Chapter 12: Meat and Greet
Xal struggles with his feelings of guilt but is ultimately pardoned of his crimes. Hey, it's canon; it was weird in-game, and it's weird in my story. He and the gang travel to the goblin camp and a new character is introduced.
As usual, trigger warnings. There are still talks about self-harm and suicide, but no further attempts. Trauma, of course, because every one of these fuckers is deeply messed up. But nothing crazy this chapter. :D
As the daylight makes its way across the sky and the shadows move in tandem before Xal's staring eyes, he does not sleep… and nor does he move. He's in something resembling a trance in that he doesn't feel completely conscious of the time as it passes. However, his tortured thoughts and feelings tangle, disordered in a way a true trance would never allow. Alfira, he thinks again, the name both twisting the knife in his gut and stoking that sick pleasure that refuses to leave. He thinks absently about what a waste it had been for his companions to save him at the river when, more than likely, they would simply finish the job once they arrive back at camp and Gale updates them. Gale may forgive him on some level, and Astarion might argue, but when it comes down to it, the two won't defend him physically against the rest. Why would they? Dark thoughts ebb and flow, their tides catching him again and again, jerking him back each time he thinks he might just make it to shore. And amongst all of it, he sees the face of a pale elf looking down at him, ruby eyes saturated with… is it fear? Concern? Loathing? Why the hell didn't Astarion just leave Xal in the river?
It's nearly Dark when he hears the others return. Xal wills himself into utter stillness, listening. He hears Karlach’s boisterous laughter first and feels relieved. If Karlach is laughing, then the others are alright. His keen ears pick up a conversation about the camp, which they evidently found, and a strange incident involving the artefact, which, apparently, has Shadowheart and Lae'zel even more at odds since she's realised the relic is Gith. Wonderful. Xal hears Gale’s voice then, low and unemotional as he asks the others to follow him to the edge of camp, presumably to keep Xal from hearing. Xal's stomach clenches, and the hot weight of his guilt settles around him. He can still hear the murmur of conversation but can make out no words… that is, until the shouting begins. He's able to make out some of it then. Arguing between Wyll and Gale, a shout at Astarion for some snide remark and a cutting remark from Lae'zel. Nothing from Karach or Shadowheart, so far as he can tell. And he doesn't hear anyone demanding his head.
Coward, he realises. Hiding here in his tent, awaiting judgment. And for the first time in hours, he moves.
He told him, Astarion fumes as the others bandy words in a predictably panicked sort of way. That God's-damned idiot of a man.
“– I know, Gale,” Wyll is arguing. “I like Xal too. And I believe him when he says he wasn't in his right mind. But we must consider the safety of–”
Astarion cuts in with a derisive snort. “OH, please, Wyll. When exactly Have ANY of us been safe throughout this whole ordeal? Between the mounting number of enemies lining up to slaughter us and the impending possibility of changing into freakish monsters, I think one unfortunate sleepwalking incident is the least of our worries, wouldn't you?” Astarion doesn't bother to mention, he hasn't felt safe in 200 years, and the very idea of Xal leaving makes him feel even less so… ironically.
“Unfortunate sleepwalking incident is a bit of an understatement, Fangs”, comments Karlach, perhaps reasonably. “He admitted to slaughtering somebody.”
“Well, he clearly feels badly enough about it, doesn't he?” Pipes in Shadowheart, coming to stand beside Astarion. “I mean, we did just find him bleeding out of his own accord in the river.”
“It doesn't make Alfira any less dead!” Snaps Wyll.
“And just what do you intend to do, then?” Demands Astarion. “Kill him?”
“It would be the wise course of action,” the Gith's dispassionate voice cuts in. “A warrior who cannot control his violence threatens the rest of us. Xal knows this; this is why he sought to end himself.”
“Hells,” grumbles Astarion. “This is why I told the idiot not to tell anyone.”
Gale cuts him a look. “Be grateful he did, my friend. I'm reasonably sure the only reason he said anything was to erase the suspicion that you were the reason for her disappearance.
Astarion opens his mouth to retort, then finds nothing but blank, shocked silence. He shuts it again with a snap.
“Is this an open forum?” Came a quiet voice behind them?
They all jump, all except Lae'zel, but even she flinches a bit. They turn to see Xal wearing only his trousers and an expression of resignation. He looks better, thinks Astarion, but the circles under his burgundy eyes are more pronounced, and he still looks tired, haunted.
