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Ferael is the only one glad to be camping in the wilds again, instead of staying at Last Light’s Inn. Away from Isobel. The Urge was old news by now – a constant companion since the moment they awoke – but the desire to kill the Selûnite was like nothing they have ever felt before. They’ve been acting erratically the entire time they have spent near the haven. As plain as day – the further away Ferael is, the safer the refugees and harpers are.
“Halsin. Tell me something about yourself that none of us would even think to ask you.” Wyll asks a question. His voice breaks Ferael out of their musings and they look at the archdruid, genuinely interested and frankly – glad to be distracted from their thoughts.
” I suppose it wouldn’t be shocking to learn I like animals and nature?” The druid laughs warmly. “Well, I whittle in my spare time, and I have something of a sweet tooth.”
“Do you like honey?” Karlach asks, smiling brightly, like a kid.
“Yes.”
“A little on the nose. You know. Since you turn into a bear?” Ferael grins as they tease the elf.
“I like what I like. Once you get to my age, you realise there's little point in denying yourself, so long as others aren't affected.”
“Hm.” Ferael doesn’t reply properly. Their mind starts to wander and fill with self-loathing again. No point in denying yourself . They repeat in their mind. So long as other aren’t affected . Halsin wouldn’t take a dig at them like this, right? He’s taken Ferael’s condition seriously, ever since they told him about the Urge, after all.
“I’ve been wondering, Halsin. How old are you?” Gale asks.
“350 years young. I've been privileged to watch saplings grow into mighty boughs. Now why don’t the rest of you return the favour, tell me something about yourselves?”
“Hmm… Maybe I have a bit of a sweet tooth too?” Astarion is the first one to reply. Ferael raises an eyebrow in confusion . What? Didn’t Astarion say that regular food is essentially tasteless to him? Or did he have a sweet tooth in the past? Or is he just joking? Astarion, love. What does that mean.
“So do you put honey on Ferael’s neck before biting…?” asks Shadowheart jokingly with a slight chuckle. Her remark is followed by a mix of groans and laughter from the others. Ferael feels their cheeks grow warmer in embarrassment. Shadowheart has been relentless in poking fun at them after their daily “walk of shame” towards her tent, as she’s dubbed it. Seems that even now that it’s Halsin, who’s healing them now, the teasing will not stop.
“No. He does not cover my neck in honey.” the half-drow states bluntly.
“Maybe I should try next time?” Astarion winks at Ferael, who buries their face in their palms.
“Oh gods. Am I going to be the butt of the joke tonight? Anyway…” They are quite eager to direct the topic some other direction. “What about you Shadowheart?”
“Honestly, I’ve already told you most that I remember. But I do have something of a soft spot for animals... Though I've never had a pet, that I'm aware of…” the cleric replies meekly. Ouch. Struggles of an amnesiac. Not many facts to share. Ferael quickly realises they won’t fare any better when the question circles back to them.
“OOH! When I first got to the Hells, I was so scared and lonely I adopted a pet rock. Named it Crag…” Karlach quickly jumps on the topic, laughing cheerfully.
“Pet ownership is an illusion - nature's creatures choose their own companions.” Halsin states, amused. “Though Crag likely made for a rather stoic confidante.“ the druid adds, while turning to look at Karlach.
“Speaking of pets… I cast my first spell whilst still a babe. My mother took an awful fright when I conjured up a score of rabbits in the pantry.” Gale admits, smiling at the memory.
“Huh, didn’t know you were a sorcerer.” Ferael teases the wizard. “Thought you were learned in magic ” they add, mockingly imitating the way Gale speaks, referencing one of their first discussions about the subject.
“Excuse me, I AM learned in magic. And I do not sound like this!” Gale objects.
“Here we go again…” Shadowheart sighs. Naturally, being a sorcerer, Ferael developed quite a rivalry with Gale. Tale as old as time, wizards, and sorcerers, trying to convince everyone that it’s the other who is the wannabe.
“So… you learnt to summon rabbits as a baby? Am I understanding that correctly? I bet that many powerful wizards do have some kind of innate magic ability. You all are just too proud to admit it.” The half-drow smiles smugly.
“Even if that assumption is true, which I highly doubt – that is absolutely not the case for me. I have clearly… Just demonstrated a deep understanding of the Weave from a very young age.” Gale insists.
“Mhmm… Whatever helps you sleep at night. Fellow sorcerer.”
