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"So...how do you know me?" she asked tentatively. |
"Well, you were the first person I ever kissed," Wyll smiled warmly. "It must be strange for you, or it might have been if you remembered. You elves age so slowly after all, you look just as I remembered. I would imagine I’ve changed a lot in the last 8 years." Rose blinked at him. |
"Were we together?" Rose asked, turning to him. Wyll shook his head. |
"No, it was more of a one night thing. Would you like me to tell you?" he asked. Rose nodded, she was desperate to know any scrap of the person she was. |
"There I was, at my very first ball ever. I was so nervous, I had practiced my dancing ,but what if no one said yes when I asked?" Wyll chuckled to himself. "The things we worry about in youth. Anyways, there you were, across the room. A vision in an olive dress. I don’t think you knew who I was, but you agreed to dance with me. And oh did we dance, I couldn’t have asked for a better partner." Wyll smiled. Rose smiled back. "And imagine the absolute delight in my heart when you suggested we sneak off to the master of the house’s chambers. You’d heard he had an unequivocal wine stash tucked away in there and wanted to take a peak. We snuck away and down the halls of the estate. We laughed at the gauche decor, the master of the house was some arms merchant hoping to climb rank. I found the master suite first, and you kissed me for it. I will say, I have never known another lady to be so deft with a set of thieves" tools," he tilted his head inquisitively. Rose blinked in response. |
"We made our way into the suite and you were correct, he had an incredible stash of wine. You started picking out bottles to offer me and sipping from others yourself. I have to say now, they were rather sweet for wine, but younger Wyll was too delighted and intoxicated by the company to notice. And then the master found his way back to his room. I have never seen a man so furious," Wyll shook his head. "You however, were not the slightest bit phased. You told him I’d tried to keep you from entering, that I was just there trying to get you to go, and he told me to leave. So, I did, quickly," Wyll said. |
"What then?" Rose asked. |
"I never saw you again," Wyll replied. "I looked for you at other balls that season, you never showed. Father said House Rithrethror had fallen years ago in some terrible fate. I wondered for a while if you were a ghost," Wyll chuckled. "If we ever restore your memories, I’d certainly have a few more questions to ask you, but for now that’s all I can tell you about yourself. You were a wonderful dance partner and mischief maker." Rose nodded thoughtfully. |
"Thank you," she said quietly, mulling over the story in her mind. |
"Of course, now let's go get some dinner," Wyll smiled, turning back to camp. The pair walked along back to the fire. |
Something that Rolan had not realised about formally "qualifying’ (if one could call it that) as a wizard was just how much paperwork it involved. |
The transmission of the deeds; the making sure that his ownership of Ramazith’s Tower was legal in both the letter and the spirit of the law. There were so many questions pertaining to both of those overarching umbrellas he'd barely known where to start. Questions such as: how far was "too far" in wizard duels? And, would the city overseers would recognise the legitimacy of "taking power in a coup’ as far as a change of property rights were concerned? |
It was a pleasant surprise to find out that—while not cached as a "coup’ exactly—besting a former owner in combat was, apparently, a legitimate reason to inherit (or "inherit’) property. |
It had been altogether too many inverted commas and laws of probability for Rolan, who had then had to sit down for quite a long time. |
Still. Paperwork was paperwork, and it needed to get done. |
He’d put Cal and Lia to work early, with varying degrees of success. |
Lia had adopted a method of filing which seemed to a) change daily, and b) be based mostly on a cursory scan of a document rather than reading the damn thing. She generally grouped things by content, sometimes by context. And the content was measured by "what she saw first’ rather than "what the primary purpose of the document itself was’. Thusly, a bill of sale could be classed under "customers’, "products’ or—most chillingly—simply "money’. |
She also complained the whole time. |
Cal, however, seemed to have found a very specific niche to excel in. |
