Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Jul 2, 2020 13:07:57 GMT
“Pieni, now!”
Zariel fades into nothing underneath them, her scream of rage lingering in their ears long after she vanishes. The smoke and soot from the volcano dissipates, the air clears and Avernus falls away. Pieni wrenches them back to the Material Plane and they land with heavy thumps on a patch of soft, green grass just off Portal Plaza, Daring Heights. There’s a moment of stillness, of shocked silence as the party members lay looking up at the familiar stars welcoming them home, before Baine lets out a delirious laugh.
He looks over at Varis next to him and tries to blink him into focus. The half elf looks like a sliver of moonlight in the crepuscular gloom.
“She’s gonna be so pissed.”
The yard is quiet when they reach the red stone structure, even the stables eerily silent. A dim light spills from the mess, but otherwise the buildings are dark. With a sense of deep foreboding, the two battered warriors cross the last few yards to the open door and step inside.
“Someone feed him,” Varis nods towards Baine. “I’ll be back.” He leaves the room, stepping wordlessly out into the silent midsummer evening.
*Great mother take them home
** Little poet
*** The Ballad of the Heartsong Blade
Zariel fades into nothing underneath them, her scream of rage lingering in their ears long after she vanishes. The smoke and soot from the volcano dissipates, the air clears and Avernus falls away. Pieni wrenches them back to the Material Plane and they land with heavy thumps on a patch of soft, green grass just off Portal Plaza, Daring Heights. There’s a moment of stillness, of shocked silence as the party members lay looking up at the familiar stars welcoming them home, before Baine lets out a delirious laugh.
“Did we just… did we just beat up the Archduchess of Avernus?”
“She’s gonna be so pissed.”
He lifts a gauntleted fist up to eye level and clumsily wrestles the hot metal off his hand to inspect his fingers. With a grunt he unceremoniously pops two of them back into their joints and lays the hand heavily on the other man’s shoulder. A small sliver of healing warmth seeps from his hand.
“You look like shit, mate.”
Varis wobbles slightly under Baine’s grip, but steadies himself.
“Home,” he croaks, coughing to clear his throat. “Then we need to find Sunday.”
The grin slides slowly off of Baine’s face.
“Yeah. Fair enough. Can we pick up Frankie on the way or- no, you’re right, never mind. Lead the way.”
Varis gives Pieni and Taffeta a weary nod and begins to walk north, toward Castleside and the Order compound. He hasn’t made it ten yards when he hears a familiar, musical voice in his head.
“Varis, are you and the others back safe and sound? I’m waiting for you at the compound. There’s something…” He hears a soft sniffle and a shaky intake of breath. “Please come soon.”
Stomach sinking, he sends Sheryl a brief acknowledgement, before turning to look at Baine.
“Sheryl is waiting for us at the compound. I will need you to be strong, my friend. Now more than ever.”
With weary resignation Baine nods silently, throat suddenly dry, and together they make their way home.
The scene that greets them is not a happy one. Around one of the long, battered tables sit a handful of the Order – Ben and Grits, Conrad. Kreatar and Krovar perch awkwardly on stools, while Snow lounges against a wall, the rhythmic swishing of her tail the only indication that she is not as calm as her namesake.
A familiar figure stands staring into the roaring fire, lost in thought, absentmindedly worrying at her lip. It takes her a moment to sense the shift in the Order soldiers with her in the hall but when she does, it’s like she wakes from a dream and she turns. The moment her eyes alight on Varis and Baine she transforms again. She is a string on an oud, wound so tight that to pluck it would make it snap.
Sheryl starts making her way over and for every step she takes, Baine takes one backwards, almost in sync with hers, until his back hits the wall behind him. He crosses his massive arms and hunches over. His head twitches oddly on his shoulders, as if he wants to shake it but stops himself.
“Just. Out with it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Say it.”
Sheryl’s lips become a line on her sharp face at Baine’s words. She looks from the half-orc to the half elf, words inexpressible in her eyes.
