Family business

Late afternoon, sometime in the middle of Nightal, 1496

The cold afternoon breeze stirs the mostly-bare branches of rowans and ashes and carries a shaky melody to the ears of three halflings and one ratfolk girl.

"It's Ma!" Aila exclaims before Nerry can shush her. Carrot sniffs the air intently.

"Go on," whispers Rosleigh, nodding to Nerry as she takes the simmering pan from his hand.

Emerging from the trees, Nerry sees a figure standing at the cliff's edge, singing in a breathy, slightly unsteady voice:
"...the babe in her father's arms she lay
And nought did she know of his fate
As he breathed his last at the break of day…
Hello, love."

"Dad's birthday the year we got married, what'd you give him?" Nerry asks.

The figure laughs. "You convinced me to whittle him a flute, you mischief! The instrument he hates most in the world!"

Nerry smiles. "Your turn," he says.

"What've I got on my left forearm and why?" says the figure.

"A burn scar. You were getting a tray out of the oven and you weren't careful like I told you."

The figure sticks her tongue out.

"Where were we when Idari lost her first tooth?’

A pause. “We weren’t there,” the figure says hesitantly. “Where were we? Marel was looking after the girls, she told us about it when we got home from… from… Oh! We’d been for a walk in the hills. Right then. What happened to your favourite blue jacket?”

“Just wore out, didn’t it?” says Nerry, slightly puzzled. “The elbows and whatnot.”

“But what did you do with it?”

“Oh, right, got you! I made it into a bag, gave it to Lessy to keep her conkers in.”

Taffeta grins and says to a nearby bush, “All right, love, it’s your dad sure enough." There's a rustle and out bursts Idari, barrelling straight into Nerry with a concussive hug. While they greet each other, Taffeta starts back across the narrow rope bridge by which she and her daughter have recently crossed the gorge.

On the other side, she unties the ropes and pries up the pegs that keep that end of the bridge in place, and lets it swing gently down into the chasm that separates her from her temporary home. She gives a wave and the distant Nerry raises an arm to return the wave, then crouches down by the other end of the bridge and starts to haul it up. Taffeta turns and walks away from Nerry, the island of rock he and Idari stand on, and the gorge that surrounds it.

After walking a dozen feet or so, she turns again and starts running at full speed towards the cliff edge. Her feet pound on the cold, leaf-strewn earth. The ledge comes up fast. Knees bend. She leaps up and forward, into the empty space, and then seems to disperse like a cloud. In the next instant the air above the middle of the chasm is suddenly pulled together into the solid form of a leaping halfling who then just as quickly vanishes again, this time not into mist but in a sort of blurring of reality. For a few seconds the figure is nowhere to be seen. Then a space on the far side of the gorge, near Nerry and Idari, blurs from nothingness into Taffeta, standing calmly on the ground.

"I'm not sure I'll ever get used to that," says Nerry with a nervous laugh. "Come on then, my little homing pigeons, we've got some stew a-bubbling for dinner." And the three set off into the trees.
“Oh, Idari, love,” says Taffeta, setting aside her empty bowl as the twilight darkens, “Why don’t you show everyone what we got from the young fellow in town?”

"Herot? Okay!" Idari says, off her tree-stump in a blink of an eye to her tent and returning brandishing a shield with a grimacing face.

“Eugh!” exclaims Aila at the gurning visage. Carrot squeaks excitedly. Nerry and Rosleigh pause their tidying of plates and cups – Rose with a “Dear me!” and Nerry with a whistle and “Straight from Arvoreen’s cupboard!” Taffeta smiles, knowing what comes next.

"Don't worry, Aila, it'll be fine in a sec." Idari says, before taking a deep breath and grinning, and the shield fashions its visage into a jolly, smiling face.

The small audience all gasp. “Whoaaa!” “How did you do that?” “Charmalaine preserve us!” “Is it real?” Carrot darts forward and peers closely at the shield’s sculpted features, seemingly now as rigid and inanimate as before. She reaches out a careful finger to touch its nose.