It's Gale who breaks the silence first, gesturing towards the fire at the centre of camp. “By all means, Xal, but so Long as you're joining us, let's sit and warm ourselves. You still look like you might fall over.
Xal nods, and they relocate themselves around the fire. Astarion chooses a spot far from Xal, but between the drow and Lae'zel. He notices that Karlach is also keeping a careful eye on the Gith while Wyll's one good eye is fixed on Xal.
Xal almost collapses into his spot and rubs at his tired eyes. Dozens of pale scars gleam slightly in the orange firelight, and Astarion notes that scars are all that are left of this morning's incident, thanks to Shadowheart.
Despite his exhaustion, his voice is strong, with only the barest hint of trepidation. “I know there isn't any point in apologising for what happened, but it doesn't make me any less sorry for Alfira,” he says, looking at the flames. “Before you all decide anything, you should know. Something has been… wrong with me since I woke on the nautaloid. A sort of– voice- or perhaps an urge follows me wherever I go, whispering terrible things, telling me to do things, and I sometimes find a sick thrill at the thought of going through with them. His eyes rise to Shadowheart’s. You were lying on the beach after the crash. I reached down to wake you and found myself wanting to strangle the life from you for a moment. He turns his eyes to Gale and continues. “I reached for your hand when you needed help in that portal and had to fight back a vision of hacking your hand clean off. Xal’s eyes drop away from the now wan-looking wizard and find Astarion’s. “My first thought when you agreed to come with us, Astarion, is what a pretty corpse you'd make.”
Everyone is silent for a beat, and then Astarion shocks everyone by laughing. He feels nervous, off center, somehow, but oddly unworried by the other man's proclamation. “Well, darling, I am rather a pretty corpse, wouldn't you say?” He gives a coquettish toss of his hair and bares his teeth.
The joke earns some nervous laughter from Wyll, Karlach, and even Shadowheart, but Xal doesn't look up.
“I don't want to hurt any of you,” he says, voice low. “Despite whatever it is inside of me that does, I do not. I… don't want to be a monster. Xal seems to choke on the last word and closes his eyes as though the admission has cost him something. Astarion feels something gnaw deep inside of his heart at Xal's word, some long-repressed memory… perhaps from the early days when he too had struggled to resist what he was. He shudders, driving the dreadful memory back into the darkness where it belongs.
“ But I understand if you all choose not to travel with me anymore… in fact, I'm inclined to recommend that you don't.”
For a long while, the only sounds are those of the crackling fire along with the more subtle music of his companion’s steady heartbeats. When the silence is finally broken, it is by Shadowheart, who, to Astarion’s surprise covers the distance between her and Xal and places a hand on his arm. The Drow's eyes snap, and his entire body tenses under the touch. She says, “No one here is killing you,” the Sharran says softly. “And unless I'm much mistaken, you are staying right here with us.” Xal's eyes focus intently on the clerics, and Astarion doesn't miss the blood that colours her cheeks… Interesting. He thinks.
“Surprisingly, I agree with Shadowheart,’ declares Lae'zel. “You are an adequate warrior, even if you do become too easily distracted. And if we aren't to kill you, it's better to keep you close… where we can keep you under observation. “
Xal’s mouth quirks up at the side, a ghost of his usual humour, and he steps back away from. Shadowheart, releasing himself from her hold. “Well, that's comforting, certainly.” His eyes flit from person to person around the fire and meet Astarion’s. “Well then, if you're all in agreement, I suppose you're stuck with me.”
Xal is back in his tent, ushered inside by an insistent cleric who tells him there will be tomorrow for updates on the goblin camp and all that awaits them. She is insistent that he needs more rest, but Xal is restless, agitated. Yes, he's relieved his friends haven't cast him out, but also terrified. And guilty, still so terribly guilty, Gods damn it. He grabs the book on the Underdark and the drow homeland he's stashed in the corner and begins skimming over the pages again, hoping reading about it might spark some memory of who he was before. But after several minutes, he chucks the book away with a grunt of frustration just as a pale face appears inside his tent flap.
Astarion raises an eyebrow at the discarded book. “Well, nothing like a bit of light reading to calm one's nerves, is there? Although it seems to be doing little for yours.”