“By all they held dear, your soldiers followed their spirit and held the line for us, Varis.” She has to stop for a moment to breathe. They see her eyes are puffy and a little red, but no tears can be seen in them now. “They were brave until the last, allowing everyone else…” there’s a flash of something like guilt but then it’s gone, “to get out of Avernus.”
Varis lets out a long breath.
“Ar O'Si teshuel nehel'feer enialaith.”*
He looks at Conrad.
“How many?”
The weathered scout looks like he’s aged twenty years in as many hours.
“You’re looking at them, son.”
Varis gives a slow nod, eyes fixed on the middle distance. Baine sinks wordlessly to the floor, his eyes closed. Sheryl’s eyes don’t leave the half elf’s face.
Grits stands up, seemingly grateful to have something to do with his hands. He fetches a plate of cold meats and bread, pressing it into the half-orc’s hands and glaring at him until he starts eating.
Having told the first part, the tension running through Sheryl eases a bit. Softly moving over to stand beside Baine to be out of the way, she watches him methodically put away the food he’s been given.
A few moments later Varis returns clutching a thick green bottle and a pair of glasses.
“Get us some mugs, Ben.”
The huge bear of a man stands, lamplight glinting off his pate, and rummages around in a cupboard until Grits comes over and shoos him away, returning with several small clay cups. The room sits in silence as Varis pours a measure of dark, fragrant liquor into each cup and hands one to Sheryl, who steps forward to tentatively take it, and to each of the assembled soldiers. Baine wipes his hands and gets back on his feet, eyes shining with unshed tears. When everyone has a drink, Varis raises his glass.
“They made their lives a shield. We will remember them. To the last breath.”
“To the last breath,” murmur the Order and the fey bard, and together they drink to absent friends.
“Black Gods, lad – what is this? Chuul piss?” Conrad dabs at watering eyes. Baine silently holds his cup out for a refill. Sheryl tries not to cough and carefully sets her glass down on the table in front of her, wiping her eyes.
“Gretcha bought it for me. Dalish brandy. A good year, apparently” says Varis solemnly, pouring himself another measure and handing Baine the bottle.
“Gretcha lied to your face, sir, this is worse than Jedd’s special at the Shank,” he says, refilling his cup and raising it again. “To dying on your feet,” he says, before drinking.
“Tastes like poison,” mutters Ben, refilling his glass. Grits looks at him like he’s just grown tentacles.
“What the hells are you pouring more of the stuff for then?”
Ben shrugs.
“Gotta see if it’s poison all the way through.”
Conrad snorts, dark spirits spraying from his nose, and follows it with a stream of curses that would sour milk. This in turn elicits a soft giggle from Sheryl, and before long the room is filled with laughter. Even Baine, nodding seriously at Ben’s sage advice, twitches the beginnings of a smile. He turns to Sheryl, suddenly remembering she was there.
“Did you see any of it?” he asks bluntly. “Did you see any of them fall?”
She nods. “I was one of the last through the Portal. I spoke to Red- Gretcha, briefly, before she told me to get my ass out of there.” She gives a half chuckle as she looks up at Baine. “Their charge was swift and fierce as it would be with her leading it.”
This elicits another snort from Conrad.
“Woman rode a horse like a bull in rut. Fierce, I’ll grant you. But swift?” He shakes his head, eyes distant with bittersweet remembrances. Sheryl looks to the Order soldiers, the tentative smiles on their faces and she allows herself to have one too, before she feels the tears wanting to start again and then stops.
“I gave them what little help I could in the end,” she says in a low voice. “I wanted to stay but–”
“You did what you had to.” Varis’ voice is soft as he cuts her off. “And they did what they had to. I do not believe there is such a thing as a good death, but for people like us, this is as close as we will come.”
“At least Death didn’t take all of you,” Sheryl replies, looking at Varis and smiling softly, and then to Baine. “You’re here… safe and sound…” She rests a hand on the half-orcs thigh, like she’s confirming the large man is there beside her. He raises another glass in response, his eyes a little distant.
“And the sun will rise tomorrow, and we’ll begin again.”