Idari makes the shield look like it's sneezing. Carrot starts back and then laughs. "Can I try?"

"Sure!" Idari says, handing the shield to Carrot. "You just gotta concentrate and then make the expression you want."

Behind the chatter, Taffeta’s sharp ever-wary ears pick out another noise: the low, slow rhythmic beating of wings can be faintly heard away to the south.

Motioning Nerry and the rest to silence, Taffeta picks up her weapons and creeps between the trees towards the southern side of camp. Settling herself into a concealed position, she scans the horizon. In the distance, 500ft or so away, a tiny speck coalesces into view from the gathering gloam of approaching evening. A shape, moving in a weaving figure-of-eight pattern, is gradually wending its way towards the gorge and the rocky outcropping in its centre.

Taffeta moves towards the edge of the gorge, crouching down behind some rocks. As it nears the lip of the far side of the chasm, Taffeta can see the shape resolve into two: a small figure seated on the back of a flying mount. The rider is standing up in the stirrups and peering side to side as they fly.

Taffeta watches as a creature that looks like eLk touches down on the opposite edge of the gorge. Sliding down from its back is a figure in the form of Sunday; but Sunday as Taffeta has never seen her before. She’s fully armoured: as well as her normal cuirass, armour covers the rest of her body - greaves, gauntlets, and gorget all carved from silver-green birch, and adorned with living flora; bright wildflowers, sweet herbs, and fieldgrasses. Roses feature prominently amongst the verdure: unlike the other blooms, however, these crimson-red decorations appear faded - almost wilted. Only her head is left bare; long hair falling past her shoulders. Around her neck on a yellow ribbon hangs the dragon tooth Idari gave to Sunday before she left a year ago.

“Taffeta? Taffeta, are you there?” The figure hisses, voice low and urgent. “Nerry? I can sense you, but I don’t want to stumble in uninvited. Are you there?”

Taffeta thinks for a moment, then walks to the cliff edge and pulls up the rope bridge from where it hangs down into the chasm. Next, she puts her fingers into a small bag hanging from her belt and pulls out a dried stick of liquorice. Shaving a small piece off the end of it with her pocket-knife, she mutters a few syllables, puts the root and the knife away again, picks up the free end of the ropes, and runs towards the gorge – much faster than the last time, implausibly fast for such short legs. At the edge, she jumps. This time there’s no dissolving into mist or blurring into nothing, she just sails through the air in a perfect arc, out across the yards and yards of empty air, pulling the bridge behind her, until her heel strikes the earth on the far side and she jogs to a halt near the armoured figure, which has taken a few surprised steps back in response.

“Sunday?” she says, smiling and peering through the dusk, “Is that you in there?”

“Taf! What?! How did you do that?!” Sunday’s eyes are wide with shock. “That was amazing!”

This close, Taffeta notices a few other differences to the Sunday she last saw. Her familiar blonde locks are tinged with streaks of forest green; and the horns emerging from them seem different. Where before there were two light-purple ramshorns curving backwards over her skull, now they are thinner, smaller, laced with shades of bark-brown, and with tiny buds and bumps covering their surfaces. The light isn’t good, but Taffeta also thinks she can see two pale-pink grooves tracing down her cheeks from the lower rim of her eye sockets to the corners of her bright-red lips. The halfling’s jaw tightens.

“In a moment,” she says with a strained voice, “You can tell me what you’ve done to your face. First, time for questions.”

Sunday nods. “Of course.”

Once Taffeta has satisfied herself that the visitor really is her friend and the two have crossed the gorge again (no need for the rope bridge after all – a short flight on eLk for Sunday, another twenty-yard leap for Taffeta), they start making their way through the trees toward the halfling’s temporary home.

“So,” Taffeta says, “Your face… is it… are you all right? Did… she do that to you?”

Sunday sighs. “Yes and no.” She steps over a fallen tree trunk and glances over at Taffeta. “I chose this. I asked for her help. This came as part of the deal. I didn’t expect it to mark me in this fashion, but I think it’ll fade after each use: it was more pronounced when it first appeared.”

