the price you pay

nightjar | half elf | the spy in search of a cure

[brenharrowood-blog]

     location: the sewers underneath of Port Dalgren      time: late night           ( @nxghtjxr )

The sewers weren’t the most dignified way to break into a heavily-guarded warehouse but they were certainly the least dangerous. Or, at least, the dangers that lurked within them were the kind that Bren was equipped to deal with. They were hopeless against a powerful mage, but a monster with poor eyesight was just as weak to daggers and arrows as anything else.

With Nightjar at their back, they moved through the sewer silently, only the faint drip of water from above making a sound, and as soon as they had left the grate that marked the entryway they’d used behind, they crouched to the floor, taking a moment to use their darkvision to examine the shadows for any trace of the kinds of monsters they might come across as they made their way towards the exit to the warehouse.

     “Whatever’s in here,” they said, voice barely a whisper directed back at Nightjar, for fear that whatever lived down here had better hearing than either of them, “it’s large, and low to the ground.” The tracks, indistinct footprints, were obscured in part by what looked like part of its body dragging along behind it. And from the size of the tracks, it was going to be bigger than they were. 

[nxghtjxr]

Truth be told, Nightjar was not at all confident in his abilities to aid in this so-called heist. Since his resurrection, he had not been in a situation that required a more physical response. Before his death, he had been a proficient fighter, thanks to his magical knowledge, even if most of his “battles” had consisted of sneaking and poisoning more often than not. Now, though, with no magic, he had nothing to rely on but himself, and contrary to what some believed, a spy was not trained in the same way that, say, an assassin was.

He was eager, though, to prove to this new Gambit his worth, and so he was prepared to do all he could, imbuing his dagger and rapier with poison, even if that meant wading through shit, scarcely prepared to defend himself against anything greater than a gnome. 

More importantly, though, he was with Bren, and he trusted them with his life easily, even in the face of the unknown. He stopped as they did as well, noticing quickly the way the prints were partially ruined, but very large. It was lucky he rarely panicked. “Lovely, large and low, and, perhaps, seeking a meal,” he muttered, trying desperately to keep his voice lower than he could usually manage. “We have surprise on our side, at least. If we find it, I can play distraction? It’s been a long time since I’ve fought without magic.”

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

He’d always had a way of this, of making them feel better about a bad situation. His confidence had been a large part of why they hadn’t given up on their own mission a long, long time ago, or struck out on their own and left the Gambit to work alone. A promise that he’d leave the second there was any risk of danger, or the second they changed their mind… they trusted him, believed him, even if they shouldn’t. They couldn’t help it, coming from him. Which should, realistically, have worried them more. 

But… they couldn’t help the part of themself that wanted him there. A part they should have ignored, should have fought back against. A part that felt somehow more at east, with Nightjar travelling at their side. A part that had missed him, desperately, for years, no matter how much they tried to ignore it. And here was an opportunity, almost too good to be true.

     “Alright,” they said, with a nod. They would have to keep an eye on him, have to stop themself from getting complacent, just in case… just in case all of this was something more than it appeared. 

And they were fairly certain it was, certain it had to be. Whether that was Imsh’s fault or something else… Better to keep an eye on it, after all, and keep him close than to be ambushed again. Better not to make an enemy of Imsh, too. And in the meantime, they would have to hope that the rest of the Gambit wouldn’t mind.

     “I wouldn’t let the others know,” they added, quiet, a little grim. “About–” They swallowed, not wanting to say it, not knowing how to say it. “About what you are.”

It felt as if the moment they agreed, all of the tension he had been holding in his shoulders released suddenly, able to relax in a way he hadn’t since his resurrection, perhaps. No matter what he felt about this new life he had not asked for, at least now he would be at Bren’s side once more. And for whatever else came, whatever else happened to him, that was more than he ever could have hoped for after being ripped from peace.

He was well aware how dangerous of a decision this was. Perhaps if he had been a less selfish man, he would have made the choice for them both, would have turned away the moment he recognized Bren and would have left them in peaceful ignorance. But he was selfish. It felt almost as if he deserved a small moment of selfishness, one selfish choice when everything else had been taken from him without question; his home, his family, his life, his magic, his death. 

It felt a little like hope, knowing that he would be with them again, despite his own mission. Because, even if he was unable to find a cure and his life was ultimately claimed again by someone who had no right to it, at least he had traveled with Bren again, at least he had had one more chance.

The smile on his lips fell, though, when they went on in hushed tones, a little haltingly. “Of course,” he nodded curtly, looking away from them finally. It was hard, knowing what he was, knowing that, in life before this, he himself had been wary enough of what he had come to be. “Most don’t take too kindly to...hell, I still don’t know if I...” he trailed off, stopping himself from going on, realizing where the thought was heading. It had been difficult enough to accept his life himself upon realizing what had happened, still was not certain searching for a cure to the blight and seeking revenge in favor of death again was the right choice when his very being was unnatural.

“A lot of my usefulness has been taken from me, but I do still know how to win over a crowd.”

