2022-06-22 A Matter of Price - Gerhard

Gerhard slams the door shut, sinking to the floor with a thud. The Three-Headed Dragon feels... empty, now. Yes, many of the patrons have left, have gone to seek shelter in safer places. Many of the adventurers have left, too, making their way to the Fort for the inevitable invasion.

But this emptiness, it's... different. His room looks the same as it did before he left yesterday: his cloak, thrown over a chair, the papers within scavenged and stuffed into the bag he now carries; the books, stacked haphazardly on the small desk, remain unmoved. But it still feels like something is... missing.

A clop of a hoof. Her gentle touch. Their bodies hopelessly intertwined...

He shakes his head. You should have just gone with her, then.

No. comes his internal monologue. No, we spent a magical day and... night, together, but it was just a single day. She needs space, and I need... time to think.

He pushes his hands to the floor, willing his body to move, to undress, to sleep. His chest aches from where the bull elephant kicked him, squeezing the life out of his heart, the air out of his lungs. Orianna had done her best to cure his wounds, and he had done the same for her, but still... Some wounds magic can't heal he thinks to himself. Only time will tell if he can ever release the memory of Orianna nearly being speared by the elephant's massive tusks.

He shakes his head once more, trying to clear the memory. He rises to his feet, kicking his boots off as he walks, his toes stretching. His feet carry him to a familiar place, and his hands withdraw familiar tools. An ink well, stained from filling and re-filling. A quill, that he wets on his tongue. His fingers begin the motions before his mind can catch up.

His eyes see what his hands are writing, and he crumples the parchment in a fist. He throws the quill down, splattering ink across his desk, and rubs his eyes with his palms.

He stops rubbing his eyes, holding his head in his hands. A stack of similar letters lies next to him - nearly two dozen, at his last count. One for each journey out of the Fort, out of the city, risking life and limb for... what? A hope at finding him? A wish that they had not run out of time, had not missed their moment?

He selects another piece of parchment, smoothing it out. He retrieves his quill from where it had clattered, sharpening the nib with a small knife and wetting it on his tongue. He draws a little ink, and hovers over the page, his mind blank, his hands shaky.

He writes quickly, before he loses his nerve, before his hands say something his heart isn't ready for.

His eyes, though, cannot leave the last few lines.