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KARLACH
Phyr shuffles the deck of cards, fans it across the tray in her lap, and smoothly scoops them back up. She sits just outside camp, shielded by a line of shrubs for a vague semblance of privacy. Komira's locket casts dancing lights to illuminate her practice.
She'd know the footsteps behind her anywhere. Not as light-footed as Astarion, nor as authoritative as Lae'zel. Confident but casual, dry leaves rustling underfoot.
Not that Phyr has been paying extra attention to Karlach's gait. Nope.
She shuffles the top card to the bottom one-handed as she turns her head. "Hi."
"Hey, you." Karlach settles opposite, legs folding beneath her. Her firelight joins the magical illumination, the blue and orange weaving together. Her ambient heat presses against Phyr's skin, a pleasant caress.
The tiefling nods at the cards. "Nice trick."
Phyr grins. "Keeps my hands nimble. Apparently people around here are fond of their traps."
Karlach lifts a brow. "Nimble hands, huh?"
The insinuation is not lost on Phyr. Gods, is Karlach flirting? Or is this just a bit of teasing between fellow soldiers?
Phyr doesn't know, and her nerve fails at replying in kind. Instead she says, "not to mention all the locks between us and sweet, sweet loot."
Karlach's expression falters. Disappointment flickers and fades, and guilt squirms in Phyr’s gut. But the tiefling’s cheerfulness returns as she replies, "that too." With a puff of excited breath, she adds, "I love watching you work. With locks, I mean. You get this… peaceful look on your face, like you're in a trance."
Phyr looks up to meet softly smiling eyes the color of sunlit amber, reflecting back the spell's light. Her breath catches. To cover it, she flips through the deck, making a pleasant flapping sound. "Tell me a card."
"Um, the Key."
Without pausing her shuffling, Phyr slides the card out into her palm and hands it over.
Karlach laughs, a contagious bark of a sound. "Oh hey! That's clever." She hands it back and Phyr tucks it in, tapping the deck into a tidy stack and setting it on the tray.
"So I hope there's not a disaster back at camp." There isn't, or Karlach would have opened with it, but it's a way to start the conversation.
"Only if Gale conscripting 'volunteers' for vegetable peeling and chopping is a crisis." Karlach grins, and Phyr's stomach flutters.
"Ah. So you made your escape."
"Someone had to come out and make sure you hadn't been eaten by an owlbear. I offered. I wanted to." Karlach's fingertips fiddle with the end of a belt strap on her trousers, and there's an earnestness in her gaze that turns Phyr inside out.
Gods, she's beautiful. The light gleams on her piercings, joining the flicker of her flames and the glow of her engine, peeking above her shirt.
But it's a foolish idea. They have a mission. One that keeps getting frustratingly waylaid, yes, but a quest nonetheless. It would be stupid to spend time flirting, distracted.
That’s not even considering the fact that Karlach can't be touched. Wouldn't it be cruel to play at games of romance, when they'd always be held at a distance?
But Phyr can't stop the frisson in her chest when Karlach makes a jest with her, or the warmth in her belly when thoughts take an illicit turn. When she wonders what might happen if they could touch, if she gave in to this folly.
If she told Karlach how she feels.
No. She can't. They have to get these worms out of their heads, get Karlach's engine fixed, then after all that… maybe, just maybe, she'll muster the courage to confess.
Not now.
She clears her throat. "Well, if we're shirking our camp duties together, maybe a game of old wizard?"
Again, that glimmer of sorrow in Karlach's eyes. It's like a knife slid between Phyr's ribs, but she pushes that feeling away.
And once more, Karlach's hurt fades beneath a smile. One that's slightly forced, but there nonetheless. "You're on."
LAE'ZEL
"I have no need of assistance," Lae'zel hisses, seated at her tent with a pot of healing salve. The glow of enormous Underdark mushrooms limns the githyanki in an orange light.
As warm and welcoming as ever, Phyrala thinks wryly. Still, she pushes. "Just a quick incantation, a bit of magic." She sits beside the warrior, who sneers.
