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It began as a jest.
Tara was on the balcony with Mr. Dekarios when he asked, “Would you like to send a note to Astarion?”
“To that irksome vampire you mention nearly every day?” Tara huffed, folding her paws. “Absolutely not. A kobold would be a better penpal.”
Gale paused, eyes gleaming. Oh dear, he has an idea, Tara thought.
“Splendid! Astarion’s sister, Dalyria, would be a great correspondent." Gale stood, ready to fetch ink and a quill from his desk piled with books. “Shall I transcribe for you?”
“I can cast my own mage hand. Thank you, Mr. Dekarios.”
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Dal liked the Underdark, for the most part.
After more than a century of captivity, she was free. No more did she hear Cazador’s voice. No more was she confined to Baldur's Gate.
Newly loosed from her leash, she explored the Underdark with Astarion, through mushroom-filled glens, crystalline mountains, and glowing caverns.
Too bad Astarion was already bored.
Only messages from his wizard friend lifted his spirits.
Every tenday, he sifted through a pile of letters until… "Aha! Waterdeep." He grinned, then frowned.
“What’s wrong, brother?”
Dal leaned in, reading her name on the parchment.
“It’s for you," he sighed.
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Dear Miss Dalyria,
My name is Tara. Astarion and I have known each other for some time.
I am a tressym, brought into this world by a foolish and young Mr. Dekarios many years ago. I am no mere wizard’s familiar. He is more my pet than I am his.
I have heard of your remarkable life, your education, practice as a physician, and mission to cure your condition. I am curious, having had limited interactions with vampires.
I propose we exchange letters as penpals. Perchance, do you play lanceboard?
Yours respectfully,
Tara
P.S. Opening move: pawn to king-four.
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The parchment sat on Dal's rosewood desk, blank and mocking. Its emptiness daunted her.
While Astarion reread Gale’s letters, pausing to ask Dal about subtext, she could only stare at Tara’s elegant script.
In all her many years, Dal had few encounters with tressyms.
“She may look like a winged cat, but she’s far smarter than many thinking creatures,” Astarion said haughtily.
Tara was apparently quite the wizard herself. But a long-distance game of lanceboard?
Why not?
If Astarion could have a wizard penpal, why couldn't she?
Dal grabbed paper and quill, and set out to find Leon’s lanceboard set.
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“If I may—”
“You may not, Mr. Dekarios,” Tara said.
Wisely silencing himself, Gale sipped his tea.
Tara eyed the lacquered lanceboard atop the darkwood table. They were on the balcony, the sun high in a cloudless sky. It was perfect hunting weather, yet here she perched, contemplating her next move.
Dal was very clever, a worthy opponent for Tara.
A blue mage hand hovered closely, ready to lift a piece at her nod.
Then, inspiration struck—there it was, the winning move.
Pride swelled as she hopped down.
“Leaving so soon, Tara?”
"I have important matters to attend to."
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Soon, Dalyria received letters from Tara each tenday, then every few days.
Tara had a fondness for collecting magical trinkets and a favorite tree in the Heroes’ Garden for lounging.
Her favorite writers were Mintiper Moonsilver and Storm Silverhand. Dal admitted to enjoying Lalandra Thoelur’s low-brow romances.
She complained about the ivy on the tower, which Gale insisted remain for its distinguished look.
In return, Dal wrote of her research on Underdark flora, how Astarion moped when he didn't receive anything from Gale, and the logistics of managing the many vampire spawn.
The letters continued, and so did their game.
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"I've won," Tara murmured.
"Ah, a splendid move. The killing blow—"
"Mr. Dekarios, must you interrupt?"
"Apologies." He grinned, a devious light in his eyes.
"What is that look for?"
"I have not seen you so enraptured in some time. That's all."
Tara glared as he stroked his beard.
“Out with it.”
“You are rather taken with Dalyria—”
She huffed. Sure, her correspondence with Miss Dalyria outpaced Gale and Astarion. So what if finding a letter with Dal's crimson wax seal set her heart aflutter?
“Are you not with your special penpal?”
Gale blushed crimson. “Of course, Tara. My apologies.”
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“Another one?” Astarion flicked a neatly folded note at Dalyria.
Leaving him to pout, Dal made for Ebonlake Grotto.
Amid the glow of crystal and toadstools, she unfolded Tara’s latest letter.
Tara congratulated her on winning their latest lanceboard game. Even Gale—Mr. Dekarios—was impressed.
But Dal did not care for his overwrought prose and fanciful script. She would leave that for her brother.
She much preferred Tara's mage hand assisted writing.
Lately, Dal found herself wondering if Tara’s fur was soft or wiry and the color of her eyes.
Was it strange to think of Tara so much?
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Tara was peeved.
Mr. Dekarios had been spending all his time in his tower forging a Sunwalker Ring for Astarion. The insufferable rogue who had nearly bled him dry!
Not that Gale had succeeded… yet.
“Watching him slip into the shadows once more pained me,” Gale lamented.
“At least he had that,” Tara replied. "Miss Dalyria did not."
“Well, perhaps your friend would like one as well.” Gale sighed, leaning back on his stool. "When I finally get it right."
Tara’s heart felt like it would burst, burgeoning with the thought of Dalyria. After all, she, too, deserved the sun.
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Dal tucked Tara's latest note into a purple folio. The letter marked another win for her, putting Tara at two victories so far.
Along with it came a pouch—a gift. Dal untied the strings, finding a smoothed rock inside. A sending stone.
Warmth radiated from it, as if it had lain in the sun. A similar heat coiled in her chest.
Carefully, she activated it, hearing Tara’s prim voice:
“Consider this a small consolation for a game well-played. Perhaps when visiting the tower, we can play in person. I have a surprise for you.”
Dal clutched it and smiled.