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

His answer was more concerning than his voice made it sound: a problem with his resurrection, a strange illness requiring rare and complicated ingredients like sale’tomah – it was the kind of thing that fetched a high price just because the kinds of potions and spells it was used for were so obscure, so esoteric, often risky and experimental and dangerous. What kind of illness could have required something like that, as a part of its cure? And all that, of course, ignoring the fact that they had seen him, dead: necromancy, no matter who it brought back, was a far shot from true life. Death was death, no matter what you did to try to reverse it. 

But what was the Gambit’s code? The code they had been living by for the better part of a decade? No invasive questions, no tragic backstories: your secrets are yours to do with what you will. Who Nightjar was working for– what had happened to him– what his goals were– why Imsh had brought him back from the dead, and what Imsh wanted him to do… all of it was merely what had brought him here, to this place. His secrets, for him to keep or tell or whatever else he wanted. Not for them to ask. Not as long as it didn’t put the rest of the Gambit in jeopardy. 

But… wouldn’t it? 

     “You met Llyr, then,” they said, trying to shift the conversation away from their thoughts, though the slight shake to their voice threatened to betray them. “I shouldn’t be surprised that I asked him to go pick some flowers and he turned back up with you.”

He wished that he could know what they were thinking, their face nearly always an unreadable mask. There was a hint of something, though. Perhaps conflict, so many questions still in the front of their mind, and with good reason. And he wanted to tell them all of it, even if it might mean he would risk his chance at being near them again. Even just this moment was more than he had ever dared hope for, and if that was all he got, he would make it enough.

Even as they went on, changing the subject slightly, he could tell that their mind was still on the looming questions that had not been spoken yet. He tried, though, to follow their lead, as he always had. “I did; he’s one of the good ones, I can tell. Does seem the type to accidentally stumble upon more trouble than he can handle, though,” Nightjar said with a slight laugh, although it was hesitant. There was too much at the front of his own mind, to give fully into that part of himself. Despite himself, he reached out and put a hand on their upper arm, thumb brushing over the material of their cape. The smile fell from his face, frowning down at them, thoughtful. 

“Bren, I promise I do not want to make things harder than they already are, I can’t come back and act as if everything’s the same, because it’s not, I’m not. You say the word and I’ll turn around and go, and you can continue on as if you never even knew I was back. But if you’ll have me...I would be honored to travel with you again, with the promise to any god that may be listening that if you ever change your mind for any reason, the moment you do, I’ll leave without a question.”

[nxghtjxr]

llyrbxnes‌:

Llyr grinned, happy to find that their new companion had a sense of humor. It was lesson common than Llyr would have thought. Or, perhaps, he just wasn’t as skilled at determining when to utilize his sense of humor. The mention of orcs and Urnundr piqued Llyr’s interest a bit, but only in that he recognized that it should. Farer reaches of the map were still a bit of a mystery to him, as were the politics and interrelations of those places. “Well,” he said, teasing tone still apparent, “we all have our vices.” Quite unlike Phoenix and his goddess, then.

“Drinks on you will all but guarantee that it goes well.” After all, they had already found one patch. At this rate, Llyr would have a decent collection of coin to bring to the Gambit the next day. 

“Why did you leave?” Llyr asked, heading off for deeper into the treeline. The question was mostly fueled by his own planning. How would he know when it was time to leave the Gambit behind? That is, supposing he was lucky enough to make that choice himself. A smile came to his face as he considered all that he had already gained. “I’m open to all the experiences.”

While he was used to working alone now, and had been much the same before he had found Bren and the Gambit all of those years ago, it was a welcome change to have a companion, even if only for an evening. That was something he missed greatly, the ability to merely be around others without any hidden pretense. Of course, there was the possibility that Llyr had some hidden motive he did not know about, but he did not seem the type as far as Nightjar could tell thus far. “Indeed, some greater than others,” he laughed, pocketing his dagger and looking around for the next way to go.

“Then consider that a promise. Anything to guarantee enough of this for a few mistakes,” he said, already more than happy with what they’d found thus far. And all the better if after they found a few more, they could wind down with drinks.

He started off following Llyr, thinking for a moment before answering his question. There was no intention to tell him the full truth, but he had no real desire to lie completely either. “It was not by choice. My patron decided that it was time for me to re-enter his employment, and when he’s made his mind up, there is little to be done to the contrary. If it had been up to me, I would still be traveling ‘round the Fade with them now, I’d like to think,” he sighed slightly, before a thought hit him. “Perhaps you’ve heard of them, actually. The King’s Gambit? It’s been a long time since my days with them, but any news would be welcome, especially of their leader.”

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

Even at the same time as they relaxed into his arms, into the familiarity of an embrace they had spent years imagining in their dreams, a feeling in the back of their mind was telling them to pull away, telling them that they couldn’t trust this. Nightjar had been dead; he might be here, be real, be him, but he was– undead, now. That was something they knew much of the Gambit wouldn’t take kindly to, something they didn’t even know how they felt about themselves. He may not have behaved like a zombie, may not have been decaying flesh and mindless motion, but it was still unnatural.

And if Imsh had plans for him, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t disappear as suddenly as he’d appeared again, leaving them to mourn all over again. 

Their mind raced, a swirl of conflicting thoughts and emotions. They didn’t even know where to begin to unravel the tangle of words they wanted to say, of answers they needed to hear. They let themself stay still for just a moment longer, trying to catch their breath, before they pulled away to look at him again. Him, really him, really here.

