage. They—” 

It looks like it hurts Fel’rekt to say aloud. Fala has no idea what to say, or where to even begin. They can’t imagine the damage a lifetime of indoctrination could do to a person, especially a person not naturally inclined to bend to the norms of a society. Had Fala been born a drow, in a culture that taught distrust and spite from birth... 

Nature is neither good nor evil, they remind themself. Plants can be trained to grow in a certain direction, to wrap around a trellis or crawl up a wall. Animals can be trained to hunt or attack, but they can also be trained to rescue, to comfort, to guard. People can be taught too, and they can learn to change overtime. Nothing is set in stone. We are nature too.

Fala crosses to the bed and perches on its edge, startling Fel’rekt from his increasingly frantic diatribe. They place one hand over his uninjured one, and his breath hitches.

“You have no need to apologize for how you’ve had to survive,” they insist.

“I do need to apologize for—I was spying on you, at first,” Fel’rekt admits. “Meeting you was an accident, but getting intel on you was on purpose. We had to make sure you weren’t a threat.”

“I can be a threat if I want.” Fala turns their nose up. Fel’rekt’s lips twitch into an almost-smile.

“I’m sure. I was getting close at first just to get more information on how you were tied to the Zhents,” he says, dejected. “But then you were… nice to me. And you kept being nice. And despite everything I’ve ever known telling me that anything that nice had to come with a catch, you didn’t stop being nice. You did me the most personal favor any has ever done me, brewing me that potion, and didn’t stop there. You walked around town with me, and you showed me cats, and you were—”

As his voice crescendos, Fala holds up a hand to stop him. “My close personal friend, Ziraj the Hunter, most feared assassin amongst the Black Network, is passed out in the guest room downstairs. Keep your voice down.”

Fel’rekt’s jaw drops. “Lead with that!” he hisses, indignant and shocked. “You’re friends with a lich hunter?!”

“It’s a very long story.” Fala laughs. 

“There’s a lich-hunting master assassin in your guest room.” Fel’rekt drags his good hand down his face in disbelief. “Who in Lolth’s name are you, Fala Lefaliir?”

“I am a simple potion seller,” they say, “...with friends in very odd places. I’m certain Lolth has little to do with it. The point is, I’m not remotely a member of the Black Network. I’m as tied to them as my friendship with you ties me to Bregan D’aerthe.

“Friendship,” murmurs Fel’rekt. “Is that what this is?”

“I thought it could be.” Fala pouts. “If you still wanted.”

Fel’rekt nods, hesitantly. He looks down at Fala’s hand, resting atop his. “Is that… all this is?”’

Fala feels their face heat up. Fel’rekt’s eyes widen. “Are you alright?” he gasps. “You’re red.”

Embarrassed, Fala claps both hands over their cheeks. “Goodness,” they murmur. Shaking themself, they pick up Fel’rekt’s good hand in their own, and carefully bring it to their lips, giving him ample time to pull away if he so desires. But he doesn’t. He watches them, eyes wide, pupils dilating in the dark, as they place a delicate kiss on his scraped-up knuckles.

“Friendship,” whispers Fala, “and more, should we care to discover.”

“It’s not…” Fel’rekt giggles, breathless and awkward, like he’s never used the muscles that make it happen. “I’ve never—it’s not something I know how to do.”

“It’s different every time,” Fala assures him. They lean in, nudging his nose with their own. Fel’rekt’s breath hitches, catches in the back of his throat as Fala’s lips brush ever so gently against his. He makes a soft, startled noise, and then leans forward far too fast, bumping their foreheads together with a smack.

Fala laughs, bright and refreshing. They let themself tip sideways onto the bed at Fel’rekt’s side, coaxing him down to lay beside them. He curls into himself, careful of his injuries. He reaches for them, unsure, expectant, and Fala takes his hand but pulls it down to rest between them on the pillow.

“When your wounds heal,” they say, soft and earnest, “I will kiss you proper, Fel’rekt Lafeen.”

Fel’rekt giggles again, a little more confident. “I think I would like that, Fala Lefaliir. But you’ll have to beat me to it.”