“After each use?” asks a puzzled Taffeta as she ducks under a low branch. “You said you agreed to go and work for her in three years. Why is this happening now? I don’t understand.”

“I bargained with her. It’s what we do.” Sunday says with a self-mocking smile. “In exchange for my support, as well as knocking off time from Varis’ and Baine’s pledges, I also got her to give me the ability to boost - for a short while, at least - my own power and those near me. It’s not unlimited, I can only do it a few times. These… tears… are a side-effect of using that ability, I guess.“

Taffeta stops walking. "Listen to me, love," she says, quietly but firmly. "You aren't like her. You aren't like them. You once gave me and Nerry every last coin you had, with no conditions. You've spent this whole year trying to help people without asking for anything in exchange. You've just been to war to fight for a load of people you don't even know, on a different continent!"

Sunday, realising Taffeta has stopped, halts and turns around to face her friend.

"And you do not need to bargain away your life for more power to protect the rest of us. Giving your service to shorten Baine's and Varis's was one thing. I don't approve, mind! But I understand. I'd probably do the same for my girls. But bargaining with that… San Grin Rose for more power - I know it's to help people but… You don't need that. Not from Cyric, not from her. It's tainted. It's… wrong. Look what it's doing to you. I know you just want to keep us all safe but if that's the cost, I don't want it. I don't want you to use that… that thing to help me. Understand? I don't want you turning yourself into one of them for my sake, for anyone's sake. I just want my friend. That's enough. Okay? You're enough."

Sunday looks away from Taffeta’s stern, compassionate gaze: she looks down at the ground; at the trees around them; at her armoured fists - anywhere rather than meeting her friend’s eyes. Finally, she bites at her lower lip; and nods uncertainly a couple of times, the small motions almost imperceptible in the dark. In an even smaller voice, she says. “I’m sorry.”

Taffeta approaches and reaches out to take one of the metal-gloved hands. "It's okay, love. I'm not angry. I'm just worried about you, that's all. I know you do these things to help your friends, you just… I wish you'd talk to us first, you know?" She chuckles a little. "Isn't that what you were saying to me not so long ago? What a pair we are."

“I never claimed to be consistent, Taf.” Sunday says, with a weak smile. “You’re right, of course. I’ll talk to you all more in the future.” She looks down at the ground again. “There was something I wanted to ask you about, actually. Or, rather, someone...”

For a moment Taffeta doesn't understand Sunday's unusual demeanour. It's unlike any way she's seen her behave before, but… Then she recognizes it and smiles. "Of course, of course. Come and sit by the fire and tell us all about it - if you don't mind Nerry and the girls hearing about your 'someone'?"

A look of sheer panic crosses Sunday’s face for a split second at the thought, but she gulps hard and regains control. “Uh, sure. Let’s… let’s do that…”
“-and then this guy, a friend of mine, fell through a magic hole in the ceiling and did some really cool moves and got rid of the bad guy who had been tricking the giants and some other guys helped us clear up and look after some people who get injured and then the ground kinda sparkled and we don’t really know why!” Sunday says, arms windmilling through the air as she jumps around the fire, animatedly acting out the final moments of the battle for the three girls. “But your mum’s gonna help us out with that one!”

"Am I?" laughs Taffeta as the girls applaud.

Sunday flops down in the grass. “It did smell a bit ‘other planary’, Taf. We could do with your help with that. I’m kinda stumped.”

"Well you know I'm no good with puzzles and working things out, but I'll help if I can."

“Ma,” says Aila, as Sunday smiles and mouths thanks at Taffeta over the halfling girl’s head, “Carrot’s got a question!”

“Go on, Carrot,” coaxes Taffeta.

“Um,” says the ratfolk girl quietly to Taffeta, “Why was there a magic hole? In the ceiling?”

“Good question!” says Taffeta before turning to Sunday expectantly.