And then they settled on a question, the first one they could manage to voice, the first step towards figuring out how they were meant to feel about all of this, how they were going to move forward through the minefield that was surely everything that was to come.

     “Why are you here?”

For just a moment, it felt as if there was nothing else to worry about in the world. He no longer cared if he found the ingredients to make the potion that would supposedly save him, he no longer cared for vengeance for what Imsh had done to him, he cared for nothing, but the feeling of Bren pressed against his chest, arms around him. But he was well aware that it would not stay like this. Too much had happened, and even now, seeing them again, he was unsure of what it would mean but another inevitable goodbye. He was not even certain that they would want anything at all to do with him, after all, once the full story was told.

It was strange just how easy it was to feel just as he had years ago, suddenly and all at once again, now that he was with Bren again. He only hoped he might have another chance at what he’d lost last time. When they finally pulled back to look up at him, he couldn’t help the way his eyes looked over their face, as if memorizing every detail again.

When that question had been posed by others, he had not given the whole truth. He was a spy, after all, the less true information anyone had about him, the better for his chances of succeeding uninterrupted. But there was not even an instant in which he considered telling them anything but the whole truth. If anyone deserved it, it was Bren, and he wanted to be clear about what was happening, in the hopes that that might do something to ease things. It was tempting to ask if there was somewhere more private they could go to speak on such personal matters, but he was also not certain Bren would agree to something like that just yet.

“Just to pick sale’tomah for a potion,” Nightjar explained. “There was a problem, when they brought me back; it gave me a strange illness. I’m in search of the ingredients for the cure, although they are none of them simple.”

[nxghtjxr]

khxvakri‌:

With a burst of deep, loud, hearty laughter Khovakri leaned back into his chair, the wood creaking softly under his weight. “Fucking elves,” he chuckled but there was no malice in his words, just plain amusement. It wasn’t the first time an elf had thrown their age to his face, though there was no way to tell how old Nightjar really was. “I’m not exactly young, my friend. Nor I have a youthful face. At least, not many people seem to think so. But I’ll give you the point, mostly because I’m sure I’ll lose the bet if I ask how old you are. Still, we should probably ask a third person who would they say is the youngest. That is a bet I’m willing to take.

He could see the curiosity in Nightjar’s eyes when he spoke of his home and Khovakri smiled in defiance, the mystery of the man’s age met with the mystery of his own precedence.  He pondered for a bit just how much information he was willing to give. Nightjar, despite being a spy, didn’t seem to know about his people or he would’ve guessed right away what he was. Not a lot of humans settled down so far north, so perhaps a bit of general directions wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like the man could find them from all across the ocean. “Quite a bit. It’s about a week and a half of travel from Urnundr to the lake at the base of the mountain - which I bet you know - and then a few more days up the mountain on foot. Tricky path, we don’t get many visitors, but it’s home,” he shrugged, smiling kindly. 

“A potion?” Khovakri asked innocently. He looked over Nightjar and found no visible illnesses or rarities. Perhaps for someone else? Or to gain power? Not that Khovakri knew anything about potions and medicine, but he knew better than to ask. “Well, I wish you the best of luck in your search. And if you ever need any help finding anything, let me know.”

The sound of his laughter made a laugh of his own bubble up from his chest. He had always been adept enough at faking the smiles and laughs he needed to charm and worm his way around, but since his resurrection true laughter had not been so easy. It meant something that now that he had stumbled upon the Gambit again, it was possible. “Now that is an unfair bet. I’ve scarcely changed since I was in my twenties,” he laughed shaking his head.

Listening thoughtfully as he explained his village’s location, Nightjar went though everything he could remember from those years ago in Urnundr. There weren’t many known settlements that far north, but there were plenty of whispers about what could lie so far north, and there was one in particular that he could not help but think of as he looked at the other man. “There were rumors of a village up north, some orcs claimed to trade with this village, although I never was asked to substantiate the existence as my patron had much greater problems than a settlement of benevolent people,” he said slowly, thoughtfully. He did not expect Khovakri to confirm or deny his implications, but he could not help but put them into the air, always interested in information. 

“That is much appreciated, perhaps I’ll have to take you up on that offer,” Nightjar nodded gratefully. He could feel the other looked him over, likely in search of an obvious affliction. He was lucky that it had not yet spread so much that it could be seen even on the veins of his face. As of now, the gloves constantly worn with the need for such layers in the cold was enough to cover blackened veins. But if he was going to travel with the Gambit again, they would all find out soon enough, so he offered a bit of insight. “It is not a common potion, in fact there’s little proof that it will actually work; the ingredients are difficult enough to find on their own even without thinking of the instructions for mixing it, but who would we be if we could not cling to even the smallest pieces of hope?”

[nxghtjxr]

llyrbxnes‌:

Llyr did his best not to roll his eyes at the specificity of potions and instructions. “Did a virgin bard have to be singing a specific song in the background as well?” he joked. But even still, he leaned in to watch if the reaction occurred. When what looked like frost or pure ice spread over the stem, Llyr let out a triumph little whoop. “Good for something after all,” he said on a laugh. 

