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“Minthara!” a familiar voice rose in the dimness.
Despite having spent some time in the camp with her saviours — the word made her conflicted, but it was a fitting one — she was still not used to the sound of her name without any formal address or qualifiers. In other circumstances it would have been an unforgivable degree of over-familiarity. Here she would have to get used to it.
She turned around, keeping her posture as straight as ever and addressed the one who called.
“Wizard.”
He was performing his usual routine, preparing the meal – a peculiar habit for someone seemingly wealthy by surface standards. He stooped over the fire, arranging something on the plate. In true wizard fashion, even this simple task couldn't be accomplished without the help of magic – a mage hand was hovering near, clutching a bottle of oil, and she could make out a glimmer of protective spellwork shielding him from the fire.
She smirked, and that's when the smell hit her. Through the ever-present smoke of the campfire she could sense a mixture of familiar spices, with an acidic undertone and a note of char that went with it. She slowed her steps and inhaled deeper. Memories stirred – her mother always liked an extra dash of fire lichen on her dishes, but this smelled exactly like they prepared mushrooms at Darkled Depths—
“I know you don’t join us for the meals, so I made your plate in advance,” the wizard interrupted, seemingly unaware of her rushing thoughts, adjusted something on the plate, and then continued, “I am by no means an expert on Menzoberranzan cuisine, but I hope my knowledge is enough.”
He offered her the platter. The grilled mushroom caps arranged next to the pale puree of tubers. A simple affair, fit for the middle of tenday, when she was returning late from her training and dined alone. The cooks in the Baenre Compound garnished it with lichens and of course served it on much finer plates, but otherwise it looked surprisingly similar to her home meals.
Minthara took a few moments to examine it closer, her hands clasped firmly behind her, back straight, her momentary loss of composure righted and put behind her. The wizard stood still, waiting for her without complain.
“It takes more effort than this to poison me, wizard.”
She accented her words with an impassionate raise of an eyebrow, but seeing him taken aback by her words was satisfying.
"I wouldn't— Minthara…" he sputtered, eyes wide.
She held her gaze on him without word, taking in his appalled confusion.
“Would you like me to try it for you?” something finally clicked in his head, and he started looking around for his utensils. Fast thinking, for an iblith.
“There are ways to make even the deadliest of poisons trustworthy and safe for the taster," she noted, stretching her words, "However, knowing your incessant sincerity, I assume you are not aware of them.”
A half-smile curved on his face.
“I still insist you taste it for me,” she clarified.
He shook his head, a small smile not leaving his lips, and eventually found his utensils set. He had to set the plate down and settle on the ground to cut into the mushroom. She watched intently as he sliced the thin sliver off the edge of the cap, then used it to scoop up some of the puree.
“A perfect bite, for you,” he raised the forkful as if in a toast and sent it in his mouth.
The wizard closed his eyes, a wrinkle of concentration between his brows as he chewed. The display was amusing in its seriousness. At last, he swallowed, and a smug smile tugged at his lips.
“I’m sure it will not compare to the kind of meals you had in Menzoberranzan, but I happen to think I did quite well,” he nodded, lifting the plate in a repeat offer.
“I only hope your obvious lack of skill in poison testing does not translate to the actual cooking,” Minthara said dryly, but didn't bother hiding a smirk.
She saw him raise an eyebrow and, after a second of intense thought, he must have come to a conclusion that it was a joke.
Having settled down across him and using the stump as a table, she cut off a piece of the mushroom cap. She lingered, inhaling the familiar smell. After the dry rations prepared by the undead at Moonrise and (unbelievably, even worse) goblin meals at the camp, the wizard’s cookery was refreshingly good. He had his way with spices and was discerning of the freshness of the food, and that alone put him way ahead of her captors. But this… She didn’t realise she missed it so.
He continued to look at her, anticipation of her reaction clearly written across his face with fascinating lack of embarrassment.
“Your staring does little to convince me of your good intentions,” she remarked, and he looked away, obviously caught off guard by her words. Good.
At last, she took a bite.
The flavour coated her tongue like it did many times before. Informal visits, and late dinners, and meals on the road, and bites stolen from the kitchen in her youth — the many moments of life in the Underdark weaving together in her memories.
Home.
She took another bite and schooled her expression, aware of the wizard’s expectant gaze. Made a show of chewing slowly and appraising the flavours.
“Your grasp on how Menzoberranzan chefs use spices is lacking, and your use of surface oils is excessive.” she said, evenly, “But I expected worse from a surfacer.”