Xal sighs heavily. He's half tempted to tell the elf to leave, but knows he likely wouldn't listen anyway. “I keep hoping something will make sense, reading about my home world,” he admits. “But it seems hardly even familiar. “
Astarion eases all the way inside the tent and sits cross-legged, picking up the worn leather book and flipping through it. “I mean, the Menzoboranzians are said to be a fantastically brutal lot, particularly your people. Awful lot of murder and violence there. Terribly fun, I'm sure.”
“It is a brutal place, of course, but even fanaticism to Lolth doesn't beget the sort of senseless carnage I awoke to. No, everything my people do is cunning, and for personal or political gain. Whatever this is, it's different. Uglier.”
Astarion's eyes leave the pages and take him in for a moment, making Xalor feel slightly underdressed. His next words are hard, unlike his normal flippant way of speaking. “You’re an absolute idiot, you know?” He says.
“I had to tell the others, Astarion,” he protests. “Gale thought you had something to do with Alfira besides, they have a right to know–”
The vampire is on him so quickly, he isn't even sure he saw him move, knife pressed to his throat, just as when they first met. “No,” he said, his tone dripping with long-suffering patience. “I mean, you're an idiot for feeding your blood to the gods damned river over a guilty conscience.”
Xal feels his own temper rising in response, although he isn't even sure why he's so angry. He pushes ever so slightly into the dagger’s edge and feels it split like ripe fruit. “Better I feed it to you then, spawn?”
He regrets the word almost as soon as it leaves his mouth. He watches Astarion’s eyes go from deadly ferocity to absolutely blank in an instant as the vampire pulls the knife slowly back. It's as though he's watched the man put a mask on, his raw anger transformation into one of careful nonchalance. He’s fucked up, Xal realises suddenly. He wonders how many times his friend has heard the word spawn hurled at him as he was beaten down, as he was used… Astarion would be more likely to forgive another attempted murder.
Astarion leans back and offers Xal a flirtatious smile. “Well, darling, it is quite a waste, wouldn't you say? Especially given how much you seem to like it when this spawn,” he spits out the word, his careful mask cracking ever so slightly, “drinks from you.”
Xal looks down. “I'm sorry, Astarion, I didn't mean–”
He interrupts him. “It's quite all right, darling. I am a spawn, and it's certainly not the worst thing I've ever been called.”
Astarion turns to duck out of the tent, and Xal suddenly realises he doesn't want to be alone again. Without thinking, he reaches across the small space and grabs the other man's arm. He feels Astarion go rigid but doesn't let go. “Please, Astarion,” he whispers. “Truly, I'm sorry.” He grins ruefully. “Here, put the knife back to my neck, and we'll start over… Tell me what you're cross about.”
Astarion is still for several beats, then chuckles, seemingly despite himself and pulls out of Xal's grip. He doesn't leave, however, nor does he draw his blade again.
“I'm angry, you great dunce, because I had to spend a good half hour washing the mud out of my hair and clothes after pulling out a very stupid drow from the water.”
Xal feels his lips twitch. “Said drow sounds extremely inconsiderate for causing you such aesthetic distress, and I'm sure that, were he aware his actions would have caused such an uproar, he would offer you his most sincere apologies.”
Astarion casts him a withering glare. “I'm not the forgiving type.”
“You don't seem the type to fling himself into the mud for anyone, either,” observes Xal. “So why would you?”
The elf clicks his tongue impatiently, and he looks pointedly at a loose stitch on the blanket at his feet. “Don't read so far into it, Xalor. I find that your presence is mildly tolerable when compared to the others, is all.”
Xalor actually laughs then, a full, uninhibited laugh for the first time in days and the elf looks at him with an arched eyebrow. But his lips are also tilted upwards now. “I'm glad I could offer you some comic relief. Now, is there a reason you're holding me prisoner in your tent? Or can I go to sleep now?”
“You didn't come in for a midnight snack then?”
Astarion rolls his eyes and moves again towards the door. This time, Xal lets him. “We just saved you from nearly bleeding to death. I think I'll survive on animals until your body has a chance to recover, lest our lovely cleric make good on her previous threat and loose radiant energy up my arse.”
Raucious music, goblin stench mitigated by the much more mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat, greet Xal as he, Karlach, Astarion and Shadowheart near the goblin camp.
“Are you sure we can just… walk past them?” Xal asks again, eying the space. It is positively teeming with goblins.
Karlach laughs. “We figured that out last time. Fangs here nearly had the blighters eating out of his hand… Um, probably good we left Wyll behind though. He hates em. Nearly blew our cover.”