Sunday quickly sticks her tongue out at Taffeta, before turning to Carrot. “Well, Carrie, the real leader of the giants was sleeping in a room very far away. Some of my friends went to go and rescue her. When they woke her up so she could come back and help her people, she said thank you by zooming my friends straight back to us. But it’s really, really, really hard magic to do - it’s like trying to find matching socks with your eyes closed.” Sunday, lying on her front, stretches her hands as wide apart as her arms will reach, creating between them a vivid and realistic image of Mogtron’s study with a small hole in the ceiling. “She opened the magic hole and my friends all jumped through.” Sunday drops a pebble through the illusion. ”One of my best friends, Markas, was quicker than everyone else and jumped through first. He landed on the bad man’s head and saved me!” Sunday catches the small stone before it hits the ground, and places it gently back where she found it, smiling fondly to herself. “He was very brave...”

Aila nudges Idari with an elbow. “Sunday’s got a crush!” she tells her sister gleefully and not as quietly as she perhaps intended.

Sunday’s cheeks flush red as Idari starts singing “Sunday and Markas, sitting in a tree…” and the tiefling snatches the pebble back up from the ground and throws it at Aila, hitting her on the leg. “I don’t!”

Taffeta is on her feet before Aila has finished saying “ow”. “Sunday!” she snaps, pointing off into the undergrowth, “Go and wait for me over there!”

Sunday opens her mouth to protest, but - seeing the look on Taffeta’s face - promptly closes it and stomps away from the camp.

"...KISSING!" Idari sings, a divine note in the word healing Aila's cut.

By now Taffeta and Nerry are both kneeling beside their daughters. Taffeta peers at the gone wound and gives Idari an approving nod and pat on the arm, while Nerry asks Aila, “Are you all right, love?”

“I’m okay,” the girl replies. “I don’t think she meant to hurt me.”

As Carrot starts to wriggle her way into the cluster of halflings to get her own look at Aila’s vanished injury, Taffeta gets up and strides after Sunday.

“What has Brandobaris put in your head?” she asks the tiefling’s back as Sunday swings a branch at an unoffending shrub.

“_{Don’t know who that is.}” Sunday mumbles, unintelligibly, not looking around.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know who that is.” Sunday repeats mulishly, kicking a pine cone away into the darkness.

Taffeta sighs. “I’m asking why you threw a stone at y– at Aila.”

“She was being mean.” Sunday replies, not sounding convinced by her own words.

With a shake of the head, the halfling walks around to the spot in front of Sunday. “It isn’t like you to get so upset over something like that,” she says in a softer tone. “What’s going on? Are you angry with Markas?”

“No. I don’t know.” She glances briefly at Taffeta before looking away again, guilt writ large on her face. “Is Aila ok? I’m sorry I hurt her.”

"Good. You can tell her that. But yes, she's okay." Taffeta tries to catch her eye again. "Is this something to do with what you wanted to ask me about?"

“What if he doesn’t like me?” Sunday blurts suddenly. “What if I say or do something stupid? What if he’s heard stories about how I used to be?!”

"Oh, Sunday. Come here, sit down." Taffeta pulls herself up onto a fallen tree-trunk.

“I don’t know what to do!” Sunday drops down beside her friend. “How did you realise Nerry liked you?”

Taffeta smiles at the memory. “He started sneaking me little pastries and the like when I’d go to his dad’s shop to sell him game we’d caught and didn’t need ourselves. And he’d always try to talk to me when I came in, even if he was busy.” She looks at Sunday. “Have you… have you ever felt like this before?”

Sunday shakes her head hesitantly. “I don’t think so? It feels… confusing. A bit dizzy?”

“That’s a good word for it. You’re probably going to feel a lot of things. Maybe it’ll hurt sometimes. But if he’s worth your time, he’ll want to know you, and that’ll mean you now, not you before. And if he doesn’t like you… you know, I don’t know. But maybe he will.”

As Taffeta’s speaking, Sunday groans and covers her face, muttering “I’d rather fight another lich than this!” from behind her hands.

