Reunions – Sheryl, the Fae-Touched

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It was the first time Sheryl was performing at the Flourished Hook in Port Ffirst. It was either here or the Seashank – and she wasn’t going to perform at the little shack to earn some weekly wages. They wouldn’t be able to afford it, plain and simple.

She preferred Daring Heights to the port town, but after the events of the last mission, she needed to put some more distance between herself and the Feythorn Forest. Krux was a little too happy to see her, and he knew it was too soon for her to return, and yet... he called to the Lady.

Would the Lady have honoured their arrangement? Or would she have kept her there? The bargain she made had no mention of coming and going from the Feywild so it was possible the Lady could have said her time was up and that would have been it. But would Sheryl have minded? It would mean she wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of the war...

She couldn’t focus on that right now, she had a performance to do.

It was mid-week, late in the afternoon, just before dinner time, in fact. The audience was a sizable one and she was debating playing the new ballad she had been working on. But then, unbidden and a bit ironically a song came to her mind, one the Master of Revelries had taught her himself…

        Ahh yahh yahh...

Sheryl’s clear and melodious voice carries out over the crowd and they instantly fell silent. Her hands dance across the strings of her harp and a soft aquamarine-coloured smoke starts falling from their vibrations. As the notes are plucked from the strings, the sound of a small drum and flute are heard though she only plays the one instrument. The audience is intrigued, enraptured, and they listen a little closer.

        Lost in darkest blue
        Endless labyrinths weaving through
        Will you stagger on,
        With no star to light your way?
        Share with me your tears
        All your troubles and deepest fears
        I remember when
        You chased all my shadows away

Her voice is clear and beautiful, haunting with yearning and enticing with longing. Some of the patrons sway to the lilting music and find themselves closing their eyes, imagining themselves in the story of the lyrics. All but one patron who makes their way closer to the stage. As Sheryl starts the next verse she changes her voice to be a bit rounder, more from the depths of her stomach, and the effect is such that the audience feels like there is another person singing.

        Won't you take my hand?
        Come away with me from this land
        Let me give to you
        All that you have given to me
        Fly horizon bound
        Find the moon behind darkening clouds
        Even far apart,
        Know our souls together will be

And then, on the word ‘together’, a second distinct voice does resound through the room: a sonorous contralto intertwining with the halfling’s melody in harmonic tones riven with minor modes. The onlookers draw back from the figure – a lilac-skinned tiefling woman with radiant white hair – who had been making her way through the crowd. As the song progresses, this new voice, resonating through the audience’s psyche like honey slow-dripping through ancient oak, takes on a deeper counterpoint to the halfling’s lighter vocal line, giving the music a darker edge and threatening to unbalance the song with its melancholy.

Sheryl keeps playing, though, not missing a note. Only an audience member paying close attention would notice her eyes widen and then brighten in recognition at who was standing there singing, making the song the duet it is supposed to be.

        When the storm draws nigh
        Dreams will shatter before your eyes
        Know that you're not alone
        When the battle starts
        I will comfort your restless heart
        You'll know that you are home

The voices of the tiefling and the halfling dance around each other, weaving the story of the lyrics into the movements of the soft smoke, its colour changing from blue to purple with tiny silver lights twinkling in and throughout it.

        When your stars stop shining
        Endless vines around you winding
        Know that you're not alone
        I will give my all
        So your tears will no longer fall
        Down, down on sorrow's stone

‘You Are Not Alone’ by Erutan

---

Off stage and out of sight of the patrons, Sheryl rushes over to the lilac-skinned tiefling. “Lady Sunday!” she says, a little skip of excitement in her step before she opens her arms to hug the taller woman. “It is so good to finally see you!”

Sunday smiles warmly as they embrace. “I did not know you had finally come to Kantas. I was so surprised to hear your voice up on stage. I’m glad you’ve made it.” She steps back and raises a hand. “But, please, ‘Sunday’ is sufficient. I’m no Lady here. Or anywhere. No longer.” The tiefling says these last few words almost reflexively, imbued with a weary sense of relief.

Sheryl claps her hands over her mouth. “Oh! I’m sorry. Sunday. Got it.” She smiles and her eyes shine a little. “It’s… just so nice to see you. I’ve been swept up in so many adventures since leaving and- well- It’s nice to see a familiar, friendly face. How have you been?” She moves to sit at a pair of comfy looking chairs, a little side table between them. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Sunday settles herself into the other chair, coiling her long tail neatly around her legs. “Ale would be fine, thank you. That song was too maudlin for me for anything else.” She looks at Sheryl for a long moment, head cocked and long, blonde hair falling to one side. “It seems Kantas agrees with you. You’re looking quite splendid. Those wings of yours… they seem more real than the fancies you had before?”