He smiled and lowered himself in a mock bow.
“Your critique is most appreciated and taken to heart.”
“Good answer," she smiled, "You have some sense yet."
Minthara enjoyed her dinner by the campfire. The rest of their loud group haven't swarmed them yet, and leaving for her tent with the half-finished plate in her hands seemed unnecessarily graceless in this moment. The wizard continued his preparations; she noted that the rest of them were getting the same meal, but with a much simpler seasoning. A familiar note of cold worry rose up into her throat, and then mellowed slowly. No venom lingered on her tongue. The wizard was quite happy to taste it for her. Most importantly, there were simpler ways to kill her than a public poisoning in the centre of the camp.
She finished her meal, and handed the plate back to the wizard, who was prestidigitating it clean as soon as he touched it, while the mage hand was ladling the last of the tubers onto another one. With a curt nod, she departed for her tent, feeling the lingering gaze on her back. Right before she lifted the flap, she heard the half-blood child note "An odd-looking meal today," before the wizard started his usual chatter.
That night she kept her watch as diligently as always, listening for quiet steps and unsheathing of weapons outside her tent. Nothing came, like every night since her joining. This time she found it a little easier to believe.
Minthara checked her maps, then checked them again. Compared them to a cheap local map bought in the city, and found no meaningful differences. Then sighed deeply.
Staying in camp made her nervous. She didn’t want to rely on Minsc, of all people, for protection. At least Lae’zel was also staying back – sharpening her arsenal of weapons, judging by the sounds from the outside. Good. It’s good to stay ready.
This was a rare moment she felt envy for humans and their ilk. Eight hours of unconsciousness a day seemed wasteful, but now, for the first time this century, she had time to waste. It was foolish for them to save her just to leave her in camp — both her maces and her wits rusting from disuse.
She had half a mind to go outside and ask the vampire for a book (or at least ask where he stole them), when the camp filled with sound again. Clanking of armour and Karlach's loud voice announced the return of the party. Minthara decided to stay in her tent. The inside jokes and familiarity of the group exhausted her whenever they all got together.
The conversations quieted down eventually, and most of the people left again. Nobody sought her out.
She reached for the maps again, when she heard soft steps approaching her tent and before she would guess who they belonged to, the answer revealed itself to her.
“Minthara!”
The wizard.
He knocked softly on the support beam of her tent. A thought of maybe sending him away with a threat crossed her mind, but, judging by the state of her mind and her maps, she needed a distraction.
She opened the flap of her tent and had to shield her eyes from the bothersome sun.
“Wizard.”
He was cradling some parcels of brown paper and twine to his chest, and smiled radiantly.
"Ah, I'm glad to see you. I have most excellent news, at least as far as our next meal is concerned. We visited a butcher in the city on my way back, and they just happened to have some fresh cuts of rothe. Exceptional quality meat, if you ask me," he glanced at the parcels lovingly, "Of course, I would love your consult on the proper way to prepare it, you being the most experienced with this kind of meal."
He looked her in the eye, and his smile all but beamed from under the formal words.
“I had no need to cook for myself until I had to travel with your lot," she answered, crossing her arms.
“You have no need to cook now as well, I'm more than happy to handle the preparations, all I need is advice. And perhaps your pleasant company,” he did the best attempt at formal bow he could manage while still holding onto his haul.
She felt a tug at the corners of her lips. He was amusing, in his own way.
“I can provide that.”
He led her towards the campfire in the shade, where his usual cooking station was set up, already chattering about spices and sauces.
“You are very excited about this meal,” she noted.
“Of course! Rothe steaks, fresh from the butcher! This was a special occasion kind of meal even back in Waterdeep, let alone during our travels.”
He laid the packages, still wrapped carefully in butcher paper, on the cutting board and shook his head in appreciation.
“I have gotten quite good at cooking with the supplies we found on the road. A challenge, sure, but one should strive to learn from every experience. Our diet is not entirely devoid of meat, but I suspect that dry sausage links did not fully satisfy those of us with more... carnivorous predilections,” he glanced at her, a raised eyebrow and a spark of excitement in his eyes.
She held a pause, not looking at the man, letting tension hang in the air. Amusement curled in her chest, yet she didn't let it onto her face.
“And what do you seem to imply by that?"
He stopped his ministrations abruptly, realisation dawning in his eyes, and Minthara pressed further.
"Does the educated wizard believe every idle rumour he hears about the drow? Will you serve me my next dish alive and squirming?”