Crouching himself, Llyr set about gathering a few blossoms for himself and tucking them carefully into a small leather pouch. “We’ll split the spoils evenly at each find?” he suggested, sure to only take half of the crop before them. 

‘An omnipresent prick.’ Llyr wondered if that meant that this traveler had sworn his fealty to some deity, like Phoenix. “I suppose there are worse guardians to have.” A smile came to his face softly as the other spoke of the positive aspects of having a group. “I was on my own until recently,” he explained. “And I’ve only since learned those benefits of having companions. I’m looking to hold onto them for awhile if I can.” Llyr bobbed his head, considering the question. “Closer to the former, I suppose.” Money was nice, Llyr did like money. But that wasn’t why he had set out from Trerdm. “I was just looking for something more than my hometown. I suppose that means adventure.”

Holding out his hand, Llyr offered finally, “I’m Llyr.”

One step closer to a cure. It was a small thing, hard to call it a true victory in the grand scheme of things, but with such uncertainty, feeling such a dull, aching emptiness without his magic, every little step towards the potential cure meant a great deal more than he wanted to admit. Even with little real proof that the potion he aimed to make would truly be able to cure him, he refused to allow himself to think of what would happen if he was following a false trail. The thread of hope was the only thing keeping him from seeking revenge unprepared. 

“For the ice lotus oil, yes. Though, not a virgin one,” he teased, raising an eyebrow as he stood up. Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, Nightjar delicately wrapped the blossoms he’d cut in it, and tucked them into his bag, as the other cut his own. “Sounds a fair deal to me.”

He laughed at the thought of a worse guardian; he could not imagine such, but perhaps he was biased in his resurrection. “One could argue that the reason the orcs of Urnundr have such a bad name currently is solely because of my patron and his choices,” he explained. It was perhaps foolish to mention Urnundr, but he had long learned how to sniff out trouble, and this man did not seem to want such, especially as he explained his intentions.

“Nightjar. If this night goes well, drinks are on me, Llyr,” he smiled, shaking the other’s hand. “I travelled with a group for a while, about seven, eight years ago, looking for more myself. And I do not think I’d have found it if I had not joined them. You’re right to want to hold onto them; they’ll likely give you something you had not realized you sought.”

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

They remembered the necklace, remembered the night he had shown it to them, tried to give it to them, such a clear expression of his feelings that they had all but shut down completely, not ready to hear the things he wanted to say. It had been too soon, the walls they’d built up as a child still high around their heart. And yet, it had been too late, too, only weeks before he’d been killed. Even if they hadn’t pulled away, even if they had let him tell them how he felt, what he’d wanted to say, it wouldn’t have been enough time, wouldn’t have been long enough to do anything but make the pain of his loss that much worse.

They’d used that as an excuse, ever since. To keep their distance, from the Gambit, and from everyone they encountered along the way. 

But here he was, necklace in his hand, the woods – their woods, their home – suddenly before them, so real they could practically feel the wind of it blowing in their own hair. 

     “Nightjar,” they said, their voice barely a whisper through the tightness in their throat.

Before they knew it, they were in his arms, face pressed hard against the familiar expanse of his broad chest, his shirt wet– oh, they realized, remotely: from them, from the tears they had been holding back since they’d first caught a glimpse of his face in the crowd. He smelled like earth, and sweat, and something else, almost cinnamon. 

     “How? How is this possible?”

There were few moments that felt like this, as if time was slowed, nothing around that mattered but this, as if whatever happened, it was going to change something about the world itself. He didn’t want to hope to greatly, lest he be disappointed. It was possible they would look down at the pendant and see nothing, that the magic he had left in the world had faded, or changed, as he lost what was left in his own body. Worse, it was possible that they would still see what he had made all of those years ago, and that it would make them want to run. That night he had shown the necklace to them, it had felt like they wanted to run then, after all; in a way, they had, considering they hadn’t accepted it, hadn’t wanted to listen to what he had planned to tell them.

This was different, though. This time, they didn’t run. And even if it didn’t mean the same thing, even if time and death had taken away that chance, watching them look down at the emerald, watching the realization wash over them nearly made it all worth it. 

He was certain he’d never heard his name properly before this moment, hearing them say it again after believing he never would. Without a pause, they were in his arms, face buried against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around them, perhaps too tightly, almost afraid that he was the one hallucinating after everything. But they were there, warm against his chest, and he let himself close his eyes, savor the feeling he had missed so much, how perfectly they seemed to fit just there. 

“Imsh changed his mind, decided I was more useful alive, than dead,” he explained, voice quiet, more focused on them than caring for the explanation. 

[nxghtjxr]

khxvakri‌:

     His drink was quickly brought in and Khovakri paid for it with a grin and a gentle touch to the bartender’s shoulder, who smiled in return. There was a strange tension in Nightjar’s shoulders, something that contrasted starkly against the joy of the festival but commenting on it seemed out of place. He must have his reasons for leaving and returning, for being here at this time and place, and Khovakri couldn’t ask any question if he didn’t want any asked in return. 