“Oh, they are?” She gives them a cursory glance and shrugs mischievously. “I haven’t even noticed.” At this, Sunday rolls her eyes playfully and Sheryl giggles. “But yes, Kantas is wonderful. I really like it here. The people are really interesting and kind,” Sheryl beams a smile and then tilts her head in thought. “Well, for the most part. There’s always a bad apple in every bushel. What have you been up to since you left?” She rings a bell and a waiter comes to take their order.

Sunday smiles back – this time rather wanly, a pale imitation of her earlier expression. “Oh, this and that. Trying to weed out some of those bad apples you mentioned. With varying degrees of success. Do you live in Port Ffirst now? I’ve only just started to get to know the town. I’ve spent most of my time in Daring or in the Feythorn.”

“I’ve been living mostly in Daring Heights – performing a lot with a band. We are called the Planes of Existence. It’s myself, a dashing man by the name of Mathew Mentar and my dear friend Arkadius Hogg! Though, Arkadius hasn’t been around much as he has opened a business here. Ffirst Airmail Service! I actually have a gift I want to give him. Something from one of my recent adventures.”

The waiter comes and leaves a bottle of feywine and a large pitcher of ale for the two of them. Sunday nods her thanks in his direction. Sheryl pours a pint for Sunday and offers her the glass before she pours a large cup of wine for herself.

Sunday accepts the glass appreciatively, and takes a long drink before responding. “Ahh, that’s better. I’ve not sung like that in a while.” She sets the half-empty glass down on the table. “I hope you didn’t mind me stepping in on the second harmony? You were doing masterfully, but that song deserves both parts – and not even you can sing both at once. Not yet.”

Sheryl raises her glass to Sunday. “You were marvelous and I don’t admit this often, you out performed me. But for the song that it was, I do not mind at all.” She clinks her glass against Sunday's on the table and takes a long drink herself, ears turning pink with the heat of the wine rushing through her. “Ah!” she sighs coming up for air. “I am glad we got to sing together, Sunday. Thank you.” The last words are weighted, as Sunday knows the fey do not say such words lightly. “So… these bad apples… what exactly is it that draws your attention to them, Sunday?”

“That’s a weighty question, to be sure.” Sunday pauses for a while, and her gaze slowly drifts around the crowded taproom as she considers her reply. The silence stretches out and deepens before she eventually refocuses on Sheryl and answers.

“Guilt, probably.”

Sheryl’s brow creases. “Why would you feel guilty?” concern colouring her question.

Sunday shrugs. “You’ll be hard-pressed to find someone in Kantas for whom guilt isn’t a motivating force. We’re a tragic lot. Some more than most.” She nods over at her companion, reaching for her pint glass. “And you? I hope you’re not having too much trouble with your bad apples.” Sunday pauses suddenly in response to some sense of intuition, her hand hovering over her drink, the muscle in her left cheek flexing and going taut as she narrows her green-and-gold-flecked eyes. “Has someone hurt you?” She intently scans Sheryl’s form for wounds or signs of injury.

Sheryl goes still, suddenly aware of every scar she might have gotten since coming to Kantas. She tries to be subtle about it but Sunday notices. “No I, um, I’m fine! I just-” She looks back at the tiefling and her throat catches, betraying her. She tries to clear it, but the intense look in Sunday’s eyes make the small cough turn into a big cough. “Wh-Why are you looking at me like that, Sunday? I’m fine!” Sheryl picks up her wine and downs it.

“Because the way you sang that song just now suggests that everything is not quite as rosy-coloured as your wings.” Sunday sits back in her chair, hands folded in her lap, making a visible effort to relax. “Is there something wrong?”

Sheryl carefully sets down the glass onto the little table. With deliberate movements, she pours both Sunday and herself another glass. She unconsciously worries at her lip and shoots glances at Sunday’s stoic face. At last, settling back with her cup of feywine in her hands, she speaks, but doesn’t look at her friend.

“On the last mission I went on, it was to help with the war. There had been rumours flying about Daring of a group of elves who attacked both the giants and the K’ul Goranians. But they didn’t kill anyone. I was intrigued!” She sits up a bit straighter. “I thought, what if we could convince them to fight with us, together, to stop the giants.” She finally looks at Sunday. “I’ve never seen war before. It’s been… terrifying. And things are not getting better."

