Tenday of Deia | Day Ten x Everyone
Link to the post that started it all. | Day One. | Day Two. | Day Three. | Day Four. | Day Five. | Day Six. | Day Seven. | Day Eight. | Day Nine.
Location is from the Snapshots mod by @rdekarios. Here we are, at the last day. Tomorrow I turn 27, and my girl turns... well, somewhere between 29 and 31. I want to say thank you. I know this was not interesting for everyone, but whoever followed along and appreciated the little stories or my VPs, I want you to know it meant everything to me. First thing, I think I improved my VP quality during this little event. Second, it got me to do something every single day, which was both a little nervewrecking and fun. Third, and most important one, it brought some joy to a rather depressing day for me.
Thank you for celebrating Deia with me. And by that extension, thank you for brightening my mood. Thank you to every kind soul that was there for me, especially in private. I'm glad to have met you all. And I'm glad I stumbled upon this game. Every companion means something to me, and I know Deia is in good hands now. Enjoy the last little snippet for a while, m?
By the tenth night, Deia has become suspicious of kindness. This is inconvenient, because kindness has been following her around for nine days with increasing organization, and most of it has Gale’s handwriting somewhere near the center. At first, she expects another note. A burst of blue light. A folded invitation. A line written in his careful hand, trying and failing to sound casual while clearly carrying the weight of three revised drafts. Instead, Karlach finds her after dinner and seizes both her hands.
“Come on.”
Deia looks down at their joined fingers, then up at her face.
“Is this abduction?”
“Group abduction.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It’s better. More witnesses.”
“Historically, witnesses have rarely improved a crime.”
Karlach beams.
“You’ll love it.”
Behind her, Wyll appears with the kind of expression that suggests he has been instructed to look innocent and has committed too fully to the role. Deia narrows her eyes.
“You too?”
“I am merely here to ensure you reach the destination with dignity.”
“Ah. So yes.”
“Yes,” he says, smiling. “Very much yes.”
They lead her toward the camp’s outer clearing, where lanterns and hovering lights have been strung between branches. The night is deep and gentle, the grass silvered by moonlight and star-glow. Someone has arranged tables with food and wine. Someone has placed cushions around the fire. Someone has brought too many candles, which points toward Gale with damning certainty. Someone brought the cake too, of course, as promised. Everyone is there.
Shadowheart sits near the table with a cup already in hand, wearing the serene look of a woman prepared to deny emotional involvement in any and all proceedings. Lae’zel stands beside her with her arms crossed, posture severe, though the githyanki clasp in Deia’s hair catches her eye and earns the faintest tilt of approval. Halsin tends the fire with easy calm. Astarion lounges near the edge of the light, dressed sharply enough to imply an insult toward everyone else’s effort. Scratch rests near his feet. The owlbear cub is half beneath the table, investigating a plate of pastries with criminal focus. And Gale stands a little apart from the others, watching Deia arrive. Deia slows. Karlach squeezes her hands once before letting go.
“Happy chosen birthday,” she says softly.
Deia’s throat tightens without permission.
“It is not midnight yet.”
“We know,” Wyll says. “That is why we are staying until it is.”
Astarion raises his cup.
“Some of us under protest.”
“You arrived first,” Shadowheart says.
“I wanted the best seat.”
“You chose the darkest corner.”
“Exactly.”
Deia looks around at them, at the lights, the food, the waiting fire, the faces turned toward her with varying levels of openness and discomfort. Her chest feels strangely crowded. Too much warmth. Too many hands reaching without demanding she call it a debt. Gale comes to her side. He does not touch her immediately. His eyes move over her face, reading with that careful devotion she has come to know too well.
“All right?” he asks quietly.
Deia lifts a brow.
“You have staged another event.”
“I contributed to a collective effort.”
“You made charts.”
“Only two for this one.”
“Gale.”
“One was an seating arrangement that Astarion immediately ruined.”
“I improved it,” Astarion calls.
“You moved your chair behind a tree.”