"It is a minor wound, a mere inconvenience. I am well versed in the treatment of my own injuries, istik."
Phyr tsks. "Shoulder's a hard spot to bandage on your own. Could fester."
An imperious glare. "If I die from this injury, it is only because I deserve to do so."
"If a simple infection takes you out, wouldn't that be a painfully embarrassing death? Not a warrior's blaze of glory. My goddess can help. Let me."
Lae'zel grits her teeth, sets the salve aside. "You are irritatingly relentless."
"So I've been told."
Finally, the githyanki's shoulders slump. She sighs. "Do what you must, but I will not stand for such coddling in the future."
"Oh absolutely." Phyr grins. Mischievous, smug.
"I won't."
“Let’s agree to cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“A stalemate,” Lae’zel reluctantly agrees. “For now.”
“It's a bargain.” A single murmured phrase, a gesture, and a blue glow bathes Phyr’s hands. “Now, sit still and let me work.”
The githyanki shifts uncomfortably, but doesn’t move as Phyr places her hand next to the jagged gash. A lucky shot, a hook horror's long, deadly claw sliding between the plates of Lae’zel’s armor. The mail in question is removed now, set carefully aside. The undershirt and padding will need mending, but that can wait.
The wound knits closed, the glow fading. Lae’zel gives the shoulder a careful rotation, testing. She looks at Phyr with something that might have been the faintest spark of gratitude before it fades into a scowl. “If you are done, go.”
With a laugh, Phyr stands and stretches. “You’re welcome.”
ASTARION
Phyr finds Astarion outside camp, leaning against a tree and staring up at the setting sunlight dappling through the leaves. What must it be like, to see such a thing again after centuries of only starlight?
He huffs as she comes to stand beside him. The tree is immense, big enough for two to rest against it, but still he shifts away with a glare. “What is it?” Sharp.
“Still miffed at me for turning you down at that party?”
The vampire casts her a single derisive glance. “I’m not ‘miffed’.”
She lifts a single brow, letting the silence hang between them until his expression collapses with a sigh.
“All right,” he finally says. “Perhaps I was the tiniest bit… surprised. I don’t get a lot of rejections, you know.”
“Sorry.” But she’s grinning as she says it.
His chin tilts upward, haughtiness returned. “It was no matter. I found much more accommodating company.”
“Oh? Dare I ask?” A giddy tiefling, perhaps. Or one of their own crew? Wyll, maybe.
“We all have our secrets, darling.” There it is. His voice lowers into a purr, a sidelong glance, a sly little quirk of his lip.
“You know,” Phyr says, “you don’t have to try oozing charm for me to be your friend.”
A laugh, the bitter, high-pitched bark of derisiveness. “Vampire spawn don’t have friends. We have victims and rivals, nothing more.”
“Oh? Then what am I?”
A pause, another sigh. “Victims, rivals, and reluctant allies.”
“Reluctant? I’m wounded.”
“Perhaps I’d be less so if you’d taken my offer that night." He feigns a sigh. "Now we shall never know what pleasures might have been.”
“Sorry, but you’re not really my type.”
“What, rakishly charming? Devastatingly beautiful?”
“A man.”
“I… oh.” He blinks.
“Soothe that wounded pride a bit?”
Astarion smiles then, head tilted thoughtfully. “It does. But alas, it’s been too long since I've had a brigand to bite down on. I suppose I’ll see what wildlife this forest has to offer.” He pushes away from the tree, stretching.
Phyr reaches out to touch his shoulder lightly. “Wait.”
He shrugs away. “What?”
With a long breath, she takes his hand and places her forearm in it, guiding it up toward his face.
His lip curls, fingers tightening. Cold, a corpse's hand. “What are you doing?”
Phyr's reply is soft. “A gesture of friendship. If you're willing to accept one. Take it. I can heal myself after. I don’t intend to make a habit of this, but just this once, when your other pickings are slim…”
Astarion's hand clenches around her arm. Not painful, but holding it firmly in place. He nuzzles her skin with his nose, scenting it. “What’s the catch?”