     Yet when the man mentioned Lolander and the cold mountains that he called his home, his eyes widened and senses perked up. “Where from, exactly?” he asked curiously, wondering if the man could possibly know who or what he was. Some people form Urnundr knew about the Kalashtar settlement, specially those who traded with them be it food or information, but it was still a long shot. “I hail from Lolander as well. From deep into the forest, past the lake and over the mountain. My town is too small for it to be of any note or to appear in the maps, but I’m happy to see I’m not the only northerner lost here so far from home,” he smiled, taking a sip of his wine which was, frankly, delicious as Nightjar has said. 

     “What brings you here, then? It’s quite a ways away from the mountains.”

“The base of the mountains, a small orc village that is no longer there, but it was called Fallvale. Destroyed long before you were born, I’d wager from your youthful face,” he teased, although he was certain he was right about the others’ age. Nightjar paused to take a deep drink of his own wine. It almost felt as if it warmed him from the inside out. “For a long while now, though, I suppose Urnundr has been my home, although I’m rarely there more than a few nights every month now.”

A small hidden town, over the mountains, even further north than he was from. That made him raise an eyebrow, wondering if perhaps this member of the Gambit was more than he appeared to be. His trade had been information, after all, and in his time as a spy for the High Lord of Urnundr, he had had to learn of towns far and wide who involved themselves with the great city for any reason. There were few so far north, but many that hidden from society held their own secrets, and he’d heard of a few such as that. It made him all the more curious about Khovakri, his instincts taking over. “How far north is your village? There are few places in the mountains that do not trade with Urnundr, perhaps I’ve heard of it.” 

The question of why was simple and complicated at once. “I came for the sale’tomah blossoms. I need it for a potion, and it requires it picked on the nights of the solstice. And I suppose I’ll be rejoining you all, as Lodorwind might very well have other rare ingredients I need.”

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

So Llyr had gone out to pick flowers and brought back this.

They still couldn’t entirely believe it was him, couldn’t make themself accept that he might be telling the truth. Not at risk of losing him all over again, mourning him all over again when it turned out he wasn’t real. There was too much depending on them keeping it all together to let something like this get in the way. And yet–

He sounded like himself. And there had still been no attack, no one emerging from behind them. He didn’t seem like an illusion, no matter how hard they willed themself to see reality. What were the odds? Of all the people they could have imagined being there, of all the losses of their past to throw in their face… the odds of someone else knowing enough about them to use this to deceive them were low. They had never admitted what they felt for Nightjar aloud, not even to him, and certainly not to anyone else, after he had died. Was it really less likely that some horrible magic had brought him back and he had ended up here?

It would be foolish to let their guard down completely, until they knew for certain, but the longer they stood here, the less likely it became that all of this wasn’t real.

     “You’re really–” they started, and cut themself off again before finishing the sentence, before admitting that they believed him. No, there had to be some way to guarantee that this was real, that he wasn’t just a cruel trick, or a figment of their imagination. “Prove it. Prove you’re who you say you are. If it’s you, you’ll know how.”

He had never been good at stopping himself from doing what he wanted, and this was no exception. It took all of his strength not to reach out, not to take hold of their hand, beg them to believe. But he was well aware that doing so would be too much of a risk here. What was it like, after all, to see someone who they had watched die reappear out of nowhere, as if nothing had changed? Being woken from eternal slumber had been painful, jarring, terrifying, everything a sort of bland confusion for the first few hours, but at least it had been explained square away, at least he understood the horrors that had been done. This was harder, not as easy to explain clearly, especially with how fast his heart was beating, being face to face with them again.

But they sounded willing to believe, which was more than he had been hoping for. Their demand wasn’t a surprise, but he could still feel his heart racing, his thoughts tripping over one another as they asked him to prove himself. There were so many things he could say, so many memories he could bring up, but a memory was not good enough, not here, not when a hallucination could easily give them that. It needed to be something more. There was only one thing he could think of that felt concrete enough to maybe prove that he was real, he was here.

“Here,” he started, almost frantically, pulling the chain that was hidden under his shirt from around his neck, the pendant, a single deep green emerald, shining brightly even in the dark, his former magic still in tact, if only on the stone. It had been a silly use of such a grand spell, programmed illusion for a selfish purpose one night around the fire all those years ago. All he had wanted was to give them something that showed what he felt. When Bren, and only Bren, looked at the emerald a small woods, the woods of Lolander grew from the surface, minuscule birds flying over the tall trees, the sound of animals within, wind blowing through leaves. They had not kept the necklace, no matter how much he had tried to insist, but the sight of their face peering down at the scene had been enough.

Nightjar held out the necklace, offering it to Bren again. “My mother’s necklace. Look at the stone.”

[nxghtjxr]

llyrbxnes‌:

The other bends to inspect the flowers and Llyr settles himself. Posting his staff in the ground, he leans against the top of it. “It is sale’tomah, right? I’m only passingly familiar with the stuff, actually.” He was fairly certain he had found the right thing but if there was a look-a-like that existed, he could very well be wrong. 

He laughed at the joke, though he had the sense that it wasn’t entirely a joke. You could never be sure, after all, with strangers met in the woods. Who knew what was in his past? And Llyr wasn’t one to pry – at least not when it might get him killed. The other did go on a little bit though, shared enough to pique his interest. A potion not meant to harm – either a charm or a heal, then. Potions and draughts were not so much Llyr’s strong suit, otherwise he might have offered assistance. 