Sunday sighs. “It’s not getting any better, no. You’re right to try and bring people together to face the bigger threat – the real threat.”

“My idea was to convince these elves to join us!” Sheryl says, nodding. “I sang to them to try to convince them that we aren’t the enemy, we could be allies! But Serpentine-” Sheryl’s hands ball into fists and Sunday notices her forehead breakout in a sheen of sweat and her breathing gets a bit more shallow. “I tried to stop her from hurting the elves. I… I tried to curse her,” Sheryl’s eyes darted furtively to Sunday’s and then quickly away. “It didn’t work, heh. I may take after- the Lady,” Sunday’s eyebrow raises, “but I’m not nearly strong enough.”

Sheryl takes a long drink of her second glass of feywine, her cheeks getting rosier. She sets the glass down and clasps her hands together to hold them from shaking.

“I got sent back. I was there again, for the briefest of moments. I saw… I saw Kruxeral. He was so happy to see me, and I him! But then… he said we should celebrate my return. ‘She would be delighted to see you.’ I-... You know how it is there. Everything is… different. More. Heightened. I wanted so desperately to see her but I worked so hard to get my one year I couldn’t-...”

Sheryl lets out a shaky breath and wipes at her eyes and feels tears there. She brushes them away harder, angrily. “And then, when I did come back it was dark all around me and I just- I felt claws on my shoulder and I remembered when the fey had captured me as a child. I was back there. Pain. Terror. Darkness…” She closes her eyes trying to block out the memories.

While Sheryl’s words are tumbling out, Sunday sits motionless, eyes fixed on her friend’s anguished face. As Sheryl recounts her return from the Feywild to find herself trapped in darkness, Sunday opens one of her hands, palm up, and the image of a sunflower unfolds from the lilac skin. It detaches from the tiefling’s delicate palm and drifts across the table. As the plant floats towards Sheryl, its petals become infused with a soft, lambent light that spills out like the bow wave of a ship, washing ahead of the flower and flowing gently over Sheryl’s skin. Even as the halfling’s fear and panic grow at the memories of how her confrontation with Serpentine returned her briefly to the Summer Court, she can feel an amber-gold warmth sinking into the very fabric of her being – reassuring and strengthening at the same time. The scent of a summer meadow fills her senses. The flower closes the distance between them, landing in Sheryl’s lap as a living floral specimen.

Sheryl’s eyes slowly drift open and all the tension in her face, body, and hands are swept away by the gentle magics. A soft, tender smile spreads across her face as she picks up the beautiful flower, holding it delicately.

“Sunday, I… I’m sorry. The first time in months I am seeing you and I just unload all of this onto you,” Sheryl says as she reaches across to her friend’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I see you are still a woman with unfathomable depths of kindness. I am glad. This place is lucky to have you here.” She looks at the flower again. “You know, this sort of reminds me of the aura the commander of the Crimson Fist has. Varis. Do you know him?”

Sunday nods, not taking her eyes from Sheryl’s. “I know Grandmaster Pretty Boy very well.” A giggle bubbles out past Sheryl’s lips. “We have different ways of doing things, for sure, but he cares as deeply for this land and its people as I do.” She snorts. “Even though he’d never put it like that.”

For an instant, Sunday’s voice changes to mimic Varis’ perfectly. “‘Only by devotion to a distasteful duty can one’s true worth be measured.’” She smiles mischievously and her voice returns to normal. “Or something. Was he with you in K’ul Goran then? And Baine? Those two are never far apart.”

Sheryl nods, “Yes they both were there when it happened. I didn’t say anything at the time, but on the ride back I mentioned to Varis what took place, and I asked for some advice. He said I was a fool for attacking Serpentine,” Sheryl pouts halfheartedly. “But in the same breath he praised me for trying to turn an enemy into a friend.” She shakes her head. “It still didn’t change the outcome though. The elves were slaughtered.” The little bit of laughter that was in her eyes dies down as she looks Sunday in her eyes. “I don’t know what to do to help the K’ul Goranians, Sunday. I’m worried for them. This war is… messy. I don’t like it. There weren’t things like this in the Feywild. But there are more enemies than necessary. I sometimes think it would be better if I did go back...”