Gale shoots Ferael a death glare and shakes his head, before smiling at them.
“You do admit, though? That I am powerful?” the wizard points out Ferael’s earlier choice of words.
Ferael returns the glare.
“Uhm. Yeah fine. You are. I admit. But not more powerful than me.”
“Good enough for me.” It feels so nice to have that. The teasing and bickering – devoid of any malice. It’s a rivalry in good fun, part of having friends. It's… like a missing piece is slotted back in place.
“Tchk. Sorcerer or wizard. It doesn’t matter.” Lae’zel states. “2 strikes with a sword, and both of you would be begging for your lives.” She gives somewhat of a smug smile.
“If you can get past the barrage of fireballs and lightning…” Gale replies, Ferael nodding in agreement.
“What about you, Lae’zel? What’s something unexpected about you?” Halsin asks the gith.
“I despise sunsets, slow wits - and small talk.” The gith warrior replies. No one is surprised.
“I can respect the honesty.” States Halsin “To each their own. But there is nothing small about getting to know you.” Gods, that man is too easy going.
“Fine. Back at creche K’lir, I was considered very humorous.”
“No way. Seriously?” Ferael asks excitedly.
“No. That was a lie.” Lae’zel smiles, and Shadowheart snorts at her joke, before quickly masquerading the reaction as a cough.
“Aw. I was looking forward to hearing a githyanki joke...” Ferael replies disappointed.
“Hah. I get the feeling we may have been spared a gory picture… Not that it would particularly bother you, on a second thought.”
“Wyll, you started this. It’s your turn.” Shadowheart directs the conversation towards the warlock.
“Fair enough. Hmm… I guess… I’ve always wanted a child of my own. Perhaps one day, when peace visits the coast.”
“I think you’ll make a great dad, Wyll. But that’s not unexpected either. Gods, you guys kind of suck at this.” Replies Karlach. “Well, soldier” the tiefling taps Ferael on the shoulder. “It’s your turn.”
Oh hells no. Fuck . Ferael’s heart skips a beat, and they feel themselves fill with dread.
“I… I really don't know enough about myself to tell… Amnesia and all that. All I remember is… Never mind.” They reply sheepishly, scratching the back of their head.
“Come on soldier, you must have something by now!” Karlach asks enthusiastically. “Even something trivial. What’s your favourite food?” her tone becomes softer, more comforting. Why can’t she just let this go?
Roasted dwarf. No, stop. Bad Dark Urge. No thinking of roasted dwarf. They mentally scold themselves.
“Erm, can we skip this question?” Ferael shifts a bit, uncomfortably. Why can’t they just lie and say… Apple pie. Mushroom stew. The others wouldn’t know any better. Okay, maybe they’d notice the deception. “I think you’d really rather not know…” They state honestly instead.
“The answer can’t be worse than Astarion’s.” Gale jokes. Yes, it can. It very much can be worse, Gale. Your own arm was very biteable when sticking out of that portal.
“Ha, ha. Yes, I drink blood. What else is new?” the vampire rolls his eyes.
“J-just ask me something else.” Ferael sighs. Part of them is hoping that someone’s question will finally spark a reasonable answer. Part of them wishes the matter to just be dropped. The earlier warmth and joy they felt from the interaction is quickly vanishing – it feels like they are barely a person at all. Just a tool made for murder. They have no passions. No interests. No favourites.
“Or our friends can just take a no for an answer, and we can move on from this.” Suggests Astarion in a slightly annoyed tone, while glancing at Ferael. The half-drow detects a note of concern in the vampire’s expression, but he quickly averts his eyes.
“It’s alright, Astarion. I think… I’d really like to be able to share something.” Ferael admits, with a weak smile. “Continue with the questions for now. Maybe something will jog my mangled sludge of a brain.”
“You have such a way with words, darling.”
“Hmm… Do you have any idea where you could be from?” suggests Shadowheart. “Or maybe you have remembered a tiny detail of your childhood?”
“No. Not the tiniest bit. Sorry. Brain empty.” They stick their tongue out playfully.
“They are fond of animals. But not the small, orange ones with fluffy tails.” Comments Lae’zel. “They seem to have some sort of a hatred for them.”
“I don’t hate squirrels! I didn’t mean to... “Ferael mumbles the remainder of the sentence under their breath. No way they are going to admit kicking a squirrel from the grove to death in front of Halsin. “Never mind. Let’s move on.”
