Counterstrike + Coda / Baine

“Dear Thea.
I’ve made it back down from that fucking mountain, finally. There’s snake people up there and devils everywhere.
Varis got taken by them. I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared, Thea.
We got him back eventually - I was about to make a deal with a devil to make it happen but in the end I didn’t have to.
He told me his life wouldn’t have been worth anything like that.
He doesn’t see. Sunday doesn’t either. The things I’d do to keep them safe. The things I’d give up for them.

K’ul Goran is at war, and they’re recruiting mercenaries out of Daring. Diplomatic ties, whatever.
Sunday and I are going, with Markas and Traavor. Two others I think.
We’ll do what we can to help. I don’t expect it to be too bad, but it’s a war. Who knows. I’ll write you when I get back, Gods willing.

All my love,
Baine”

---

They go to K’ul Goran via the portal in Daring and arrive in Zot Goran. The thought of the Seagull they angered in Za’Suul nags at Baine but he keeps his head down and focuses on the mission they’ve been tasked with.

The forces attacking K’ul Goran is made up by a colorful mix of hill and stone giants, ogres and ettins. All but one fort along the border have fallen and the giants are getting supplied from somewhere, getting shoes and weapons and exploding rocks. The party is charged with taking out the base where it’s all being made.
Not the front lines then, Baine thinks with both relief and disappointment.

At the military camp in Jarvenol they join up with four local talents and start making their way toward giant territory. It’s fairly quiet, especially once they leave K’ul Goran and the perpetual wind drops away. They fight a band of ogres but it’s quick work. By nightfall they’ve found the giant’s base, sent scouts in and gotten a fair lay of the land. No innocents or coerced civilians by the look of it, just stone giants and their pet rust monsters. They make plans to strike at dawn.


"If I lose control you have to talk me down," Sunday had told him, just before they had entered the giants’ war factory. “Something is trying to find a way into my mind and I don’t know if I can keep it out.” And, a few minutes later, when she scoffs in irritation and lets loose a moonbeam that engulfs Markas and Faye as well as the rust monsters, he takes a moment to look her over; to search her eyes for any sign of that part of her she calls her old self - the Lady Sunday. He takes a few hesitant steps toward Markas where he's struggling under fur and moonlight and that's when the heavy stone doors slam shut behind him, cutting Sunday and Bubbles off from the rest of the party.

Baine’s heart grows cold with panic. He can hear the sounds of fighting, can feel the ground trembling and he knows nothing except that he needs to get to Sunday’s side. He yells for Faye but they can’t teleport where they can’t see and there’s nothing for it. The skin is torn off his fingertips and he can feel muscles in his back give out but he pries the mountainous doors apart with his bare hands. He needs to get to her.

The fight is a mess. Four massive stone giants shrouded in Bubble’s magical darkness and they’re all coming for Sunday, only for Sunday. They keep swinging at her with their clubs and the party does its best to distract them but she goes down, once, twice, dragging herself back up each time. At one point something purple and gold flashes in the cave and she unsheaths a greatsword from her back, Ghesh’s fucking greatsword, but she discards it soon enough.
He sees glimpses of a different person in her, flashes of someone he’s never met. He’s scared for her.

She yells at everyone to get out of there, that she’s going to shut the doors on the giants but Baine’s not leaving her, not again. In the end it doesn’t matter – the party takes out three of the giants together and Sunday kills the last giant by herself, ripping it apart with her hands. Baine feels like he’s going to be sick but as shaky as Sunday may look she’s still standing and they have a mission to carry out.

They secure the loot in the workshop and throw the supplies in the forge before Sunday hands Baine the exploding rock and for a short moment he revels in the wanton destruction. It provides him with an uncomplicated outlet for the storm of emotions he’s trying to contain.

They hear the sleeping stone giants wake up and do their best to make a hasty retreat. When Sunday’s legs give out for the third time in 50 feet, Baine has had enough of feeling helpless in the face of his friend hurting and, without stopping, plucks her sword out her weak grasp, lifts her up and carries her out of the cave like a child. She rests her head on his shoulder and he presses his face into her hair, letting his usual stream of nonsense out in quiet whispers.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re gonna be fine.” He’s not sure if he’s trying to convince himself or her.

A few feet off the ground, eLk appears at Baine’s side, keeping pace with the half-orc with slow beats of his silver-green wings. But Baine shakes his head and keeps running. "She can’t ride, I’ll take her. Can you keep an eye out for us?" Seeing his companion in safe hands, eLk drops back 100ft or so to watch for any signs of pursuit, pain and confusion in his eyes.

At Baine’s insistence the party presses on, walking until they get to K'ul Goran border before settling down for the night. They make camp and when Baine carefully lowers Sunday to the ground eLk is there in an instant. He lies down with her and wraps his wings around her protectively as Baine brushes her hair out of her face with a gentle hand.

"There we go, love. You're alright. Rest."

The half-orc doesn't so much sit as fall down on his backside next to them. His eyes sweep over the rest of the party, counting heads and taking stock of injuries.
Apart from Markas they all appear unharmed. Nodding to himself he mutters "We're okay, it's okay, we're okay…" over and over until he starts to believe it.
"I'll take last watch," he tells Traavor, "wake me when it's my turn."