***

Because no gossip in Waterdeep is safe, it takes about a week after the whole Stone of Golorr incident wraps up for word to get around Trollskull Alley that Fala has a boyfriend of mysterious origin. A number of people assume it’s Mercutio, actually, which Fala suspects might be a conflation of a similar rumor that Mercutio had charmed his way into the good graces of a beautiful elf. Mercutio’s beautiful elf in question, however, happens to be a flamboyant and dangerous drow pirate from Luskan who has recently conned himself into a seat amongst the Lord’s Alliance.

It takes a week and roughly twelve further hours after the Stone of Golorr incident for Fala to be effectively kidnapped by Bregan D’aerthe.

Fala supposes it’s their own fault for not changing the locks fast enough after Jarlaxle and his lieutenants were in the house. They simply wake up one day to find themself not in their home, but instead seated in a fancy plush chair, sitting across the table from Jarlaxle himself, done up in exquisite finery, with a lavish pastry-and-fruit feast laid out between them.

“Eat,” says Jarlaxle, gesturing to the food.

“What,” says Fala, flatly.

Jarlaxle folds his hands on the table before himself, rings glittering with both polish and arcane warning. “You’ve been invited to an exclusive brunch with yours truly. We have things to discuss over mimosas. Eat, drink and be merry. Depending on your answers, it might be your last meal.”

Fala opens and shuts their mouth like a gaping fish. Jarlaxle laughs. He takes a dramatic sip of mimosa.

“I tease, I tease. But we do have things to discuss, and you do find yourself faced with a choice. You know far too much about Bregan D’aerthe’s involvement in the city’s affairs of late, and I must ensure you don’t go around saying anything to the wrong individuals.”

Fala crosses their arms. “I am a humble druid, good captain. I abide by no laws but the laws of nature. I assure you, I hold no allegiance to the administration of this city, nor any of its guilds or organizations, and therefore have no intention to reveal any machinations of you or your operation, whatever they might have been.”

“That is what I love to hear.” Jarlaxle smiles.

“My neighbor, however, has been sighing like a forlorn maiden for the past week,” Fala points out, because Mercutio had been back to visit them and unloaded the entire story to them in the days since. “I’d be far more worried about him outing your organization in vengeance should you lead him on only to cast him aside when your plans are through.”

Jarlaxle pauses mid-drink to narrow his eyes at Fala. “You really do know far more than you should, humble druid.” 

And you still don’t know that I saved half your men the other night, Fala thinks. Jarlaxle quirks a curious eyebrow at them, and Fala wonders if perhaps they’ve said something aloud by mistake. 

“So you’re not an official member of the Zhentarim, that much is obvious,” Jarlaxle inquires. “But a competent healer nonetheless, and quite capable of picking up information you surely aren’t meant to have with seemingly no effort whatsoever. Were you a drow, I’d offer you a very cushy—if dangerous—new career opportunity, but I suspect a humble druid such as yourself has little taste for our line of business. Also, were I to hire you as a non-drow, about half my other employees would quit or assassinate you, which would be a net loss overall.”

Fala blinks in shock at the joke of a theoretical Bregan D’aerthe job offer before shaking their head free of the idea. “As I said, I’m merely a local apothecary. My magic capabilities likely pale in comparison to any you have on your crew. I’m a druid who moved to the city, and I make use of what minor talents I have when the need arises.”

Jarlaxle smiles. “Even excusing the petrification relief potion you brewed, my lieutenants say they watched you perform a quite complex spell off of memory alone with zero pre-preparation. Now, I’m no spellcaster myself, but as I understand it, that’s quite the feat.”

Fala is silent. Healing magic is within the natural purview of any druid worth their salt, but to pull the energy forth without any pre-preparation is still no small task. Fala had slept for a solid day afterwards, waking to find Fel’rekt had vanished from their house despite his injuries. The act of magic had taken quite the effort to pull off, and left Fala unable to do any but the simplest cantrips for the next few days after.

“On top of that, several of my men reported being hauled from the sea by a very determined aquatic creature, and while I know less of druids than I do of other mages, I would assume that communicating with wildlife creatures falls well within your wheelhouse. Am I correct that you had a hand in that as well?”

Fala considers letting Jarlaxle believe that indeed a wild dolphin had been coaxed into saving his crew. It would indeed be within their purview to do as much, and they curse themself a little for not taking that simple way out—save for the fact that they hadn’t prepared a spell to speak with animals that day either.