His cheeks now slightly darkened over the beard.
“My apologies. I will be more thoughtful next time," he muttered, his usual confidence knocked from under him for a moment.
She let out a chuckle.
“I do not expect surfacers to know much of our culture. I happen to like this rumour. Keeps people afraid.”
He smiled cautiously at her words.
“Do you prefer your steaks well done, then?”
“Medium rare. I am not completely devoid of good taste.”
“Excellent choice.”
He got to work, confident and efficient, magic suffusing his every action. Mage hand pouring oil into the pan as he rubbed the steaks in salt, light gusts of wind keeping the flame of the campfire in place, surfaces cleaned easily with a flick of a wrist. He talked of flavours, textures and ingredients, asked her opinions of drow cuisine and actually listened to her remarks. The air was filling with familiar scents and for the first time in a while, she felt calm.
"You seem to be in a peculiarly cheerful mood lately, wizard."
His eyes were kept on his task, the rhythmical work of basting uninterrupted, but a small smile warmed up his features.
"I guess, I found some hope in me lately. Some vision of the future."
He lifted the pan off the flames and slid the steak onto a cutting board.
"Now, we let it rest," he said, admiring the seared piece of meat.
Whether it was addressed to her or to their dinner was less than clear, but she didn't prod this time. A shift in conversation was more than acceptable.
"When my troops marched out of Menzoberranzan, we had a cook travel with us. The noblings and the merchant sons did not know how to prepare meals and nobody trusted the lowborn with our food. Some parties preferred to travel without one. I have heard it discussed as a question of logistics versus morale."
She glanced at him and found him looking at her with attention, even as a mage hand was stirring something in the charred pan.
"Is this your way of combining logistics and morale? Or do you always prepare your own meals?" she nodded towards the campfire.
He chuckled in response, his eyes returning to the pan.
"I quite enjoy cooking. It's something my mother and I have in common. She makes most excellent Hundur sauce and, dare I say, I may one day improve on her recipe," familiar notes of smugness returned to his voice.
"A curious ambition for someone of your station, wizard."
"It's not my main one, but one does have to have hobbies," he worried the pan over the fire and turned back to her, "Surely, even the fearsome Minthara of House Baenre has something to occupy her leisure hours."
"Fearsome, am I?" she raised an eyebrow and quieted just long enough to catch a hint of nerves in his eyes. "You are not entirely senseless, then."
"I will take it as a compliment," he hit the pan with a splash of wine and wafted the aromatic air towards himself, "But I am curious still. Drow are known for decadence, among other things."
"Are you hoping for lurid tales or orgies and bloodbath over dinner? I may well spoil your appetite, wizard."
"Oh, nothing quite so… exciting. Rather, what would you do in a quiet moment? Left in peace, by yourself."
She hesitated with the answer. The space between them filled with murmurs of the camp and the bubbling of sauce. A quiet moment. She hadn't had one in a while, with worries, and plans, and tadpoles, and pains, and worship, and godsforsaken goblins. Many lonely moments, but not quiet ones.
"I do not enjoy solitude. I would often seek out a lover, or, at least, a conversation partner for the evening. Even animal company would suffice. If I couldn't, I would most often reach for a book."
"What kind?" obvious excitement twitched in his features.
"A tale of battle. Of war and victory," she hesitated once again. The wizard’s curiosity seemed so disarmingly genuine. She kept talking, "But even more of travel. There was one of a drow warrior venturing to the Feydark, ‘The Gates to Malabog's Realm’, I read a few times. And then a story with a githyanki battleship and a war in the Astral Sea. I even had some about surfacer adventurers."
She paused again and watched Gale shuffle back to the table, pan in hand. The preparation was almost finished, but he still was listening intently.
"When I left Menzoberranzan, I took a book with me, a tale set during the Rise of the Underdark. A fanciful story about a young wizard sent to the surface. I cannot even remember if I had time to finish it. After our march it was all Orin and The Absolute. It might still be somewhere in Moonrise, if the tiefling children your leader is so fond of hadn't gotten their claws on it."
She raised her eyes at the wizard. He stood at the table, knife in hand and steak seemingly forgotten as he looked at her with sorrowful softness in his eyes.
"The meat will go cold," she noted, adding a harder note to her voice.
