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A quiet hush sweeps over camp as his companions usher themselves into their tents. Scratch paws and traipses within a tent that Conall quickly recognises as his own. Perhaps there is a perk to keeping watch tonight. With the threat of goblins eliminated, there is an unspoken ease. Not a lot but enough to keep his shoulders relaxed. At least there is a lead. Once their loose ends are done, the party can leave the surface behind to explore the Underdark. From there, who knows? A trail leading to Moonrise Towers is rumoured to be buried around there. It's foolish to hold on to alleged stories but what choice is there? He's not sure what to expect. Hopefully no more goblins. He's had enough to last him a lifetime.
“You drew the short stick tonight, eh?” The voice comes from behind him. Conall doesn't need to turn around to know who's talking. He'd recognise that drawl anywhere. Truth be told, he wasn't expecting Rory to initiate conversation so willingly. Not since they stopped talking nearly five summers ago.
Conall keeps his gaze on the fire as he shoves a broken branch into the flames. “I volunteered.”
A scoff escapes Rory's mouth. The tiefling sits down across from Conall. As expected, a bottle of wine is secured in one hand while he leans back on the other. With the Blushing Mermaid nowhere in sight, Rory is getting his vices whenever he can.
“How gallant of you.” There’s a twinge of lightness in the other’s tone. Ever since this tense reunion, Rory’s never short on smart remarks, delivered with ire unlike no other. It’s unlike him to warm up so easily. Perhaps Conall can thank the bottle of Ithbank in his former friend’s grasp.
“It sounds better than admitting Scratch has taken my tent.”
At that, Rory laughs. A genuine, hearty laugh that immediately reminds Conall of a much simpler time. The two of them, stumbling back to their neighbourhood after a rowdy night at the pub. Arm in arm, they struggled to make their way back home before giving up and sleeping on the doorstep belonging to one of Conall’s many aunties. Where had those boys gone?
Silence falls between them. It never used to be this hard to talk to each other. In school, they were frequently scolded for the incessant chatter. Their teachers wracked their heads for solutions to keep them separated but, try as they might, the pair would come back together, as if secured at the hip.
“Fuckin’ hells, Conall, have we really drifted apart this much? Y’can’t even talk to me anymore?” The accusation is punctuated by a laugh, a feeble attempt at disguising the remark as a joke.
“Says the one who’s been givin’ me the cold shoulder since I pulled his sorry arse out of a mud pit.”
Above the flames, he can see the way Rory’s nostrils flare. Clawed fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. In another life, the tiefling would smash the bottle and use the jagged neck as a weapon. A moment passes and his body language relaxes.
“Fair enough,” Rory concedes. He sets the bottle down to hold his hand up in surrender. He sighs. “But you’re right. I haven’t been sociable.” Here, he pauses as he thinks of what to say next. His gaze looks beyond the campfire between them. “And I’m sorry ‘bout that. I don’t…I don’t want t’fight.”
Conall searches the other’s face. He’s known Rory since they were small. Even with the time apart, he can detect the tiefling’s tells better than his own. To his relief, the apology is genuine. Well, as genuine as he can hope. Clearing his throat, Conall admits, “I don’t want to fight either.”
For the first time in years, they’re in the same vicinity and Conall’s never felt further from him. It’s not right. He never wanted to lose Rory. From the trials and tribulations of adolescence to the horrific reality of adulthood, the two of them had gone through nearly everything together. Conall figured they’d be the two geezers at the pub, rehashing their youth and embellishing the adventures they shared.
But then Niamh was born. Suddenly, his priorities shifted. He had a child now. A living, breathing thing that depended on him. Some might say he’s overprotective but, if given the chance, wouldn’t you do anything to ensure the safety of your own? From the time he swore that oath, Conall has never regretted it. He never expected Rory to understand. Rory didn’t have kids. He figured his best friend would, at the very least, have some empathy.
Instead, a nasty disagreement bloomed between them. It quickly blossomed into a falling out that sent both of them fuming. Conall can’t remember if there had been any sort of settlement. Perhaps, there wasn’t one at all. Perhaps, as strange as their current situation is, this is the long-awaited resolution.
Rory cuts through Conall’s thoughts with a single word. His hand is outstretched, the bottle of wine held out as an offering. “Truce?”
Ever since the horrid attempt at downing the poisoned punch at the goblin camp, Conall has abstained from any alcohol. Still, he can’t help himself. Rory has always been an awful influence on him. His mother said it all the time. “Aye,” he says, taking the bottle. “Truce.”
A smile curls on Rory’s lips. "Perfect." He stands up suddenly. An exaggerated yawn leaves his lips. “Well, as much as I’d love to stay up and chat, I do need my beauty sleep.”
Conall frowns. “What? You’re not gonna stick around?”
“Nah, Con, I think ya got this under control, bein’ a big, strong, righteous man and all.” He’s playful this time. There’s a familiar, mischievous glint in his green eyes. “Besides—” He tosses a twig into the fire. “—you volunteered.”
“I’ll remember this when I get attacked by that owl bear’s mate and I’m sent to the City of Judgement.”
He receives no response from Rory. The tiefling continues walking away from the fire. An obscene finger is aimed at Conall before Rory dips into his tent. Though there is no audience, Conall returns the gesture.
For the first time since this adventure began, Conall laughs. He’d prefer an apology. A real, honest-to-gods, apology, but he’ll take whatever this is.