Xal glances at Asterion, who is looking down at his nails, looking pleased with himself. “Eating out of your hand, huh? How did you manage that then?”
Astarion gives him A knowing smirk and opens his mouth to reply. However, before he can, a goblin hustles over to where they stand at the edge of the bridge and prostrates himself in front of Xalor. “ You're back, MY, MY LIEGE, I MEAN, true Soul, I mean… erm. That is to say—everything is ready, the party that is you erm. Would you care for something to drink? Or eat?” The goblin continues blubbering, and Xal stares down at him nonplussed until Shadowheart jabs an impatient elbow into his side.
“What? Oh, I mean, of course. We will join you in our own time. Carry on.”
The goblin shuttles away backwards, nearly falling over the edge of the bridge as he attempts to keep bowing.
“What in the hells?” Xal turns to his companions.
Shadowheart rolls her eyes. With the help of a disguise self scroll and one overeager elf, you've sort have been here once before, Xal. And I've got to say, Astarion really knows how to toe the line between inspiring adoration and terror.
Astarion is positively preening now. “OH, as though it's so hard. Between borrowing your frightening drow form and our status as true souls, they were almost painfully Easy To control… But then, they are goblins.
”Fangs got us an audience with the head drow Lady here tonight. I would avoid Mistress Gut if I were you. She's dead set on shining a hot brand at us. As if we all didn't have enough scars.”
Astarion hums in agreement, and Xal nods. “Did you find out where the druid was?”
“Not as such, but we should find out when we talk to Minthara,” replies Shadowheart. “That's the drow leader, apparently.”
“Minthara,” muses Xal quietly. The name inspires no memory of his past. Perhaps seeing another drow… “Well, let's go then.” He strides confidently towards the bridge only to double over in pain about 3 steps in, His head thrusting as an irresistible force forces him to his knees. He hears his companions in similar states of shock and agony beside him, but he cannot see them as his vision fades into black and a powerful female voice tears into his head. He realizes immediately this is the voice of the absolute, and this power, it's the same one he learned to use on those with the mark, only so much more Powerful. The voice commands and pervades every pore of him as it feeds in the images of three: an older elf, a human man, and a woman with strange, white eyes… then the feeling is gone all at once, and Xal looks up, gasping as Shadowheart's strange artefact Pulses with light in midair before whizzing back into the cleric's bag.
“What in the bloody hells!” Exclaims Karlach, holding her head as she regains her feet.
“That was… Unpleasant,” agrees Xal. “You all heard her then, saw her ‘chosen’? And what exactly is that thing, Shadowheart? Not that I'm complaining.”
“I'm not sure… I only know that I'm to return with it to Baldur's Gate.” The cleric replies with a frown.
Xal frowns at her but decides not to push. She's likely being honest, and if she isn't, he knows her well enough already to know nothing short of A bloody truth serum will get it out of her… And even then, she probably wouldn't crack. “A question for later then. Let's go talk to this drow woman so we can find— “he frowns and looks back. “Astarion? Are you alright?”
Astarion is leaning, hands against the stone of the bridge as he stares sightlessly down over it. He jolts and then whirls. “OH yes, of course he spits. We've just been forced to our knees by some gods damned all-powerful voice in our minds, and there was Nothing we could do to prevent it.” A giggle escapes his lips that sounds anything but amused. “I'm just PEACHY.”
Xal takes an instinctive step forward, although he doesn't know what he plans on doing. Astarion raises a hand to stop him. Xal doesn't miss the slight tremor. “I'm fine.” He says, sounding more composed. Let's just… carry on, I suppose. Before anything else happens.”
They meet no more resistance as they pass by the makeshift wooden spikes and cross the bridge into the thrum of the goblin camp. Goblins dance about in varying levels of drunkenness, and the few that spare a wary glance their way dip their eyes in respect and fear as soon as they catch sight of Xal.
They stop to take it all in: the dancing, the music, the smells, the orc swaying on drunken guard duty next to the large double doors, and a large fire where a green-skinned goblin turns meat on a spit. Xal’s mouth waters and his stomach clenches at the aroma. But then he notices that one of the hunks of meat looks as though it still has the leather of a boot charred around the foot. Xal feels a wave of disgust even as the hunger grows keener and he frowns, thinking once again that he must be deeply broken.
