Chapter Text
Under any other circumstances, Neeshka would have been ashamed at how quickly she broke. But her head is killing her, Rhys is missing and everyone smells so worried…
At first, she’s just worried too! It’s not the first time Rhys has gone missing, of course – he wanders off all the time. The mystery blood is a problem, especially given all those thwarted Luskans floating around, but Neeshka reassures herself that Rhys has escaped so many stupid situations. And then someone comes up with the bright idea of having Karnwyr sniff around a bit, with Elanee translating.
And it’s not Rhys’ blood.
Rhys was there, sure – Karnwyr-via-Elanee makes it clear that he was definitely there at some point, and angry enough that the wolf’s ears flatten at the scent of it even hours later. But the bloody thing was there hours before Rhys found it, apparently. Then Rhys found it, got mad enough to upset a wolf that hangs around with Bishop, took it with him upstairs to grab all of his gear… and left.
Rhys is gone.
Karnwyr tracks him as far as the south gate before losing him in the mess of conflicting scents. It’s more than enough to confirm their worst suspicions – Rhys has left the city.
Out the same gate that Neeshka had smuggled his disguised not-at-all-dead foster-brother through less than a day before.
“Oh shit,” Neeshka mutters blankly. “They must have found out about Lorne.”
Her voice is soft enough that under most circumstances the slip would have gone unnoticed. Unfortunately, there’s a stressed ranger standing only a few feet away, furiously casting about the moil of crisscrossing tracks for some sign of his missing… whatever Rhys was to him.
“They found out what about Lorne?”
Neeshka’s confession has roughly the same impact as a gnomish grenade rolled into a high-society ballroom. Shandra sits in Rhys’ usual chair by the hearth, her face in her hands as the argument breaks over her head like a Deepwinter storm.
Everyone is yelling. Even Grobnar. Even Casavir. In fact, the paladin might be the angriest of all of them; it was a sacred Tyrran rite that Rhys had ruthlessly tampered with, after all.
Of course as soon as he started in, a bloc composed of Bishop, Neeshka and – Chauntea preserve her – Grobnar had risen up to question the inherent justice of a forced duel against your own brother. At least that was the official stance: Shandra was pretty sure Bishop didn’t care about justice one way or the other. Casavir was simply a familiar target.
Shandra groaned into her hands. If Bishop was already slipping back into the well-worn groove of his perennial feud with the paladin, it followed that the others would soon default back to their usual insane rivalries.
… and yeah, there went Qara and Sand, with Duncan muscling in from time to time to snipe at one or the other. Khelgar and Elanee were taking aim at whoever they pleased, though Khelgar was showing a definite tendency to blame Neeshka for the entire affair…
If Rhys were here, Shandra imagines he would have derailed this already, either with one of his sly little jabs or just by wandering off into his latest improbable disaster, which were generally so awful they all lacked sufficient time or breath to spare for bickering.
But this disaster had caused Rhys to wander off the playing field entirely – and Shandra hasn’t the skill – nor the patience – to twist words the way Rhys does.
So she stands instead, shoving her chair back with a resounding screech, draws a deep breath and yells. “EVERYBODY SHUT THE HELL UP.”
To her mild surprise, they actually do , in fact, shut the hell up. Which is great, except now they’re all staring at her. She’s not entirely sure what the next step should be, only that there has to be something , lest they all descend back into pointless squabbling.
Her dad had always told her to just do the job in front of her. On the farm that had been simple enough: one chore always led to the next, and the next… Even when her family had dropped around her until it was just Shandra trudging through each grey day, there had always been a clear path laid out before her.
Get a job? Do the job. One thing, and then the next. Even during her brief time at the temple, the Harvestmistress had held similar views to Shandra’s father, and she’d settled so easily into the rhythm of her work – out here, her steady, predictable life burned to ash behind her, Shandra hasn’t got a clue.
This, she thinks bitterly, is supposed to be Rhys’ job.
“Why would he leave?” she seizes upon. “Whatever he found – even if it was something to do with Lorne, that doesn’t explain why he just up and left the city entirely. Everything he’s been working towards is here.”
“Lorne said the Luskans would kill him,” Neeshka mutters. She’s as downcast as Shandra’s ever seen her, eyes on the floor, her tail tightly curled around her feet. She’s been keeping a careful distance from Bishop ever since he turned on her out by the gates. “That’s why Rhys wanted him gotten out quietly… Something must have gone wrong.”
Bishop scoffs. “You don’t just get to leave when you’re working for Luskan,” he snarls. Shandra stares at him. There’s something in his tone that bothers her. Not the anger – she’s grown pretty well used to the usual sour temper the ranger bestows so very generously to those around him. This is something else. She can’t quite pin it down.
“They find you,” the ranger goes on, mouth curving into something too vicious to pass as a smile. “They always find you. And then they make damn sure to show everyone else why running was a bad idea.”
“ How, though?” Neeshka wails. “How’d they even find out? We pulled it off! Perfectly! No one even knew he was gone.”