He’d always been exacting, but now he appeared mightier with the pen than with the sword. And what’s more, he was enjoying it. |
"Keep this up and I might make you a permanent member of staff," Rolan had remarked earlier that day, passing the front desk to see an entire bookshelf cleaned out. Cal sat in the middle of the itinerant books, refiling. |
"Aren’t I already?" he asked, without looking up. |
"In a manner of speaking." |
"That’s Rolan-speak for Yes, but I’m not paying you." |
"I am paying you," Rolan said, archly. "Bed and board are perfectly adequate compensation." |
"Hostility in the workplace?" Cal raised an eyebrow. "I should call the Guild. They’ll send someone round." |
"I don’t care if they send someone triangular. And make sure those leather-bounds don’t spend too long on the floor, please." |
Cal rolled his eyes fondly and carried on stacking books. |
One of the first things Rolan had done—before even checking to see whether he legally was resident of the tower—was to open bank accounts for Cal and Lia. He’d been depositing five per cent of whatever was taken each tenday into each. |
The problem was, five per cent wasn’t much. As it stood, revealing to his siblings he’d been setting money aside for them and then revealing the paltry sum it amounted to seemed more an insult than a kindness. |
No; he had to wait. Give it six months or so, and then it would be ready. Then it would mean something. |
Rolan was their elder brother. He was meant to protect them. Gods alone knew he’d done little enough of that recently. |
That, and six months seemed the longest reasonable amount of time he could find excuses to account for where that money was going. |
And that was more paperwork. |
It was nice, though. It had been so long since his days had had proper structure. Or rather, the sort of structure he’d found enjoyable. Grumble as he did, it came from a place of fondness. A fondness for having a real, wooden bed that was his own. Fondness for being able to put his pack away, at last. Somewhere that he might not find it for a while. Fondness for actually having breakfast, for being able to buy food without considering how well it would travel, or whether they had the proper implements to cook it. |
Recently, he’d been allowing himself the minor luxury of porridge made with milk and with sugar sprinkled over the top. Just enough to form a glittering brown crust. |
Then, usually, it was to work. He usually saw customers in the morning, or held whatever meetings he needed to have. Morning was the perfect time—he was awake enough to hold a proper conversation, and if he got conversations out of the way in the morning, they weren’t hanging over him all day. |
After lunch (Waterdhavian cheese, sourdough bread, dried spicy sausage and an apple), he’d check with his siblings to see how far they’d come in decoding Lorroakan’s filing system, and what he could do to help. Then dinner. Then, bed. |
And therein lay the problem. His evenings were a loose end. |
In the past, he’d used this time to read a book or try his hand at some new spells, but the graphological interpretation required most afternoons didn’t leave him with much energy for doing so in his leisure time as well. |
It had been like this on the road, too. |
And that was why, in the cooling blue of the evening, Rolan found himself outside the tower and on the way to the smithy. |
This wasn’t the first time it had happened. It wasn’t the second. There had been three, all told, between Elturel and Baldur’s Gate. |
The first time was fresh out of the gates of Elturel. |
Actually, it was fresh into the gates of the Grove. Rolan had spent longer trying to put that midden out of his mind that he’d spent in the place and frankly, that was a blessing. It had signified the beginning of the worst two weeks of his life. |
And it hurt the precursor to his siblings’ abduction had been marked by him being so foul to them. |
He was right, but that didn’t excuse it. Not the way he'd spoken to them. |
It had been after one of these arguments (which had ended with Rolan Thunderwaving a shrub on his retreat; then seeming fitting and dramatic but, in retrospect, embarrassing) that he’d first found Dammon. |
Or, Dammon had found him. |
Rolan had been hard pressed to find a place to himself. Everywhere he turned, there were tieflings or druids or bloody kids. Twenty minutes of walking found him knotted in on himself under a tree. |
He didn’t know exactly where he was, and he didn’t care either. |
It was good to be alone. He hadn’t been alone since... well. A long time. |