The wizard jostled back to life, slicing the steak and then plating it carefully. At last he poured a dark fragrant sauce thick with mushroom pieces over the meat. She recognised familiar notes. Charred mushrooms, spiced with fire lichen. The rest was muddled, the sun-grown herbs and some unfamiliar butter. As she was trying to place it, he crowned the meat with a sprig of something obnoxiously green and leafy, poured a glass of wine, and presented the meal to her.
"Taste it," she said, not lifting her hand.
"Is it not enough that I cooked it before you?"
"It is a good first step."
He shook his head, a smile once again making its way to his face. How easily he showed emotions. He then carefully looked over the plate and aimed for a slice.
"A different one," she said. Met with his questioning gaze, she held it. "One from the centre and one from the edge. To counteract both an injection of venom and poisoned spices. Lavishly covered with any condiment present, of course."
"Fascinating attention to detail," he shook his head, but obeyed, gingerly picking the pieces she pointed out to him.
"Poison is a versatile weapon, and the Menzoberranzan elites wield it most masterfully.”
He chewed, and his lashes fluttered for a second. Hand to his mouth, he nodded, until he swallowed at last.
"Ah, how I missed a good steak. I was worried about proper temperature with the campfire and all, but I think I've got a knack for it now."
He offered the plate to her.
"Let us hope your confidence is justified."
She lingered for a moment, a fork hovering just above the meat, before finally tasting. The mushroom sauce coated her tongue with a rich and savoury flavour. It was familiar and odd at the same time, the earthiness of different kinds of mushrooms and the sweeter notes of grape wine. The meat was tender under her teeth, with perfectly seared edges. She closed her eyes.
The images of home filled her mind – of feast halls with high ceilings carved in rock, of early dinners before the night of revelry at a nedeirra, of private evenings between the two in a windowless room.
She swallowed, opened her eyes and nodded. The wizard beamed and bowed in his peculiar fashion.
"Not nearly as good as the cooks of Baenre compound," she tempered his glee, "and with your unescapable surfacer touch throughout. But," a pause, to take an unhurried sip of the wine, "good."
"It is always a pleasure to meet expectations as high as yours, Minthara."
"My expectations have become tempered by spending so long away from home."
He paused, a shadow of wistfulness flickering over his face, before returning to the ever-pleasant smile he always talked through.
"Well, I can only hope that I will have a chance to exceed them yet."
She finished her dinner by his side, watching him sear and baste all over again for the rest of the hungry company. He asked her if she'd like seconds as soon as she put down her fork. She refused, even if the offer itself pleased her.
She poured herself more wine, and as she was about to return to her tent, the wizard said, "You could stay. Enjoy your wine. Nobody is asking you to leave."
"If I truly desired to stay for dinner, I would not ask for their permission."
"Apologies," he said, looking distractedly over the flames, "I should have guessed."
By the time the rest of the party started swarming the campfire, Minthara was already entering her tent.
Later, when the sun had finally set, Minthara went to care for her mushrooms and found a small stack of worn down chapbooks resting near her tent. A little note sat atop the stack and proclaimed,
"Some books from my personal collection. I hope they will be to your liking. I did my best to provide a varied selection.
Gale."
She smirked and looked through the stack. The one on top was the newest, with a small stamp of a spelljammer ship on the cover. “The True and Impossible Adventures of Tenebrux Morrow, Vol. I" the title spelled in common. The other two boasted cracked spines, worn down covers and folded page corners. The one bound in dull red-orange was called "The Long Road to Calimport". The last one, thin and mended at the spine said "Visions of the Underdark." She leafed through it without thinking and discovered impressions of Underdark landscapes and examples of local flora and fauna, printed in stark black ink. She lingered on one of them, a print of a tall, vast cavern with sharp dripstone cutting through the darkness. She passed through places like this many times, numerous but unique pockets of the Dark Dominion.
The picture was… comforting. Sharp white lines over stretches of deep black, the implied vastness of it — it should have been intimidating, especially to the outsider, but it was drawn without fear, the ink telling the truth of a dangerous, yet beautiful place.
Minthara ran her fingers over the page, smoothing the paper. She could imagine the smell of the place, the scattered rhythm of water droplets against the stone, the slippery rock under her fingertips, irregularities of the stone floor through the soles of her boots. As she stood in the darkness, gentle glow of her little garden brushing against her skin, she felt something lift from her shoulders. For a moment, it was all gone — the sun, the dizzying openness of the sky, the vast horizons and strangers at every corner. For a moment, she imagined home.
The mushrooms remained untended to, as Minthara retreated into her tent. The book penned by a naive surfacer adventurer, who nevertheless understood the beauty of her home, kept her company in the hours before her nightly meditation.