“None. Just a gift.”
“No catch,” he murmurs, his breath as chill as his touch. “What a delightful change of pace.”
He bites. While Phyr gets the impression he makes it as gentle as possible, it still hurts. Maybe worse than the first time, without the rush of recent adrenaline to dull the pain. She fights the urge to yank free, the wrongness of this coating her like a film. His tongue against her skin is uncomfortable, wet and slick as she bleeds into his mouth.
This goes against everything a life domain cleric stands for, toying with the forces of death and undeath.
She shudders, her stomach turning over, the gruesome moment discordantly accompanied by the soothing chirr of autumn evening insects.
I can do this. She breathes through her nose, in, out.
Then it's over. He drops her arm, licking his lips clean, wiping the corner with a thumb. Phyr says a few words over the wound, healing it shut. Astarion is watching her carefully, searching her face. For disgust or remorse, perhaps. Instead, she smiles. “That wasn’t so bad.”
He laughs. “You’re an awful liar. If we ever need to do any fast-talking, please allow me or you’ll get us all killed.”
She grimaces, but nods. “Fair enough.”
He sketches a small bow. “So. A friend. How unusual.”
“Well, vampire, you’d best get used to it.” With a final grin, Phyr steps away from the tree and heads back to camp.
SHADOWHEART
Phyr deliberately approaches with audible steps, boots crunching on sand and gravel before she settles on the wide stone beside Shadowheart.
The fellow cleric's bare feet dangle into the lake while Scratch curls beside her, head in her lap for scritches.
"Careful," Phyr says. "Fish will bite your toe off. Or one of those giant spiky turtles."
"Well that's a sobering thought," Shadowheart withdraws her feet from the water, tucking them gracefully beneath her while only barely jostling Scratch.
"Here," Phyr offers a bowl. Scratch's head lifts, nose wrinkling to sniff, but she shifts it out of his reach. "No," she tells the dog as she reveals a pork bone in her other hand. "This one is for you."
Bowl forgotten, the hungry canine takes the gift and settles a few paces away to crunch it loudly.
Shadowheart furrows her brow at the food. "What's that?"
"Pan fried potatoes. No garlic. Just salt and pepper."
The cleric scowls faintly. "Why?"
"Because you don't eat much when Gale goes heavy on the garlic, and we can't have you wasting away." Phyr holds the bowl out again, fork resting in it.
Tentatively, Shadowheart takes it. "You cooked these? Only to make sure I eat?"
"Of course."
The cleric stares down at the chunks of browned, crispy potato. Her reply is quiet, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and a scowl. "I didn't think anyone would notice." The words ‘or care’ seem to linger unspoken.
"Well, lucky for your stomach, I’m observant when it comes to my friends. I see you taking smaller portions from the pot, nudging it around to make it look like you've eaten more than you have. Even after a long day of walking, or a hard battle. But only with garlicky food."
Shadowheart spears a bit of potato and bites it daintily. After she chews and swallows, she admits, "I can't stand it. The smell of it alone is enough to turn my stomach."
"I'll make sure we don't pick up any more. Or that it gets conveniently lost or sold, if we do."
Another bite, an indecipherable look. "I… thank you."
Phyr nods. "Any time."
WYLL
Phyr stretches in the early dawn light, working out the stiffness from sleeping on hard-packed dirt. Beds at the Last Light Inn are for the wounded and the children. The rest of them are left to camp outside the main building, but still within Isobel’s sphere of protection.
The others rouse too. There is no day here, only eerie night, but they’ve been too long on the road for their bodies to avoid waking at the usual cycle anyway. Wyll stands up nearby and massages his lower back. Catching his eye, Phyr sidles up beside him. "Hey. After breakfast, would you mind sparring a bit?"
He nods. "Of course. But I have to ask. Why me? Why not—"
"Karlach?" Phyr's gaze drifts to the tiefling, now sitting up and rubbing her eyes with a yawn. By Eilistraee, she looks gorgeous sleep-rumpled. Phyr wants to comb the unruly hair flat with gentle fingers, but even that would be enough to scorch her skin.