“I wouldn’t mind the company,” he answered honestly, smiling and spreading his arms. The soft fall of snow dusted along his horns, caught in the tangle of the netting. “I’m alone on this mission, though traveling with a group through Farthorpe. I take it you’re on your own?”

Letting his question hang in the air for a moment, Nightjar examines the blossoms with his gloved fingers. He had only see a picture in a nearly destroyed book, had only read the descriptions and heard them repeated in the festival, but this seemed to be it. “I suppose I won’t know for sure until I pick it. You see, this potion I’m making, it has very particular instructions. I must pick the sale’tomah in the moonlight on the solstice with a silver dagger imbued with ice lotus oil,” he explained holding up his dagger, showing the way it gleamed in the moonlight. “The stem of the flower should turn crystalline if it is the right flower; sale’tomah reacts to ice lotus oil in that way, and it is the only way to preserve it for the potion.” 

Pushing the flowers back, he carefully cut the stem, and a slow creeping crystal seemed to grown from where the metal had touched the stem, spreading up the stem. Nightjar looked back up at the other. “You were correct, my friend. Now all the more reason to hunt together,” he grinned.

“I’m alone in body, but watched over by an omnipresent prick,” he joked with a hearty laugh, although at the moment, at least, it seemed the High Lord of Urnundr was letting him be. “Traveling with a group, you say? Now those were the days; a band of companions, someone to watch your back, help you along the way, put you to sleep with a story at night. Do you seek adventure or money?” he asked, as if those were the only two choices for why someone would travel in a pack now.

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

It couldn’t be him. Like something out of a dream, a twisted nightmare– it looked like him, it sounded like him. It said their name the way he always had, the e a gentle breeze, the whole thing softened around the edges. Barely any older than he had been the last time they saw him, when they hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. Barely older than he had been when they’d mourned him, the Gambit bleeding from the hole his absence had left in it. How many times had they wished for a chance to see him again, to tell him what they’d never been able to say before? How many times had they, knowing there was no way, imagined they’d see him again. It had to be their imagination, it had to be–

Some sick trick, some illusion to lure them out, to throw them off for long enough to catch them off guard. It had to be. There was no other explanation for it. They gripped the dagger tighter at their side, ready to attack, and opened their senses for any sign of someone behind them, someone else approaching, Nothing, that they could sense, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something there. Their fingers itched for their bow, left in the tent, for something better with which to defend themself.

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” they spat at the thing taking Nightjar’s form. “I don’t know who or what you are, but–” 

You take off his face right now, they wanted to insist, but the words caught in their throat, a thick, obtrusive bubble, moments from becoming a sob. 

He could see all that was going through their mind, even as unreadable as their face had always been outside of those rare moments of vulnerability. They didn’t believe it was him, and it felt almost laughable that he hadn’t thought of that, that he hadn’t considered they might not even be able to fathom it being anything more than a perverse illusion. His thoughts started racing, trying to think of a way to prove it was him before they could leave, before he lost them again.

And yet, it did not seem like they were going to run, stuck in their spot just as he had been when he’d seen them. Words came, and he couldn’t help but flinch at the harshness of their voice, even as something ached within him, as if only now realizing how much he had missed the sound of their voice.

“Bren, please, just...listen for one minute and then you can leave. Then if you choose, you never need see me again.”

He desperately wanted to reach out to them, to grip their hand, their shoulder, any part of them he could touch, but he also did not want to make it any more difficult when he could see how horrible this was for them. His thoughts were flying too fast to make sense of, but he knew he had to keep trying if he wanted a moment more with them.

“I ran into one of your Gambit members in the field, the tiefling...It’s me. Not an illusion, or a hallucination. I...they did something cruel, and I’m here. Not right, but most of me is here.”

[nxghtjxr]

khxvakri‌:

Neither the music, the dancers nor the bright laughter of children were enough to shake Khovakri from his stupor. He had been here, his brother. Not too long ago, if the people talking about the ‘mind who could alter minds’ was anything to go with. It could’ve been someone else, some other tall man with blue eyes and a nick for psionic magic, but the chances were very low. It was… conflicting, to say the least. Knowing he was here, he had been so close and yet his trail was lost again. Why would he do that? Why run? Why harm? It filled his chest with unwanted feelings, things dark and angry that he had to take a deep breath to control. 

He couldn’t walk the same path. He had to keep searching. 

His feet ended up carrying him over to probably the loudest of tents, guided by the smell of delicious food and warm wine to make him feel alive again. There, unexpectedly, he found Nightjar. The spy or assassin or something. An interesting fellow, or so he seemed from a distance though there had to be something more to him by the way he looked at Bren with a spark of something. Khovakri was good at reading people, but reading minds was more of his fiancé’s thing. 

“Well, I do expect to live long enough to return home, but drinks and food won’t shorten my lifespan too much, hopefully. Unless I get poisoned,” Khovakri snorted as he approached him, taking a seat across from the spy. The bartender waved at him in recognition and Khovakri waved back, pointing at the mulled wine Nightjar was drinking to order one for himself. 

“Most people in the Gambit aren’t too chipper about heading north. Not big fans of the cold, I presume. You seem to be doing well for yourself.” 