“Yes. Better.”
Deia laughs despite herself. Gale’s smile warms. He rests his hand at the small of her back, familiar and steady, then leans closer to murmur.
“Stay as long as you wish. Leave whenever you need. Tonight is yours.”
The words settle her more than she expects. She looks at him for a moment, then nods. The evening begins with food, which means it also begins with argument. Karlach insists the fried pastries are better with honey. Wyll argues for cinnamon. Shadowheart claims both are acceptable if the wine is good enough. Astarion says the wine is passable in the tone of someone who has already drunk two cups. Halsin quietly rescues a bowl from the owlbear cub. Lae’zel declares the pastries structurally weak and eats four. Deia watches them all with her chin propped on her hand.
“You are staring,” Gale says beside her.
“I am observing.”
“With the expression you wear when trying to decide whether something is dangerous.”
“It is.”
He glances across the camp, where Karlach is laughing so hard she nearly knocks over Wyll’s cup.
“The pastries?”
“The affection.”
Gale’s expression softens.
Deia points a warning finger at him.
“Do not become poetic.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I am exercising heroic restraint.”
“Continue.”
He presses a kiss to her temple and says nothing more. For a while, the night is easy. That alone feels miraculous. They talk over one another. They eat too much. Scratch performs a solemn parade around the fire with the ribboned stick from his day and receives applause from Karlach, Wyll, and Halsin. Astarion refuses to clap until Deia looks at him, at which point he sighs and gives three slow, insulting claps that Scratch accepts with pride. The owlbear cub attempts to sit on Lae’zel’s foot. Lae’zel looks down at him, then allows it with the air of a commander permitting troops to rest. Eventually, Wyll produces his lute. Deia eyes it.
“I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of a man about to request entertainment.”
“I would never be so crude,” Wyll says. “I was about to offer accompaniment.”
“Worse.”
Karlach leans forward.
“Come on, Dee. One song.”
Shadowheart lifts her cup.
“Only if she wants.”
Astarion tilts his head.
“Naturally. Though if she does want, I would prefer something with taste.”
Deia smiles sweetly.
“I know several funeral dirges.”
“For me? How touching.”
Halsin settles back near the fire.
“The night would welcome music.”
Lae’zel looks toward Deia.
“Your previous performances have been acceptable.”
Deia turns to Gale.
“Is that a compliment?”
“One of the highest she offers, I believe.”
Lae’zel does not deny it. Deia takes the lute from Wyll in the end, because she is weak to an audience that pretends it is not begging. She plays first for mockery, something bright and quick enough to make Karlach clap along. Then something old from Wyll’s book, the elven words still imperfect on her tongue but more familiar than they were ten days ago. Wyll joins her softly. His voice steadies the places where hers hesitates. Astarion watches without appearing to watch. Shadowheart looks into her cup and smiles. Halsin closes his eyes. Gale does not look away from Deia once.
The night inches toward midnight. Deia notices the others growing restless. Not restless from boredom. Restless from conspiracy. Karlach keeps glancing at Wyll. Wyll keeps glancing at Gale. Shadowheart looks smug. Astarion looks far too innocent. Halsin rises once and returns with something long and wrapped in dark cloth. Lae’zel moves closer to the fire as if taking her place in a ceremony. Deia stops mid-tune.
“What did you do?”
Gale says nothing. That is the most suspicious part. Deia looks at him. He only smiles.
“Gale.”
“Yes, my love?”
“What did you do?”
His eyes soften.
“Less than you think.”
Halsin steps forward and lays the wrapped object across the table. The camp quiets. For a heartbeat, Deia remains seated with Wyll’s lute across her lap, her fingers still resting lightly over the strings. Then she stands. The cloth is dark, almost black, tied with a thin silver cord. Deia unties it slowly. The cord slips loose. The fabric parts. A violin lies beneath.