Her sorrow remained in the tent. Just because she needed it, meant not that the others needed to see it.
The party was at night, which was good at least. Minthara observed the way her former companions clung to each other, hugs and words exchanged freely and loudly. The ease of it all still amused her. She didn't expect any one of them to stab each other in the unprotected back (even Astarion had gotten too attached to them for that), but to her honed senses, it still reeked of recklessness.
She suspected they have seen each other between their last meeting half a year ago and now. Surprisingly, she was the only one who made her home in Baldur’s Gate, convinced in the last moment to stay. Shadowheart supposedly also stayed there, but the girl travelled so much she was in the city as often as the two who departed for hells.
Well, Minthara was used to solitude. She had work to do, city to take over and a bunch of do-gooders at her back would only be a bother. She wanted to say she didn't have time for social visits, but more and more often she found herself alone in her room, sitting at a table at the edge of trance, the hours ticking by unoccupied.
The letters she received were in a small neat pile on the desk, gathering dust. She never opened them. Nothing these fools could offer her after their adventure had ended. But she didn't get rid of them either. A cheap print of Waterdeep with Shadowheart's uneven writing at the back and an envelope from Yartar addressed in the same hand. Wyll's neat lettering with long uniform tails on an envelope smelling of ash and sulphur ("And Karlach!" added in bold letters to the sender field). Small note in elvish (magically copied) from Astarion. And three letters from the wizard, in heavy envelopes – no doubt as wordy as his typical chatter.
"Minthara!"
What conspicuous timing.
"Wizard."
His outstretched hands fell to his sides as he took in her expression, but his smile still beamed bright.
"I'm so happy to see you. All of you! As much as I'm happy with my position in Waterdeep, keeping touch can be difficult at a distance. Who would've thought I'd ever miss sleeping in a tent?"
He droned on, settling down next to her. Minthara caught herself feeling oddly relaxed by his chatter. She, too, missed travelling in a group more than she would admit. She used to be better at being alone, but she was sure further stay in the city would right it.
"… And I have a present for you!"
Her attention shifted back to the wizard who was ruffling through his bag. He gingerly pulled out a triangular package wrapped in oiled gray paper.
"Aged rothe cheese, spiced with carapace of a giant centipede," he explained, holding it carefully towards her, "I have been assured by no less than three different traders with subterranean connections, that the seal is a legitimate one of a Menzoberranzan trading house, and that it had not been tampered with."
She took the wedge. It was sealed with a sigil of the Black Claw and mushroom paper felt achingly familiar under her fingers. She'd found many traders who dealt in Underdark wares in the city, mostly foraged ingredients and svirfneblin crafts, but this— this was from home, achingly close. She put it closer to her face and inhaled. The wrapping was thorough, she could feel only the faintest aroma of cheese under the notes of paper, dust and something vaguely green. She supposed that's what the inside of Gale's bag smelled like.
"I have been warned it's quite potent once you unwrap it," he added, with a subtle hint of worry.
"It is. I assume that only a subpar batch would make it to the surface, but it would still be unusual to an unaccustomed nose," she carefully put the wedge away into her own bag, and let the silence linger as she hesitated. At last, she said simply, "Thank you."
She meant it. There was a quiet excitement warming her insides as soon as she glimpsed the seal. She wasn't used to this — timid happiness over small things, but the last few months of her life had taught her many new feelings.
She ran her hand through her bag and let it rest on the warm stoneware bottle. A waste, surely. Then she thought of the meals served in camp on their journey, of the nights spent in her tent over a book.
She could afford to be a little wasteful.
"You have found some appreciation of drow cuisine during our travels, haven't you?" she asked, not quite looking at the wizard.
"In a way," she felt him shift a little closer, leaning in.
"Would you like to sample a Menzoberranzan drink with me?"
"Of course!" she met his eyes at last, and found the usual incessant curiosity and… Something else. A gentle something she couldn't quite place. Surprise, perhaps, she told herself and set the magically warmed bottle on the table.
Immediately the wizard peppered her with questions, but Minthara was busy looking for suitable cups, leaving him to stew in his impatience.
She maybe took a bit longer than she needed, enjoying his restlessness.
At last, two matching stoneware cups were found and she poured out the drink.
“Darklake mushroom tea. It is hard to procure authentic ingredients in Baldur’s Gate, but I found some.” Minthara told him, believing it would answer a few of his questions.
His face lit up with curiosity, and she saw his hand lift towards the cup when he caught himself.