Sheryl takes a more thorough look at the two, concern making her face soften.
“Come, sit. Both of you. You’ve been through hell–” She stops and shakes her head. “We all have, who am I kidding,” she mutters to herself. “Please, let me heal you a little. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
Baine shakes his head, before nodding at Varis. “I’m fine, but he got zapped with something. Zariel herself took offence to his face.” He does relent at her insistent nudging at his hip and slides in between Ben and Grits on the bench.
“I beat her up good, lads, and I’m not even lying this time,” he adds in an undertone. Ben rests a shovel-sized hand on his shoulder and pours him another drink.
Sheryl comes over to Varis and raises a questioning eyebrow to the half elf, but he waves her off.
“I would wear these wounds a little longer, si penaal**. To remember in whose company I earned them, and by whose sacrifice I sit here now.”
“Alright,” she nods, lips pursed but accepting. “One wince and I am healing you though, whether you like it or not.” There’s a spark of a challenge in her eyes that’s almost playful, as she gives Varis a look. Then Sheryl sits down beside him and looks across the table at Baine. “You managed to actually face off against Zariel then?”
He shrugs one large shoulder and sips at his drink. “It was a team effort.” There’s unmistakable pride burning in his eyes. “But yeah. Some of the best fighting I’ve ever done.“
He pauses for a moment to wash down his grief with more of the questionable drink. “She taught me well. I’m gonna miss that mean bitch.”
Varis stirs in his seat, turning to look over at Sheryl.
“Do you know Tel’evaliir ath arael’hinue vel?***”
The halfling woman’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, then she nods, tentatively.
“Yes, I know it. They sing it still in my mother’s court sometimes.”
“Would you sing it for us now? For them?” His voice is soft, and something fragile sits just below the surface. She nods, a smile spreading across her face.
“Of course.”
She unlimbers her harp, and after a few moments begins to play, the gentle, aching strains of the elvish ballad filling the room and spilling out into the night. It seems, while she plays, that they are frozen in time, grief and regret suspended by the beauty of the song. As at last she brings it to a close, there is a long moment of silence, then Ben scrubs at his eyes with a meaty hand.
“It’s beautiful. What’s it about?”
“It’s an ancient song, from the time of the first elven kingdom. It’s about a queen, who knows her lover must go off to war, and about the lover, who knows that she will die, but must go anyway.”
There is a small smile on Varis’ face, and his cheeks glisten, but he makes no move to dry them.
“Thank you,” he says. Sheryl rests a small, gentle hand on Varis’ arm for a moment, then lets go.
They sit in comfortable silence for a while longer, until, abruptly, the silence is broken by a warm chuckle from Conrad. Grits eyes him skeptically.
“Wass funny?”
Conrad grins at him, his accent slipping back to his native Neverese drawl now he was well and truly in his cups.
“I was just thinkin’ about the time Red caught Kedi tryna sneak back into the compound a whisker before dawn with a skin full of cheap liquor. An instead of chewin him out, she had Grits serve jellied eels an small beer for every meal that week an stood over him while he ate it.”
At the mention of the reckless bare-knuckle boxer, Baine’s tears finally spill over, but he smiles through them. “Fuckin’ idiot. Told him he was gonna get caught.”
The others are grinning now, and before long the room is awash with laughter and tears. They spend the rest of the night like that, filling the darkness with warm remembrances and tales of the dead, many apocryphal and some frankly libelous, but all coloured with love and good humour. An hour or so before dawn, with heads full of tales and hard liquor, they drift wordlessly to their beds, Sheryl departing through the red archway - exhausted, heartbroken, but comforted by the closeness of their friends. Their family. And each, with a flicker of hope nestled safely in their hearts. As Baine had said - tomorrow, the sun would rise.
And the world would begin again.
In collaboration with Ser Baine Cinderwood 🔥🌼 and Merla, the Daughter of Summer
Song reference for the Ballad of the Heartsong Blade:
*Great mother take them home
** Little poet
*** The Ballad of the Heartsong Blade