"Well, yes."
"I want to practice against finesse weapons. And…"
Karlach's eyes find her. For a long moment, they hold the stare. Yearning, deep and fierce and aching. Ever since the tiefling party and their single brief, burning kiss, Phyr's been haunted. Distracted, just as she’d predicted.
The barbarian stretches, and the muscles rippling beneath the skin tighten Phyr's belly. She swallows, tearing her eyes away to meet Wyll's amused expression. She finishes answering his question. "We both start to overheat when we work up a sweat around each other. And before you ask, I'm sure Lae'zel would be all too happy to spar instead, but she doesn't believe in dulled practice blades."
Wyll laughs, his soft, genial chuckle. "That I believe. After we've both gotten food in our stomachs, some sparring would be welcome."
The rest of the company tends to their own tasks after breakfast. Soon, they venture deeper into the darkness once more, but they need a day for mending, for sorting out their loot for use or sale, reorganizing their packs. The dull menial labor that the bards never sing about.
Behind the inn, she and Wyll get to work. The warlock is a challenging foe, nimble and adept with his rapier.
He's better than she is. But as with the tiefling children, he's an excellent teacher as well.
"There," he says, nudging the edge of her blade with the tip of his own practice sword. "This is where I'd get through your guard. Tilt it inward."
She nods, and they continue.
"You're off balance from time to time," she notes. "That's unexpected."
He frowns, suddenly somber, his organic eye darkening. "Still adjusting to the weight of the horns, I'm afraid."
She doesn't know what to say to that, but he goes smoothly into a feint and she’s saved from a reply as their weapons clash together.
When Phyr's arms begin to ache, she calls the session. Both of them settle with their backs against the stone wall, legs stretched before them as they catch their breath. Canteens soothe parched throats, and Phyr tilts her face into the faint, musty breeze coming off the nearby lake.
They sit in silence for a time, cooling off. But something is wrong. Phyr feels Wyll's mood sinking until he asks softly, "how long do you think lies between us and Moonrise Towers?"
Ah.
"We'll find your father, Wyll."
His reply is low, pained. "I know."
"And you fear that as much as the opposite."
He huffs a small laugh. "Saw through me, did you?"
She leans against the wall, staring up at the sky. "My mother kicked me out at about the same age your father did. In elven terms, anyway." Her eyes close, throat tightening at the memory still, even hundreds of years later. "I can still recall her expression, clear as if it was yesterday. Disappointment. Resignation. Dismissal."
After a moment's pause, he speaks. "My father will take one look at me and see proof that he was right."
"We both know that's not true."
"He doesn't."
She closes her eyes with a sigh. "It's hard, isn't it? Even as an adult. If I saw my mother again, I don't know if I'd yell at her or apologize."
He sighs. "I don't know either."
"First, we find him. But Wyll… whatever you do, however you want to handle it, I've got your back."
"Greatly appreciated," he says as he stands, voice warm. "Now, we should get back before they send a search party. If we don't do our share of chores, we'll never hear the end of it."
She lets him help her up, dusts off her trousers, and picks up her practice sword. "And we couldn't have that, could we?"
GALE
"I miss it too, you know," Phyr says as she nears Gale where he sits on a fallen tree near his tent, reading. The Shadow-Cursed Lands are barely behind them, the darkness banished, and the early morning sunlight falling across the pages is a welcome sight.
"What?"
She points at the book in his hands, a collection of Waterdhavian poetry. "Waterdeep. Homesickness."
"Oh. Yes, that." He states down at the page, a smile crooking his mouth as his voice turns wistful. "There's nothing quite like it, is there?"
Phyr takes a seat beside him. "Even the cheese doesn't taste the same on the road."
A laugh. "Truer words were never spoken." He closes the book, sets it aside. "What brings you over?"