Realizing it was one of the members of the current Gambit, he allowed himself to relax slightly. On principle, Nightjar trusted the members of the Gambit, new and old, and anyone who travelled with Bren deserved at least a chance. He remembered when he was apart of the Gambit years and years ago, how he had collected information like treasure from the new members every time someone joined. But the urge to do so this time with all he had met thus far was dulled, too preoccupied with thoughts of Bren, of wanting to fall back into old ways, but fearing it was no longer possible.

That was why he was here, though, after all, in this tent in particular. He couldn’t let himself confront all of that just now, and here was a fitting distraction, not only entertaining, but also useful, to know who was traveling with the Gambit now, and what that might mean.

“I can promise you I have no intention to do so tonight, at least,” Nightjar laughed, holding up his hands in defense. He paused to drink deeply from his own cup, trying to let himself relax. “I don’t mind the cold. I was raised at the base of the mountains of Lolander. If I can’t wear furs, what’s the point?” He had been all over the Fade, but the cold, being able to bundle in furs reminded him of his family, his childhood.

[nxghtjxr]

llyrbxnes‌:

Llyr grins back, lifting his chin a little. “Well, thanks.” He can pick up on the tension in the other’s spine though, can tell that he’s just as ready to attack should the need arise. But that actually puts Llyr at ease a little. If he’s waiting to defend himself, just as Llyr is, that means he probably won’t be doing the attacking. And besides, he likes his horn ornaments and is happy to accept the compliment, whatever its origin.

Spreading an arm, Llyr indicates the patch of flowers. “It is, I believe.” There’s enough of a cluster that he doesn’t mind sharing the bounty. He has the energy to keep searching, too, so this likely won’t be the last of his findings. “I’m here for the payday, merely,” he admits, cocking his head a little. The stranger, Llyr can’t help but notice, is attractive. “So I’m happy to share some of my finding. Why are you in need of the blossoms?”

Sale’tomah was a magical component, after all. He wondered what sort of potion the other might be attempting. 

His smile is easy, and it seems he genuinely appreciates the compliment, even as prepared for a fight as he seems. But he hasn’t struck, and shows no signs of wanting to make this friendly exchange anything but. It’s a risk, to take a look at the blossoms more closely, leaving his back open to attack, his neck vulnerable, but he decides to trust the other on this, especially if he’s only here for the money in selling it. So Nightjar kneels down to inspect the flower himself as the other goes on.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he said with a laugh, although that was not all together false, in his mind. Revealing the specifics his illness to an unknown party was not something that he planned on doing, even if the other did seem good-natured enough. He had found in his years as a spy that people were rarely all they seemed on the surface, and even less often what they presented upon the first meeting.

Still, it feels fair to offer a small bit if he was willing to share. “It’s for a personal matter. I need enough to provide room for trial and error. It has been a long while since I’ve made a potion that was not meant to harm,” Nightjar chuckled, as if the last part was a joke. “Perhaps we might search for more together? If you are alone, that is...”

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

The tossed their 5 tal on the table, picked up the vial of perfume they hadn’t intended to buy, slipped it carefully into their bag along with their money, harder to get there than at their waist if the person watching them happened to be trying to pickpocket them. Most of their valuables were in the tent, back with Andesite, very little worth stealing on their person. They used the second that it took them to get everything into their bag to take in their peripheral vision, trying to decide which way to go from here. To the right, a thick crowd of people, easier to lose someone just following them out of curiosity, but dangerous if their pursuer was malevolent. To the left, a small clearing about fifteen yards ahead, plenty of space to defend themself against an attacker…

Whoever it was was moving, now, drawing close, they could sense it, so they had to make their decision fast. To the left, then. Just in case. Better paranoid than stabbed to death in a crowd of people where no one would notice their attacker getting close. Dagger gripped tight in their hand, they stepped away from the booth and made their way past a few more people and into the clearing at the end of the row of market stalls before turning around to face and confront whoever had been following them–

One face in the crowd stood out – wouldn’t have, even as it drew closer, except that it was so achingly familiar. But no, it couldn’t be– he was dead. He’d been dead for eight years. It must have been a coincidence, a trick of the light, a symptom of their exhaustion after all this constant travel… There was no possible way that Nightjar was here, following them through the crowded festival. They waited for him to approach, waited for the illusion to pass, held their dagger steady and willed their hands not to tremble. 

It would’ve been possible to catch up to them as they paused at the stall to pay for whatever they had been forced to buy, but he hesitated slightly, although it was hard to say why. In the back of his head, he thought that if he managed to get to them, and if they wanted to even speak to him, he would have to pay them back for whatever it was they had bought simply to prepare for a nonexistent attack. There were too many emotions wrapped up in seeing them again, and he still did not know if attempting to hunt them down was the right choice. They moved from the booth quickly, clearly looking to lead him into a clearing so that any danger could be faced in the open, where plenty of people would notice. He had only made it to the stall they had left when he realized that perhaps this was the wrong choice, that they might actually stab him, out of confusion upon seeing him. But then, of all the ways to go again, being stabbed by Bren, having one last chance to speak to them, would not be the worst. 