“Do you seriously think that a city of crazy fuckin’ wizards just lets anyone wander in and join up? Without, I don’t know, maybe using magic to make sure they don’t get cold feet? There would have been tracking spells laid into his fucking bones. Whoever’s back there, pulling that bitch ambassador’s strings… They would’ve known something was up the moment Lorne ‘died’ – and his heart just kept on beating.”
“He’s right,” Sand sighs. “The Hosttower has always had a fondness for binding sigils – especially when it comes to ensuring the loyalty of somewhat dubious recruits. I would imagine that Torio’s puppetmaster, whoever they may be, is extra fond of such spells – given this Fifth Master nonsense we’ve been hearing, he’ll need to ensure his peons don’t run off to tattle to the actual Masters.”
“So. He’s dead then.” Neeshka’s shoulders curl in a little tighter. “Rhys… he really wanted to save him.”
“Yeah well, what Rhys wants doesn’t amount to shit,” Bishop hisses.
That’s probably about enough of that, Shandra feels. “Right,” she says, a little louder than necessary. All eyes turn back to her and oh gods, she really isn't the right person for all this! But she’s the only one here not losing her goddamn mind so… “The Luskans killed Lorne and left something here so Rhys would find out about it. Probably… a body part. Given the blood.” She swallows down the horror and keeps going.
“If they really wanted Rhys to know what they did, they would have made sure it was something he’d recognise, right?”
“Yes, Luskan’s schemes often lack a certain… subtlety,” Sand drawls. “Likely it was a head - that would certainly have gotten their point across...”
There’s a clatter as Neeshka shoots to her feet, knocking her chair to the ground. She darts out of the room, the front door of the Flagon slamming shut behind her. Shandra wavers for a moment, but forces down the urge to follow and nods unsteadily in reply to Sand’s chilling verdict.
“Thanks… for that, Sand. Rhys has Lorne’s head. That’s. Great. He’s run off somewhere, with a severed head. And the people that have been trying to kill him probably know that too.”
“We need to find him,” Khelgar points out. This is such a helpful comment that Shandra can barely contain her desire to applaud it. Thanks so much, Khelgar! We do need to find our missing friend, preferably before anyone else does!
… sweet Earthmother, is this how Rhys feels all the time? How does he stand it?
“Bishop,” she says instead of any of the other, less diplomatic things churning around her head. “Can you track him? Maybe we can catch up before the Luskans do.”
The ranger stares at her for an unsettlingly long moment. Nine hells, Rhys is the only one Bishop’s ever seemed to even tolerate - how is she supposed to get him to do anything? “No point,” he finally replies. “He’ll outrun the lot of you. Stupid bastard’s the only one of you that’s any use off the road.”
“ I could reach him easily enough,” Elanee says archly. She preens a little as the groups’ regard swings towards her. “As a hawk, perhaps? Rough terrain means nothing on the wing.”
Bishop laughs an ugly little laugh at that smug pronouncement. “Oh yeah? And then what? He’s not gonna listen to a word you say, elf. Thought you’d have realised that by now,” he adds, with the air of a man slowly twisting the knife. “ Maybe the farm girl could get him to come to heel. But you? Not a chance.”
Elanee’s face crumples, all traces of her earlier pride stripped away in a heartbeat.
“‘Mother’s grace , Bishop, did you have to?” Shandra mutters, glaring at the ranger as she reaches out to put a consoling hand on Elanee’s shoulder. To her surprise, the elf knocks it away, hard enough to sting a little. The look she slants at Shandra before stalking out of the room is filled to the brim with something worryingly close to loathing. What in the hells?
“That was uncalled for, Bishop!” Casavir thunders and Shandra’s this damn close to just throwing a chair at them all. They don’t have time for this crap –
“If you can track him, Bishop, you’ll do it,” Duncan chimes in, which has the delightful effect of turning the ranger’s snarl even grimmer. “You owe me.”
For a moment, Shandra is sure he’s about to lunge at Rhys’ uncle. His eyes are a nightmare of cold hatred as he stares at the other man, barely even seeming to notice Casavir advancing on him.
“Oh, I owe you, do I, Duncan? Thought that debt was paid. But if it’s an order… ”
And then Casavir’s within arms reach, Duncan’s opening his mouth to say something that Shandra’s instinctively sure will end in blood and she’s moving before she even sees the glint of steel in Bishop’s hand, sliding past the snarling bulk of Karnwyr, stepping into place with her back to the worst person in the room, her hand landing on Casavir’s chest.
There’s a cut off oath behind her as Bishop turns the knife aside. Off balance, he staggers, free hand catching at her hip. Shandra presses her weight back against him, straightens her arm and shoves.
“Back up!” she snarls. “ Now , Casavir. Get back.”
“What the fuck’re you doing?” Bishop snarls into her hair. She doesn’t waste the breath to answer him, plants her elbow in his ribs in wordless reply to the hand bruising her hip, and keeps her eyes on the looming paladin.