What they really internalize, though, is that Fel’rekt seems to have neglected to tell his boss that Fala can Wild Shape. 

Jarlaxle doesn’t fall off his chair when Fala smiles and transforms into a deer, but his one visible eye does pop wide open, at least, so Fala will count that as a card now firmly on the table.

“Well,” says Jarlaxle. “I take that to mean you had a very direct hand in rescuing my men.”

Fala shifts back to their elven form, and finally lets themself have a sip of their drink. Regrettably, it is a fantastic mimosa. “I was simply paying forward a favor done for me in the past.”

At Jarlaxle’s raised eyebrow, Fala repeats what they’d said to Fel’rekt the last time they’d seen each other: “I’m no more friends with the Zhentarim than I am with Bregan D’aerthe. One of their number saved my life once, and now he is my friend. I am no more a member of the Black Network for having been saved by him, than I am a member of Bregan D’aerthe on account of saving any of your crew.”

Jarlaxle purses his lips curiously. “I’ve met a fair number of surface elves in my days. None have ever been quite like you. You’ve got a lot of odd strings attached to you, whether you like it or not.”

Fala smiles. The same odd feeling of being privy to the writhing world of the city’s secrets gnaws at the back of their mind, and they find that they’re less self-conscious of it now.

Jarlaxle stands, taking his drink with him. “Well, I don’t entirely trust you, but I suspect I have little reason to fear you, given at least one of those strings leads back to the Sea Maidens’ Faire. Regardless, this lovely meal before you is not for me.” He knocks on the door to the stateroom, and it is opened by two automata, which lead Fel’rekt inside. He’s not in his usual light armor and sharpshooter’s gear; instead he’s dressed in a simple but well-tailored silk shirt, dark trousers, and boots. He’s also blushing deeply, and refusing to make eye contact with Jarlaxle.

“I cannot believe you did this,” he hisses as Jarlaxle passes him.

Jarlaxle winks back at him. “Never let it be said that I don’t take care of my men. Fala Lefaliir—meet Luskan’s newest Lords’ Alliance representative in Waterdeep! I’m sure you, as a local, will do everything in your power to keep him comfortable and show him around the city, will you not? You will? Spectacular. Have a lovely meal.”

With that ridiculous proclamation, Jarlaxle makes his exit out the same door where Fel’rekt entered. The automata file out behind him, and the door shuts with a click of finality.

Fel’rekt stares determinedly out the nearest porthole, blushing luminously.

“No one quite like you indeed,” Fala hears him murmur.

“Heard that, did you?” Fala muses; Fel’rekt’s head snaps around to glare at them. “There’s no one quite like you, either,” they point out.

Fel’rekt purses his lips. “It’s all out in the open now,” he says casually, bracing his good arm on the back of the chair Jarlaxle left empty. His burnt arm hangs, still bandaged at his side, and Fala finds they want to do nothing more than rise from their own seat and cross the room to heal him further. “Whatever you’d figured out about me—it’s all out now. I’m a dangerous rogue agent, directly reporting to a nefarious bastard of fucking inscrutable motivation,” Fel’rekt yells this last bit at the closed door to the room. A teasing chuckle emanates from down the hall. 

Fala laughs, and Fel’rekt looks mollified. “If I was going to be scared off,” Fala says through their laughter, “It would’ve happened long ago. Perhaps when you pointed a mysterious weapon at me, or when I realized that the people you’re involved with had incurred the wrath of a devastatingly powerful fire wizard.”

Fel’rekt deflates a bit, but doesn’t look upset. 

“Besides,” says Fala, casually, “I go for drinks weekly with the Doom Raiders. Yes, your boss is intimidating, but I have friends in—well—low places.”

At this, Fel’rekt laughs himself, flinching when he twinges his burnt shoulder a bit. Fala does rise this time, crossing the room with healing magic already pooling in the palm of their hand. When they rest their fingertips against Fel’rekt’s shoulder, he readily leans into their touch, sliding forward to lean his forehead against Fala’s shoulder. Fala’s heart flutters with surprise.

“Y’know, this is lovely, but…” Fel’rekt nods around Fala at the fancy meal laid out behind them. “Can we maybe get outta here? I’ll buy you a different drink.”

“It’s not even noon.”

“Neither of us has ever let the conventional stop us before.”

“You’re absolutely right. Drinks it is.”