"Just coming to say hi. And maybe I can daydream of home with someone else who knows it. Like the shop down the block from Blackstaff Tower that has the most wonderful soup."
"The mushroom and onion with chicken," Gale agrees.
"That's the one." She stares up at the stars with a sigh. "Someday, we'll get these wriggling things out of our heads and will return."
He doesn't reply to that comment, undoubtedly still fully convinced the orb will be the end of him and this journey. Phyr doesn't intend to let that happen, but doesn't complain when he changes the subject. "You must have seen the city through much, in your day."
Phyr grins. "Is that your polite way of asking how old I am?"
"No! I merely—"
"Relax, I'm not offended. And yes, I do remember it. The city before the Year of Shadows, during, after. It was a rough time to be a cleric. The city I loved went through some difficult changes."
"I can only imagine. And yet you endured."
"I did. Long enough to see the new Temple of Eilistraee built. I was escorting some newer acolytes back there when I was abducted."
A long pause hangs in the air. He doesn't need to ask. She doesn't know what happened to her fellow clerics or the acolytes when she was taken.
"My sympathies," he says softly.
"We've all lost much to this."
"That we have."
"But there's still a home out there, moving along with or without us. Something comforting in that."
Silence falls for a time, both lost in tight until Phyr asks, "What do you miss most about home? Other than your tower and Tara?"
He ponders. "The people. The view over the city at sunrise. That soup." He smiles.
"When this is over," she says, "perhaps you can introduce me to this tressym of yours and then we can enjoy a bowl or two. I could use another friend in the city."
His gaze shutters. "A lovely thought. But the orb —"
"I'm not giving up on a solution." A soft smile. "And when we resolve it all, you owe me that soup as an apology for ever doubting me."
He hesitates, but nods. "Very well. If we both survive, I shall treat you to a meal and a bottle of fine brandy, after."
"I'll hold you to that."
FAMILY
The pair of dice rolls to a stop in the dish and Phyr breathes a soft curse.
Beside her, Karlach laughs even as Astarion leans forward to scoop up the ring Phyr offered as ante. He grins. "Gold suits me better anyway."
The light of the Elfsong’s hearth illuminates the group in a rare moment of shared downtime. Their bellies are full, Scratch snoozes nearby, and they have recently-divvied loot to gamble with.
"One would think," Wyll says, picking up the dice for his turn, "that with your sleight of hand skills, the two of you would both roll high."
"I refuse to cheat," Phyr huffs with a pointed glance at Astarion.
"Not my fault I'm just lucky," the vampire replies while Wyll pushes a coin forward as his bet.
Shadowheart tsks. "I believe that about as much as I trust a smiling gnoll."
"Then don't play." Astarion shrugs, rolling a six and a four.
"I'm not."
"Fair point."
Wyll rolls, loses, and passes the dice to Gale, who immediately hands them to Lae'zel as he adds, "I'd prefer not to part with my belongings, thank you." He grins as he says it, though.
Lae'zel rattles the dice in her hand. "If I catch you cheating," she warns Astarion, "you'll lose some of those fingers."
Phyr is surprised Astarion can go paler, but he does. He nods, his smile turning brittle. "Understood."
Somehow, this time he rolls a pair of threes, losing Phyr's ring to the githyanki. Lae'zel's dark rasp of a laugh joins Karlach's friendly bark, Wyll's warm chuckle, and Shadowheart's soft titter.
"Lucky, huh?" Karlach teases Astarion as she squares off against Lae'zel.
"Even my luck isn't infinite," he snips with a defensive tilt of his chin.
"And it would be a lot harder to pick locks minus a finger or two," Karlach adds.
Laughter again, and Phyr tucks her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she revels in the shared joy. Karlach's hand comfortingly hot on her forearm, affection shining in the tiefling’s golden gaze. Wyll tosses his head back when he laughs, and Shadowheart scratches the Owlbear cub on the head, ruffling the soft feathers.
Firelight flickers, but it's not what warms Phyr. The tail end of their journey and many worries may still stretch before them, but here, in this moment, she is content.