His chest is heaving under her hand, his expression wild with hate, and frustration, and something like despair as he stares at the ranger over her head. “Hey,” she snaps, dredging up a little more effort to put into her push. The man barely budges, it’s like trying to win a shoving match with a bloody wall. “Casavir. Move back, damn it.”
She might as well be talking to a wall for all the attention Casavir pays her.
Right about then, Khelgar more than makes up for his earlier less-than-earthshaking contributions by moving in to break up the stalemate; circling carefully into Casavir’s periphery, he adds his weight to Shandra’s shove. “Enough of that, lad,” he says, voice far steadier than his usual boisterous rumble. “Much as I hate to admit it, a fight’s not going to help anything now.”
And gods be kind, Casavir finally steps away, the rage draining from his face, leaving nothing behind but slump-shouldered misery. Business as usual then, thank Chauntea.
“I didn’t ask for your sodding help,” comes Bishop’s venomous hiss from behind her. But before she can reply, Duncan’s opening his mouth again. She feels Bishop tense, hand spasming painfully on her hip. Every last one of Shandra’s senses is screaming danger.
Without thinking, Shandra pulls out of Bishop’s grip, whirls around and grabs a fistful of his shirt. Before Duncan can say a word, she tows the ranger out of the taproom and down the narrow corridor behind the bar, towards the blood smeared back porch, Karnwyr falling into place as their bristling rearguard.
Bishop, for some reason, allows this.
As soon as their boots hit the back porch, though, he wrenches free. Shandra collapses back against the tavern's rear wall, her body shaking with excess adrenaline, and watches through slitted eyes as the ranger flings himself down the back steps. He paces like a caged animal, every movement tight with anger.
Shandra wonders if he even realises he’s still holding the knife.
“What the hell were you trying to pull?” He throws the words at her as if they’re knives as well. “What’d you think -”
“Khelgar was right,” she replies indistinctly. Her face feels strange. Numb, almost. Shoulders pressed against the wall, she slowly slides down onto her haunches, hands hanging limp from wrists propped across her thighs. She watches them shake for a long moment, transfixed by the jumps and tremors. It doesn’t feel like these strangle trembling things belong to her, for all they’re attached at the wrist. How odd.
A booted foot nudges her ungently. “Oi. Farm girl.” And then when she doesn’t respond, too absorbed with the jittering of her foreign hands: “Shandra.”
She replies without looking at him. “Khelgar was right, more fighting isn’t gonna help.”
He snorts, and the wall at her back judders as he thumps back against it. “Speak for yourself - I would’ve felt much better with that fucking paladin’s guts steaming on the floor.”
Except you weren’t going for Casavir. The words drop into her mind like pebbles into still water. You didn’t even notice he was there until I stopped him.
It was Duncan. A room full of people who either wanted you dead, or wouldn’t have minded it either way – and you were staring at Duncan like he was the biggest threat of them all.
She doesn’t have the first clue what to do with that. And there isn’t time anyway.
“Can you track Rhys?”
“ You don’t get to order me around either, farm girl.”
“I’m not, though,” she says, almost dreamily as she watches her hands shake, and shake. “I’m asking . Please. He’s running into gods know what… and he’s angry. He’s stupid when he’s angry.”
“He’s stupid all the time,” Bishop mutters. Shandra can’t help but agree, just then. “... and I don’t need to track him, anyway. I already know where he’s going.”
It’s said in such a flat tone that it takes Shandra a moment to grasp the meaning. Her eyes slowly turn away from her hands, travelling up to Bishop’s glowering face. “What?”
He doesn’t look at her, just stares out across the Flagon’s muddy back courtyard. From this strange angle, Shandra can see the outline of a faded tattoo just below the corner of his jaw, a sharp edged thing, angled back towards the hairline. Bemused, she thinks vaguely that his armour must hide it usually – she’s never noticed it before.
“Rhys’ from the Mere,” Bishop says, jolting her out of her hazy preoccupation. “We burn our dead there – too many necromancers fucking with things to let bodies lie in the ground. If he cared enough to risk screwing with the trial? He’ll be taking his brother home. Put him to rest properly.”
That… made a disturbing amount of sense. “Can you catch him up? He’s not safe-”
“Probably could.” Bishop pushes away from the wall, face closed down hard. “We’ll see.” He ducks back inside before she can find the words to thank him. Probably for the best - the novelty of having anything to thank Bishop for would likely reduce her to a gibbering wreck at this point.
And there’s too much to do for her to fall apart now - no way is Rhys going to make his appointment with Nasher now. Based on what she’s heard about the nobility, Shandra’s pretty sure failing to turn up when summoned by the lord of a city isn’t a great idea… Particularly when you've already made a nuisance of yourself.
If they’re going to have to flee Neverwinter to escape Nasher’s wrath, someone ought to go talk to Aldanon - before they lose the chance to do so altogether.
She heaves herself to her feet, locks her still shaking hands together and takes a wobbling step onwards to the next job.