“I believe it would be prudent to ask you to try it first,” he smiled.
“A wizard who learned his lesson," she raised an eyebrow, "a rare sight indeed.”
“I’d be so bold to say that I’ve been quite good on this front lately,” a chuckle followed his words.
Minthara reached for his cup and inhaled the familiar savoury smell. She showed him the contents, then took a sip, letting the hot beverage wash over her palette. Yes, just the right amount of fish sauce, the one thing servants rarely got right.
She handed him the cup and watched closely as he drank. He paused, taking in the flavour, looking thoughtfully into the distance. A familiar impulse pulled at her, and she asked:
“Have I told you about the latest fashion in Menzoberranzan, the one that was taking off just before I left?”
He looked at her with confusion and anticipation.
“You would mix your toxin of choice into a paste with cosmetics and poison your lips. Then offer the victim a meal and test it yourself, smearing the lipstick over their utensils or contaminating their drink. It was very effective, by the time I departed, some parties in the city would entirely forbid lip adornments of any kind.”
His face dropped for a moment, eyes glued to the faint gloss of her lips, and she smiled wide. The silence hung between them for a moment, and then he burst out laughing.
“Never a dull moment with you, Minthara.” he shook his head, gentle smile softening his features.
“You are amusing to tease.”
He took another sip and watched the steam escaping from the cup into the cool night air.
“It’s comforting. The taste is nothing alike, but it makes me think of the broth my mother made me when I was sick. With a certain Underdark twist to it,” he twisted his hand in the air with that last sentence.
“I had a kettle in my room just for making this. A cup before bed whenever I was tired.”
“Wouldn’t someone try to poison the kettle if they knew it was yours?”
“They did. Several times. Unsuccessfully as you can see.” she smirked.
He didn’t answer, just looked at her, some emotions churning behind his eyes. She recognised this look. Less pitiful than his usual kicked puppy demeanour, but still quite pitiable. The hint of sadness mixed into his look of concentration.
“I wrote you letters,” he said, a bit quiet, “I know that you’re likely too busy to answer, I was just wondering if you’ve received them at all.”
She kept her face impassive, the stack of unopened letters flashing clearly in her mind.
“Is there something you are trying to tell me, wizard?”
It took him a moment to answer, his eyes avoiding hers.
“I was wondering if you would like to visit Waterdeep?”
Now it was her turn to search for words. What kind of plot was it? She had spent a lot of time with him on their travels, and he was not hard to read, but this was unexpected. Was he a better liar than she thought?
"Speak clearly, wizard. What do you want from me?"
An impulse tugged at her to cross her arms, but she suppressed it, leaning instead against the back of her chair.
"Oh, nothing I want from you. Just… trying to keep in touch as it were," a nervous smile flickered across his face.
She kept her gaze on him and said nothing. This made him nervous, as expected.
"All of our lives changed recently," he continued, "Yours probably more than most. I thought maybe some company would do us good. And with all these changes it is hard to keep up through correspondence, I understand! And it is entirely possible not everyone wants to keep up at all, which is upsetting, but is something I can respect, of course," he raised his arms in exaggerated surrender.
She held her silence a second longer and just as she was about to respond, he looked up at her and added,
"But to be entirely honest, I quite miss your company. Perhaps more so than others’."
Minthara swallowed. Her thoughts were suddenly in disarray, a good response hard to find among the swirling words and feelings. An insult came to mind first, maybe a threat, a clear indication of how weak and vulnerable she found him. Except, it was not hard to find him like this when he offered, was it? The narrow brown eyes opened wide, full of sad earnestness, she’d come to recognise.
Come to miss.
At last, she smiled. Kept her tone even and collected, but let him hear her amusement,
"You are not the only one. Is it my keen observations or delightful sense of humour that you have grown to miss?"
He chuckled, and she could see his shoulders relaxing.
"Both of these and many other fine qualities you have," he lowered his head in a mock bow.
She took another sip from her cup, the tea cooling in the chilly autumn evening.
"I will consider your invitation," she said, setting down the cup. Then, catching his smile, added, "If I can find time in my schedule."
"Of course."
He spent the next half an hour at her side, describing the many splendours and peculiarities of Waterdeep, taking sips of mushroom tea in between long-winded sentences. She doubted the city would really compare to Menzoberranzan, with its stern subterranean beauty that surfacers never managed to replicate, but it would be curious to see nonetheless.
Perhaps some company would do her good. Perhaps his more than others’.