The body is white crystal, shaped with impossible delicacy, yet its presence has weight and purpose. A faint blue sheen moves beneath the surface when the firelight touches it, like winter sky trapped in glass. Black accents curl along the edges and neck, sleek as ink. The strings shimmer pale, silvered and fine, while the bow rests beside it, dark-polished and balanced with a small crystal setting at its frog. For several breaths, Deia does not move. The instrument catches the light from every direction and returns it changed. Moon. Fire. Stars. Shadow. All of it held in one impossible shape. Deia’s voice comes softly.
“What is this?”
“A collective gift,” Wyll says.
She looks around at them. Karlach has both hands pressed over her mouth, practically vibrating. Shadowheart watches with feigned indifference that convinces no one. Astarion swirls his wine, eyes too sharp to be bored. Halsin’s expression is warm. Lae’zel stands straight as a blade. Gale watches Deia with his whole heart plain upon his face.
“You all…”
“Yes,” Shadowheart says. “Unfortunately.”
Karlach drops her hands.
“We all helped.”
Deia looks back down at the violin. Wyll steps closer first.
“I found the maker. Or rather, I found the maker’s daughter, who had inherited the old designs. The shape is based on elven crystalcraft.”
“A nightmare to commission,” Astarion adds. “Half the artisans in this city have no sense of drama.”
“You stole the black crystal,” Shadowheart says.
“I sourced it.”
“You stole it.”
“From a man with three indoor fountains and a portrait of himself as a winged lion. I would argue I restored balance to the world.”
Deia’s mouth twitches, but her eyes stay bright. Shadowheart nods toward the instrument.
“The moonstone inlay was my choice.”
“Purely aesthetic?” Deia asks.
“Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Halsin gestures to the bow.
“The wood comes from a fallen branch. Old, well-seasoned. The tree had already given it up.”
“I tested the balance. It is acceptable.” Lae’zel says.
“High praise,” Gale murmurs.
Lae’zel gives him a look.
“It could crack a skull if required.”
Wyll winces slightly.
“Preferably, it will sing before it does that.”
Karlach steps forward, eyes shining.
“I helped pay for it. And I carried it. And I didn’t drop it once.”
“That last part was repeatedly emphasized,” Astarion says.
“Because it matters.”
“It does,” Deia says quietly.
Karlach beams. Gale is the last to speak.
“The enchantment is mine,” he says. “Only resonance. Nothing that directs your magic. Nothing that interferes.”
His voice lowers, meant for her even though everyone hears it.
“It will answer what you give it.”
Deia reaches toward the violin, then stops just above it. Her fingers tremble. Gale sees. So does everyone else. Nobody says a word. That may be the kindest thing they do all night. Finally, Deia lifts the violin. It is cool beneath her hand, then warmer almost at once, as if it recognizes the shape of being held. The crystal feels sturdier than it looks. The instrument fits against her shoulder with startling ease. As though it has been waiting for the right body to complete it. She draws the bow up. Pauses.
“This is too much,” she says.
Lae’zel answers immediately.
“It is exactly enough.”
Deia looks at her. Lae’zel’s expression does not soften, but her gaze does.
“Accept the weapon.”
“It is a violin.”
“It may yet prove otherwise.”
A startled laugh breaks from Deia, and some of the pressure in her chest breaks with it. She settles the instrument beneath her chin. The first note is delicate. Clear. It rises through the camp like blue light drawn across water. Everyone stills. Even the owlbear cub stops chewing. Scratch lifts his head, ears perked, as the note trembles and opens into another.
Deia tests the strings at first, finding them carefully, learning their temper. The violin answers with a voice unlike any instrument she has played. Crystal-bright, but warm at the center. A second resonance hums beneath each note, faint and draconic, less heard than felt in the ribs.
Then the song begins. It is not one she knows. It gathers as she plays. A kitchen rhythm first, soft and quick, knife on board, soup hissing, Wyll’s voice beneath an old elven tale. The melody turns, and suddenly there is tavern heat, Karlach’s laugh, the stamp of dancing feet, a fiddle somewhere too loud and perfect. A darker phrase slips in after that, sly and silver, moving between gravestones with wine on its breath and a stolen dagger at its hip. Astarion looks away. Deia sees. She keeps playing.