He feels a sharp jab to his side and scowls at Astarion, who is pointing at an impromptu podium erected right at the centre of the square. Xal groans when he realises what he’s pointing at. “That idiot; I warned him.”
“Indeed, seems they’ve captured themselves a bard–oh make that two” muses Astarion.
“Isn’t that Volo?” asks Karlach, excitedly. “It IS, isn’t it?”
It is. The same bard who in all his pomp had pumped them for information in the Druids Grove, is gesticulating wildly as he attempts to rhyme Dror Raglin and some other words Xal is sure are nonsense. Next to him, a less opulent bard with shorn hair and a burn across her face looks like she is doing her best to escape notice as she attempts to accompany Volo’s massacred improvisation. She’s clearly skilled, but it’s admittedly a pretty tough ask. Still, the clapping, cheering goblin woman doesn’t seem to mind.
“You’re telling me Volo is actually famous?” Xal looks at Karlach and the others in askance.
Shadowheart shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
Astarion tosses his hair. “Beyond the dirty pubs and taverns I was sent to, I didn’t catch much of the arts scene in Baldur’s Gate, I’m afraid… Although I’ll admit, the name does ring a bell.”
Karlach shakes her head in disbelief. “Oh come ON. Volo has been around for… for… Well, no one really knows, actually, but he’s been around longer than most humans I’ve met.”
As they approach, Volo catches sight of Xal and begins to struggle even more through his “Frabjukous crown,” and “Abrade.” But Xal’s attention is pulled away from the opulent bard completely as the woman playing beside him glances towards him with dark eyes. He feels a hideous squirm again inside his head, and he catches glimpses of another life. He hears children laughing, sees a piano sitting in a sunlight room, warmth and connection flooding through his chest as a tune carries through the air, a small voice calling, “mommy!” then a shattering, disconcerting feeling, loss, the feeling of flames and agony, and the silken sound of a man’s voice. “I can save you. I can get you home. I can save you from yourself.”
The unpleasant twang of a lute hitting the ground severs the connection, and he’s still looking into her eyes, now holding the edge of panic as she looks back at him.
“Oh dear,” says Volo, distracted as he takes in his partner.
The goblin woman sneers at the pair. “Clumsy little bitch, aren’t ya– well, I s’pose it’s time for you both to go back to your cages.”
Volo groans and looks at the human woman. “Now look what you’ve done,” he laments, also casting a glance at Xal.
The woman looks away from Xal and stiffens. The barest hint of magic pulses around her figure, then disappears so quickly, Xal thinks he may have imagined it; she juts her chin out at the goblin below, offering her a sarcastic bow before saying in a low voice, “Fine, this party sucks anyway.” This earns the woman a sharp thwap on the lower back from the goblin as she is led inside the fortress with Volo. She flinches, but says nothing further.
“Our lady preserve us,” says Shadowheart softly. “How many people have these worms infected?”
“An army of em’ I’d reckon,” replies Karlach. “Damn, girl had more demons running around her head than Avernus, too,” she says sympathetically.
“Seems to be a prerequisite for this little adventure”, Astarion counters flippantly. "Now, shall we continue? As much as I love a good den of inequity, I very much would like to get this over with. Goblins are such vile creatures.”
“What about Volo?” Asks Karlach. “And the other bard?”
Astarion makes an irritated noise at the base of his throat. “We needn't save EVERY poor soul we come across, darling.” He casts a sideways glance at Xal.
Xal doesn’t look at him, still lost in the vision from the tadpole. Something about it had been so… foreign. He shakes his head and smiles wryly, although he doesn’t feel the mirth. “No unnecessary heroics,” he promises, crossing his heart. “Although, if the opportunity arises, perhaps.” If I don’t kill them first in a fit of joy.
He catches sight of something white and fluffy in his periphery, and his grin becomes real when he recognises the miniature form of an owlbear, being poked and prodded by a pair of jeering globins… A baby. A viscous, bloodthirsty baby. He cocks his head and looks in askance at his companions. “Perhaps just one act of heroism before we go in.”
He speaks an incantation and approaches the beast.
Tav is absolutely, 110% done with today– the last few days really… Well, the last two years have sucked if she’s completely honest. But yes, today, she is simply fed up.
She sits in the corner of the oversized birdcage as far as she can get from the gaudy, prattling bard, and she wonders if the man has any self-awareness at all.