“You’re not a fool for standing up for what you believe in, Sheryl. Pick your battles, for sure; but never lose sight of what moves you, of what stirs your passions.” Sunday leans back in her chair and rubs her hands over her face. “And, honestly, I don’t know what any of us can do about the war. It’s not just the people of K’ul Goran you should be worried about. The giants themselves are just pawns in this conflict. There are powerful fiends behind all this driving the giants forward into confrontation with the rest of the continent. If we can break their hold over the giants we can end this war. But I don’t fucking know how to do that.” Sunday clenches her fist and slams it down on the wooden tabletop… then lets out a long, measured breath, gathering herself. “I’m open to any inspired suggestions you may have.”

Sheryl blinks, suddenly very awake and aware with the mention of fiends. She’s never met or had her path cross with one before but if they are involved… “What if it’s connected to the land? You know, the way the land absorbs the blood. So much has been spilt since this war has started. What if they are trying to summon something? Or create a portal? These lands are riddled with them, but what if?”

Sunday shakes her head sadly. “I don’t know. I went there, to K’ul Goran, to speak to the land. To try and understand what was wrong. But it didn’t feel… sick… I don’t know if the blood rites are connected to the fiends – that was my first thought – but the land itself didn’t have the taint of the Hells. Not that I could see anyway.”

“Then I don’t know. Except,” Sheryl stops for a moment to think. “If the giants are being charmed then we have to break them out of it.” Her eyes flash and magical energy shimmers around her. To Sunday, Sheryl suddenly looks a little more fey and less like the halfling she was a moment ago. When she speaks her voice is dripping with a power that the tiefling is familiar with. “There are ways to break enchantments. I know of a few.” She smiles and it’s a little more wicked than it ought to appear.

Sunday watches the transformation with an arched eyebrow; a quizzical, almost-concerned look on her face. “Do you now?! Well, well. I think you might be onto something with your enchantment theory, but...”

Sunday pauses, carefully considering her next words. “You’ve clearly learnt well from her-“ She eyes the imposing aura of power crackling around Sheryl’s slight form, “-you even sound and feel like her; but you’re nothing like Titania, you know? Not really. You care about others too much.”

Sunday raises a hand to forestall Sheryl’s reply.

“Everyone has their different sides, for sure, their different seasons; but maybe less of the trying to curse people, hmm? You shine so much brighter when you bless those around you with your music. And, right now, this land could do with a little more of that.”

Sheryl holds Sunday’s unrelenting stare for a beat longer. Then she exhales and lets the magic flow out of her, picking up her glass of wine and crossing her leg over the other with a flair, her fey appearance dissipating. She attempts to keep her expression impassive but a little echo of that smile is still there touching her lips.

“Your way of both complimenting and insulting someone is still the same,” she says and nods her head to Sunday, taking a small sip of her wine in salute. “I plan on still helping them. All of them. If there is a way to break the enchantment, I will try. As you say, it is what I do best, and I do it the best when I sing.” Sheryl softens again and rests her head on her hand, looking up at her friend. “You’ll also be going, right? When they make the final call, you will answer it?”

“I will.” Sunday says simply. “I’ll be there. For all the good it will do.” A frown flickers across her face momentarily. “But first, I’ll be having words with that Serpentine if I see her. We’re long overdue a chat, she and I.”

Sheryl reaches out and gently touches Sunday’s arm. “Be careful out there, Sunday. We only just found each other on this side of the ’wilds. I would hate to find out something had befallen you.”

“Many things have befallen me,” Sunday laughs. “But I’ve befallen on them harder. I will do my best to stay alive, though, for you.”

The tension in her heart eases as Sunday says that and Sheryl leans over and brushes a gentle kiss to Sunday’s cheek. “For good luck.”

Sunday gets up, tucks the sunflower behind one of Sheryl’s ears, and starts to head towards the door.

“Oh, and Sunday?”

The tiefling turns expectantly.

“Leave some of Serpentine for me to play with later,” says Sheryl, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she lifts her wine to her lips.

Sunday laughs and grins wolfishly at her friend, bright-red lips curling back to expose pearl-white teeth that seem, just for a moment, to lengthen and sharpen. She nods once, bows low, and leaves the Hook.

---

The next day, Sheryl stands outside a recent addition to the commerce in town, their very first postal service! She pushes through the door and a small bell rings overhead. The melodious sound makes her smile and she saunters over to the counter.

“Arkadius! My dear friend, it’s been a while. I have something for you! Sorry it’s not wrapped, but sometimes the best gifts are the ones you can come in with, swinging!” Sheryl places a beautiful deep blue metal mace, with a thick leather grip on its handle, intricately wrapped. The head of the mace is a solid sphere with conical spikes protruding from it. “I can tell you more about it over drinks. We have a lot to catch up on.”