There was a coolness to it, the feeling of being in water. Floating untethered; even if he was as tethered as it was possible to be right now. |
They all were. And that was the worst thing. Being trapped here. |
If they could just get out, onto the open road, they’d at least have numbers in their favour. Moving as part of an ungainly group was the worst case scenario for everyone. |
And trapped here, like rats in a sinking ship? It would be unbearable even if the inhabitants of the Grove weren’t actively trying to kill them. |
Maybe they'd succeed, and all those arguments would be irrelevant. |
Maybe that would be for the best. |
"You alright?" a voice asked from behind. |
"Yes," said Rolan, tersely. |
He deliberately didn’t turn around, trying to make himself as seem unwelcoming as possible. Standoffish. He was good at standoffish. |
Dammon came and sat anyway. |
He was still in his forge leathers, round scarf wrapped around his neck against the beginning of the evening cold. "Cal and Lia are looking for you." |
Rolan felt Dammon’s small laugh in response. Laugh? Huff, maybe. A little recognition that Rolan had spoken, and Dammon had heard. "Had an argument?" |
"That’s not what they tell me." |
"They can say what they want," Rolan replied. It came out more bitterly than he intended. "It won’t make a blind bit of difference." |
He saw Dammon nod out of the corner of his eye. His dust-coloured hair was still done up in what Rolan thought of as its work-knot. His shaved sides were crisp, still. Where had he found time to do that, on the road? |
"I don’t blame them for being scared," said Dammon eventually. His eyes were on the horizon. "Something’s coming. Something worse than what we’ve seen so far, even if we do get to the city." He turned and gave Rolan a wan smile. "I think we’ll need more than a man in a pointy hat." |
"I don't have a pointy hat," said Rolan hotly. |
"I know," he replied, still in that cool tone. Soothing, like water after a burn. "I was referring to Lorroakan." |
Rolan kept his mouth deliberately shut. |
Quiet, for a moment. And then, horribly: |
"They love you, Rolan." |
"I don’t need you to mediate in my family disagreements." |
"I know," Dammon replied. "But I wanted to tell you." |
"I thought you’d say that," said Dammon, jostling him with a shoulder and pressing a kiss to his thick hair. "Come on. Let’s go and join them." |
Dammon took Rolan’s hand, pulling him upward. |
Rolan went with him, but making sure to glare the whole time. |
The second time had been soon after. In that little oasis where they had where they weren’t refugees; weren’t carrying everything they owned on their backs; weren’t being hunted like cellar-vermin. |
This time, he’s sought out Dammon. |
Almost immediately after the road was declared safe for travel, a party had been announced. |
Or, perhaps more accurately: after the road was announced safe for travel, a party was declared. |
Rolan had never been much of a one for parties. He enjoyed spending time with the people he chose to spend time with. What fun there was in widening the circle was anyone’s guess, especially when that "wider circle’ had a carte blanche to act like sots. |
Rolan hadn’t even bothered changing, going so far as to still sport the small dirk he kept strapped to his wrist in case of close-quarters combat. It clinked against Ithbank’s glass as he drank sullenly on the outskirts of the fire. |
"Dry red?" Lia said, her eyes unfocused. "You're a parody of yourself." |
"And you're drunk." |
So was he, but damned if he'd let anyone know that. |
"You could at least try to look like you've removed the stick from your arse." She was swaying slightly. "Come on, Rolan! We’re celebrating!" |
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. |
She kept her eyes locked on him, taking a deep draught from whatever it was she was carrying. |
Then—ranger-steady—spat a stream directly into his face. |
He leapt back, soaking. |
"What?" she asked, eyes sparkling. "It’s a party, Rolan." |
"Lia, I’m sticky." |
"Serves you right," she winked, turning back to the fire and calling over her shoulder: "Lighten up!" |
Rolan stood, aghast and smelling of fruit. Whatever she’d been drinking felt like a hangover. Gods, it was in his hair. He felt his stomach harden in disgust. |
His instinct was neither to head back and change (nor to draw the dirk on his sister). Because across the fire, eyes shining, was Dammon. |
No doubt he’d seen everything. |
Dammon had kissed his hair. Would he do it again? |
Could he really have done it before? |
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