“I know, love. But… I think you know what you’ve got to do, don’t you?”

“Move to Sigil?”

Taffeta laughs. “Talk to him, you silly thing. If you can fight a… whatever you just said, then you can have a talk with your friend.”

Sunday nods glumly, taking her hands away from her face. “You’re right, you’re right. Thanks for the advice. I think.”

As they get up to head back to the others, Sunday pulls Taffeta into a brief but heartfelt hug. ”I’ve missed you.” Stepping back a pace, she puts her hand on Taffeta’s shoulder and looks at her friend earnestly. “And Taf? I really am sorry about Aila. I’ll apologise to her and the others straight away.” Sunday pauses for a moment. “Do you think she’ll like these?” Sunday cups her palms together and focuses as dozens of tiny buttercups start to appear, full-bloomed, in her hands.

“Yes, I think she will,” says Taffeta. “And what I’d like is for you to never do anything like that again.”

At the centre of the island in the middle of the gorge stands a small glade; a ring of golden-green ash trees surrounding a small, mithril-silver pool.

By the time Sunday has made her way here - after apologising to Aila and her family, and leaving them to prepare to turn in for the night - the moon is in full gleam overhead. The surface of the mere is a silvery-white, seemingly lit by not just the satellite above, but with an internal light of its own.

Sunday, now divested of her armour, walks forward to kneel beside the pool and dips her hands into its waters. Lifting the clear, faintly shimmering liquid to her face, she washes away the remnants of the blood trails tracking their way down her cheeks; the waters of this place easily cleansing her skin of the residue that no amount of mundane scrubbing could remove.

“Well met, Sunday, divine instrument of Corellon.”

There is a large bush on the side of the pool, with a large gnarled root bending upwards and down again into the edge of the water. There is no sudden moment of change, but somehow the bush is now Will, the gnarled root their leg bent with foot dipping into the pool. Their back resting against a tree, green leafy wings surrounding their body in the most casual pose Sunday has perhaps ever seen the angel adopt.

Will leans forward, grasping their knee. “This contract will be difficult to escape from,” they say, with the weight of divine truth.

For a moment, Sunday seems on the verge of pretending to not know what they mean. Eventually, however, she just exhales noisily. “Yer. I know. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, though?” She looks directly at Will, her face artless. “Can you help me?”

“You are coming into your full strength now,” they say, seemingly ignoring the question, their face a work of art. “You have faced demi-gods, demons and more, and you have worked to protect those that you care about.” An angelic wing sweeps out towards Rowan’s glade and the Thistletops.

They stand and look down at the kneeling tiefling. “No, Sunday, I will not help you in this moment,” Will says solemnly, voice as unwavering as the calm surface of the pool. “Because I have faith in you.” These words too seemed to carry that same divine weight to them.

“You will resolve this and return stronger for it.”

“You haven’t got a massive holy hammer hidden in those wings, have you…? I’d be a lot stronger with one of those.” Sunday asks half-jokingly, climbing to her feet. “Thank you, Will. For your encouragement. And your faith. Do you mind if I stay in these woods for a while? I’ve been away from my friend for too long and this place is so calming.”

“Of course, Sunday. You are always welcome here. Good luck in your ordeals ahead.” They step forward and put out their arm to grasp Sunday’s.

Sunday mirrors their gesture. Will’s grip on her forearm is tender and absolute. Sunday doesn’t - can’t - move, as she feels the warmth of their presence wash over her, restorative and supportive.

“I have one question for you, though. One I do not expect you to answer now, but hope that you reflect on until next we meet. You have had a long journey, in service to many beings and forces - to your own passion, to the weapon you wielded, to the hag Longtooth, and ultimately to Corellon.

You have singular insight into an important question, therefore, one at the centre of who you are, who you have been, and who you may yet become. What is the difference between a paladin and a warlock?”

And with that nothing remained but falling leaves swirling in a gentle breeze.



(Written with andycd , Malri 'Taffeta' Thistletop , and Pieni )