“Come on, soldier, there must be something you can share…”
But they can’t. All they have is rot and crimson. They are not meant to be participating in this. They are just an insane murderer. They are barely even a person.
“Okay. Secret weapon. What is your weirdest kink.” Says Karlach.
Another thing they can’t say out loud… Hi, fun fact, I’m actually a necrophile! Although, they could just make it into a joke about Astarion? No. No. Bad idea.
“Besides having their neck bitten and blood sucked.” Shadowheart adds.
“Excuse me. There is nothing inherently sexual about me drinking their blood.” Astarion replies in an offended tone.
“Can we maybe not go in that direction?” Gale suggests clearly uncomfortable.
“I am running out of ideas!” admits Karlach.
“Why were your only ideas about food and sex? Anyway. Next question.” Ferael says, trying to push past the thoughts filled with self-loathing.
Wyll clicks his tongue, and turns his head to the side, considering if he should give his suggestion. After a moment of silence, the warlock takes a deep breath and decides to take the risk.
“It’s not a question but… They can play the lute quite well.”
Ferael freezes.
“What? Why would you say that?” They ask with disbelief, as they remember Alfira’s mutilated corpse. Her guts spilling on the outside, her eyes gouged out. Throat cut; mouth open in a voiceless scream. The smell of her gore and blood... They place their palm over their mouth, shielding the wicked smile that involuntarily forms on their face, from everyone else’s eyes.
“OOOH yeah! Dammon did mention that you helped a bard named Alfira finish a song! Back at the grove!” remarks Karlach as she claps her hands together, excited, tail wagging side to side.
“Huh?! H- he did?” the sorcerer stutters. Oh Gods, they realise, Karlach has no idea what they have done. She joined a couple of days after the murder. Of course. She would never consider Ferael a friend had she known what they have done. It’s not like she hasn’t seen them act unhinged before – but she’s never known them to harm an innocent. Why the fuck would Wyll bring this up?
“Yeah! He said she left the grove before the rest of the refugees. Hopefully she is safe.” But she isn’t. And whose fault is that?
“She’s not.” Ferael states plainly, their voice slightly muffled by their hand. “She’s dead. I…I found he butchered body in the middle of the night. Some-” they gesture vaguely “some maniac stabbed her over and over even after she was long gone.” Their voice is raised. Pained tone somewhere between anger and hopelessness. Karlach’s expression shifts from a bright smile to one filled with care and concern for her friend.
“It’s all my fault, you know. She’d still be alive if she never met me.” They don’t deserve to live. Plain as day. How many Alfiras have there been before the tadpole? “It was my fault.”
“I’m sorry. But, soldier… It’s the killer who is to blame. Not you.” Karlach places her hand on Ferael’s shoulder, but the half-drow just shakes it off.
“You are right. Are we done here?”
“You remember her song, right? The Weeping Dawn.” Wyll asks.
“Yes. I do. Are we done here?” Ferael replied angrily.
“Maybe you could play it.” The warlock suggests.
“I… Gods. Why are you asking me to do this, Wyll?” Ferael looks at the warlock with a pained expression. Can’t we continue to pretend this hadn’t happened? Can’t we forgo ever speaking of this ever again? Of course a hero character like Wyll would not let that incident go. A hero wouldn’t let the villain forget who they are, right? Anger and resentment build in the pit of their stomach.
“You could make sure that Alfira and her songs aren’t forgotten.” Oh.
“Death is just a natural part of life. As painful as it is, there is purpose in it. We return to the ground, we feed the plants, which feed the animals, who then fall again and the cycle repeats.” Halsin’s words bring no comfort to Ferael, as they stand up and walk away from the fire. Does he realise? Ferael wonders. Did he guess this one unspoken detail about Alfira’s death? How will he react when he connects the dots? The sorcerer grabs Lihala’s lute – they may have not picked up the instrument since Alfira’s death, but made sure to keep it safe. As guilt and self-loathing continue to eat at their thoughts, they return to the fire.
And they play the song. It takes them a while to remember all the right notes. Their singing leaves a lot to be desired. But there is something about plucking the strings of a lute – something familiar, but distant. Yes. A skill from the past – the muscle memory is there. They were always more than blood and death, right? A weak smile forms on Ferael’s face, as the notes resonate with tiny sparks of the weave. Ferael will be eternally grateful to their friend turned victim for the tiny piece of their soul she’s given them back.
“Hm. Maybe eventually… I’ll get better.”