Before he had the chance to consider it more fully, the choice was made for him, as they turned around suddenly upon reaching a small clearing of the crowd, and the sight of them full on struck him like lightning, halting him in his tracks for a moment. He could see the recognition in theirs eyes, quick and confused. Perhaps a hint terrified. And he realized that of all the explanations for why they would see him again now, at a crowded festival, the truth felt a hundred times less plausible than any guess they might have. A trick, an illusion cast by an enemy to make them vulnerable, a hallucination from bad wine. Anything but the truth.

But he had to try. Holding his hands up, to show that he had no weapon, no intention of attacking, Nightjar moved through the crowd to the clearing, hardly aware of anyone else but them, now, unable to look away, as if he might miss a detail of their face if he did. As if they might be the illusion.

“Bren...” he breathed, stopping a little ways away, keeping some distance for their comfort. It was hard, though, not to rush forward and wrap his arms around them. The words were hardly audible over the din of the crowd, but he didn’t care. “I didn’t dare dream I might see you again. Especially not like this.”

[nxghtjxr]

brenharrowood‌:

The crowds of the festival were good for hiding, good for stealing away to get some time to themself. Fresh air, despite the large throngs of people pushing past them. And so they had taken a walk, away from the others, taken some time to themself to pretend to browse the wares on sale, to move from place to place half-noticed, mostly ignored, and completely alone. They’d only stopped at the booth to move out of the way of a thicket of people they couldn’t quite dart between, but apparently the decision had been noticeable, more noticeable than just wandering aimlessly from place to place. 

Because they could feel the eyes trained on their back – hopefully a curious stranger and not a determined enemy, for they were well used to both by now. They remained still, just in case, resisting the urge to turn and find the face in the crowd behind them. No use alerting whoever was watching them to the fact that they were aware; that could wait until the absolute last minute, just in case whoever it was meant ill. Under their cape, at their belt, their hand found their dagger, gripped the handle tight, just in case. 

     “One of these, please,” they said, to the woman at the market stall, gesturing down whatever was on the table – an excuse, and not an actual desire, hopefully not anything too expensive, but they made a show of pulling their pouch of tal from their belt to disguise the movement of drawing the dagger with their other hand.

There was a pause, Bren standing just still enough that he had to wonder if they could feel him staring, feel his eyes boring into the back of their hood. Silently, he willed them to turn around, willed them to look, to see, to make the choice for him so that he would not have to agonize over making that choice for one more chance himself again. 

They didn’t turn around, though, they just kept looking at whatever was at the stall, pointing at something on the table, pulling their pouch of money from their belt. That was a gesture Nightjar recognized well, one they’d done themself before a dozen times over while being watched. Bren knew someone was watching them, and they thought whoever it was could mean harm. That should have been enough to tell him to stop, to let the moment pass, perhaps search for them later, but there was a pang in the pit of his stomach, a familiar ache reminding him of the last time he had seen them. 

The festival felt safe. He had not been followed here, and he’d done nothing to warrant anger. In fact, those who he had made enemies of before his death mostly likely still did not know he was resurrected. So there was no real worry of another silent assassin claiming his life before he could say a word to Bren. And yet the fear gripped him, told him that if he lost this chance, it would be gone forever. In that moment, the fear of never seeing them again, outweighed the worry of what would happen when they did see him. It made his decision before he could consciously think of it, starting through the crowd carefully, eyes focused on Bren, hoping, praying to any god that might have been listening to just give him one more chance.

[nxghtjxr]

nightfall, a busy street in the middle of a festival        @brenharrowood

It wasn’t often that he found himself jumpy. By virtue of his job, he couldn’t let surprises effect him. But this was something else entirely. Because the Gambit was here, Bren was here, and it felt as if he was waiting for them to appear around every corner he passed, heart permanently stuck in his throat, beating a frantic tattoo just at the thought of seeing them again. For all of the eloquence he usually possessed, he couldn’t begin to imagine what he would say the moment he saw them. The thing was, though, he didn’t have to see them. It would be simple enough to leave now, before the festival ended. He had what he’d come for, and that was that. It was time to move on to the next place, search for the next ingredient, there was no reason to stay. And yet, he could not leave. 

A familiar feeling, the inability to leave out of desire to catch one last glimpse of them. Then, it had been for the chance at a goodbye, and now it was for the fear of a hello. He was not even certain he would have the voice to say what he had not managed the last time, though, if he saw them again. How could he explain what had been done to him, how could he explain why he was here now, searching? Worse, how could he face them, knowing he was no longer the same? The thought made it hard to breathe, made the busy street feel nearly claustrophobic. He turned on his heel, a little too quickly, to head back the way he’d come, towards the tent he had been staying in, but stopped, struck by the familiarity.

There they were, just as he had remembered them over and over again in his dreams, and before that in the warm comfort of a paradise now lost; they had fit so perfectly, there, in his mind, he wished that was where they were meeting again, instead of on the mortal plane. They looked the same, just the tiniest peek of curly hair from under their hood, green eyes forever searching the crowd for danger, suspicion. And every single unspoken word was there on the tip of his tongue, just waiting. His mind told him to turn back and go, before they saw, that he was not yet ready, but his body refused, unable to look away, in case this might be the last chance at a glimpse of them.