The half-elf nods in confirmation and Baine turns his attention to the sword he's carried all day; the sword Sunday had drawn and fought with. The cursed sword they convinced Ghesh to give up a few weeks earlier. He frowns in confusion and hurt and looks to where the top of Sunday’s head is peeking out from under eLk's wings.

"We're gonna have words about this in the morning, y'know."

He lies down behind eLk, who shifts to make room, curving his body along the animal’s spine and burying a sore hand in his mossy fur.
Eventually, he sleeps.

The next morning, Sunday emerges from the cocoon of eLk’s wings. Many of her wounds have healed, but the few remaining rents and cuts in her armour, flesh, and clothing bear mute testimony to yesterday’s violence. Accepting a little food and water, she sits apart from the group as breakfast is eaten and the camp packed away.

As the party is preparing to leave, Sunday sits down by the dying embers of the small sheltered fire they had taken the risk of lighting and asks for a moment to speak.

“I owe you all an apology - and an explanation - for what happened yesterday.”

She tucks her hands into the sleeves of her simple robe, looking smaller and weaker than Baine has ever seen her.

“About a year ago, at the urging of Nowhere, a group of us tracked down and destroyed Raxivort, a demigod of the Xvarts. This is how Varis, for those of you who know him, got his nickname of the Godslayer; it was he who landed the final killing blow.”

Sunday shifts her bruised legs into a less-painful position and carries on.

“As we were leaving, a figure appeared and applauded us for the most audacious murder ever carried out by mortals. He said His name was Cyric, the God of Murder, and He knew a good killing if He saw one, having murdered Mystra the Goddess of Magic some time back. He offered each of us power as a reward, a sliver of His potential sealed away for us to use when we wanted.”

Sunday sighs and, with considerable effort, forces away the regret clouding her face.

“I… I was someone different back then, and I took His power gladly. I do not know what decisions the others made; I just know none of them have made use of it if they accepted. For myself, I used the ‘gift’ to destroy anyone in my way: it made me far more destructive and brutal than anything you have seen. Eventually, though, I grew sick of myself and who I was. I left Daring and Kantas, and spent half a year with Corellon and his angel, Will, in the Feywild - trying to change. Eventually, I managed to put aside most of my old ways and Corellon removed the Mark of Cyric from my skin and gave me a Blessing of His own. But Cyric evidently never forgot or forgave my betrayal. That’s why He came for me yesterday - I don’t know if you could see or hear Him, but He appeared to me and said He wasn’t going to lose so glorious a killer from His Church. He infused those Stone Giant statues with His power to drive me to my knees and beg Him to take me back into His blessing and service.”

Despite her battered visage, a small spark of defiance momentarily flares in Sunday’s eyes at these last few words - before she looks around at everyone in the group in turn.

“But your support and help in defeating His avatars things forced Him to realise I had other friends and other sources of strength; and that I wasn't going to turn back to Him. I cannot repay that service, but I do thank you from the bottom of my soul… whatever’s left of it.” She finishes, a crooked, self-mocking smile playing about her lips.

They break camp and get ready to make their way back to Jarvenol. Baine helps Sunday up on eLk before holding out the greatsword to her with a bandaged hand, his face calm and a little sad.

“I thought we agreed that Cursed Weapons are Bad Weapons,” he says, “but you’re still carrying this around for some reason. Does that rule only apply to me and Ghesh and not you?” His words might have been harsh but his tone is warm and concerned, a small smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

Sunday accepts the weapon from Baine and swings it into place on her back, taking a moment to ensure the huge broad blade doesn’t get tangled up with eLk’s wings or the pennant-mounted lance by her side.

“In a word: yes.” She smiles wanly, holding up a hand to forestall Baine as his smile fades and his eyebrows start climbing up his forehead. “And that’s because I know what I’m doing, believe it or not.” She jerks a thumb in the direction of the hilt poking over her left shoulder. “I didn’t use this thing because it made me. I used it because it was the best tool I had at hand… and, I’ll be honest, because it felt good to swing something this big into my enemies again.” She looks down at her friend, weighing her next words carefully. “And I’m carrying it around with me because I don’t trust it with anyone else, frankly. I’ve learnt some things about this sword and it worries me. I’m bringing it with us when we go to the City of Brass; the person we’re going to see can hopefully tell me how to destroy it utterly.”

Baine gives her a long look before grimacing and turning away, turning her words over in his mind. Eventually he runs a hand down eLk’s flank and nods slowly. “That’s all well and good, Sun. But thinking rules apply to everyone but yourself is a dangerous way to reason, don't matter right you are. Whatever the rules might be about." His face is plain concern as he looks at her. “Be careful, love. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Nonetheless.” Sunday shrugs gently, looking unconcerned at the hypocrisy Baine has pointed out. “And, anyway, how can I get hurt when I have you around? Traavor told me what you did to that stone wall.” Baine looks at his hands and shrugs. Sunday smiles warmly. “But I promise: I’ll be careful.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her. “You mean you'll be your version of careful.” He looks like there’s more he wants to say, but in the end he sighs and nods before turning away. “Let’s go home, love.”