“Don’t get me wrong, my dear,” he’s waxing on as he wrings his hands together with obvious anxiety. “You have potential. You are a splendid musician. It’s just that, as your mentor, I feel like I must tell you that you are lacking in that true passion that can inspire!”
Passion is dangerous. The voice echoes through her mind like a ghost. “And I feel that I must tell you once again, Volo,” replies Tav, “that you are not my mentor.”
No, he is not, she thinks. He was just a stupid man, overconfident enough to march right into a goblin camp in search of a good story, and she– well, she supposes she wasn’t all that clever either. But in her defence, she hadn’t meant to stumble across a goblin patrol right after waking up freshly tadpoled. 2 years in Fae’run, and it still manages to surprise her, she thinks. And not in a good way.
“Don’t worry, my dear! While I can see you’re in the throes of despair, you are in good company, I assure you! I have stared down death more times than I can count! Although I’ll admit goblins—oh, they have a special hostility to those of us with elevated artistic sensibilities—”
“And yet,” Tav mutters, “they let you live.”
Volo doesn’t even pause. “Precisely! Because they recognise talent—”
“—or they recognise someone too stupid to kill outright. Careful, Volo, if they decide you’re more tasty than entertaining, I’d bet you’d pair well with onions.”
Volo gasps. “You wound me!”
She presses her forehead to the wooden bars of the cage and whispers so only she can hear:
“I just want to go home.” She says it quietly, to herself. But there is no real hope there.
Home. It’s as much a curse as a prayer at this point, a sweet memory, but with sharp teeth, still so familiar, yet also a foreign anathema at this point as many times as she’s hoped for it... As many times as hope has let her down, she wishes it would simply die altogether.
Volo sighs and gives her a look filled with pity. Oh, she wants to smack it off her face, so instead she closes her eyes. She imagines a serene pool of water surrounded by Aspen trees transitioning into the full splendour of autumn. It’s a place she’s been, a place she’s preserved in the centre of her mind. It’s a still point at her centre, in the eyes of her storm, and far removed from the chaos and the noise surrounding her. When she had seen it in real life, others had been with her. It’s just her now. She can’t bear it any other way.
“Don’t make me your personal project, Volo; believe me, you attract chaos quite well enough on your own.”
The bard laughs at this, and she opens her eyes to meet his lighter shade of brown. “There we are in agreement, my good woman. But for a good story, stepping into chaos mayhaps is necessary, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hmm,” she says, noncommittal. She can’t help but admire the man’s optimism, even if she doesn’t share it. She tunes him out as he begins prattling on again about battles fought, corners he’s been backed into, and the like. She thinks instead to the strange group she saw outside: the dark-haired woman, the slim drow, the pale elf, and the hulking, blazing figure of a tiefling. What on earth, or in Fae’run, she supposes, are they doing here? The drow, sure; she’s caught sight of one already. The Absolute or whatever has seemed to take a shine to their kind. The connection between them tells her they’ve all been infected, so she supposes that, like her, they’ve all been unwillingly initiated into this new gods-damned cult. Still, they seemed… different, somehow. The connection had been clearer– and so too was her mind, now that she thinks about it, as though the connection to that voice of the absolute can’t quite get through any longer. Hmm. Interesting. She picks absently at her lute, and the strings are comforting under her fingers. “The ones outside,” she says, interrupting Volo’s train of thought, “You recognised them.” It isn’t a question. Thinking back, she can see how he looked at them. He’s met them at least once before.
“Oh, ehem, indeed,” he replies, dusting off his blue outfit. “I met them only the once at the Druid's Grove, just before my misadventure here. Quite an unusual band of heroes indeed; they killed a group of goblins at the gate there and saved a band of mercenaries. I also heard tales they saved a tiefling child from some particularly brutal harpies before I left.”
Tav leans back, threading her hands behind her head and letting the lute rest in her lap. She keeps her voice neutral, although she can’t keep the flare of traitorous hope from igniting in her chest at the mention of them killing goblins. She stifles it quickly, reminding herself that hope is a distraction and a liar. “Sounds like quite the group of plucky heroes. Might I expect a stirring ballad in their honour to entertain me?”
“Perhaps not just yet, my lady,” laughs Volo with a flourish. “We must see whether they live or die soon after all.”
“No song if they die then?”
“On the contrary, tragic martyrs make excellent ballads! The more brutal the deaths, the better.”
Tav smiles, despite herself, then reaches down again to play a quiet, careful tune.