The song widens into summer. Grass, candles, wild roses, a tree old enough to remember silence before sorrow. Then water follows, warm pools beneath moonlight, a fountain pouring silver beneath a goddess who finally feels less like a threat than a witness. The melody sharpens suddenly, blade-bright, bells in a ruined field, breath in cold dawn, the clean strike of steel against steel. Lae’zel’s chin lifts.
Then, impossibly, joy tumbles in. A stick thrown through grass. Scratch’s bright bark. The owlbear cub’s triumphant crash. Laughter knocked loose from a body that had forgotten how harmless a fall could be. Gale’s hand curls around his cup. The song changes again. Violet sky. Candles on stone. Ink in a garden book. Soil notes. Wisteria. Morning sun. A promise written in practical lines and trembling margins. Deia’s bow slows. Her eyes find Gale. His expression is open, aching, undone by the sound of himself made into music.
Then she plays all of them together. The melody rises, stronger now, threaded with every day they have given her. Wyll’s stories. Karlach’s arms. Astarion’s careful silence. Halsin’s flowers. Shadowheart’s chosen moonlight. Lae’zel’s fierce recognition. Scratch and the cub’s simple joy. Gale’s impossible, mortal, stubborn love. Midnight arrives while she is playing. No bell announces it. No spell marks it. The camp seems to know. The fire dips low, then flares brighter. The candles answer in little gold shivers. The stars lean close. Deia holds the final note until it thins into silence. For a long moment, nobody speaks. Then Karlach whispers.
“Happy birthday, Dee.”
The words break something gently. Wyll raises his cup.
“To Deia.”
Halsin follows.
“To the life she chose.”
Shadowheart lifts hers.
“And to the people fortunate enough to be chosen with it.”
Astarion sighs, though his voice is softer than his face pretends.
“To our aggressively beloved menace.”
Lae’zel raises her cup with battlefield gravity.
“To the day she claimed.”
Gale is last. He stands close enough that Deia can feel his warmth at her side.
“To the woman who made a home of all of us,” he says.
Deia lowers the violin. Her eyes sting. She looks at them. All of them. This impossible gathering of sharp edges and soft underbellies, heroes and liars and exiles and survivors, all standing in the firelight with cups raised to a birthday that no one had recorded, so they built one instead. A laugh catches in her throat, shaky and disbelieving.
“You are all terrible,” she says.
Astarion raises his cup higher.
“And yet?”
Deia looks down at the violin in her hands. White crystal. Blue sheen. Black accents. A voice given to her by every strange, stubborn creature who has loved her into this circle. Her mouth curves.
“And yet,” she says.
Karlach cheers first. Of course she does. Then the others join, some laughing, some clapping, Astarion with great suffering and Shadowheart with a smile she barely tries to hide. Scratch barks. The owlbear cub roars in miniature, pleased by the noise and unaware of its cause.
Deia lifts the violin again. This time, the song is faster. Brighter. It catches Karlach by the hands and drags her into motion. Wyll joins her, laughing when she spins too eagerly and nearly pulls him off balance. Halsin claps the rhythm. Shadowheart pretends she will remain seated for all of three breaths before Karlach drags her up too. Lae’zel refuses to dance, then performs three steps with such alarming precision that everyone wisely decides to call it a tactical maneuver. Astarion complains about the lack of refinement and then moves with infuriating grace when Deia deliberately changes the tempo to lure him in.
Gale stands beside her through it all. He watches the others dance. Watches the firelight catch on the gifts of the tenday. Watches Deia play with her hair falling around her face and her eyes bright, the crystal violin tucked beneath her chin as if it has always belonged there. When the song ends, she is breathless. Gale steps close.
“You made it sing beautifully,” he says.
His hand settles at her waist. She leans into him, only slightly. Enough. The celebration continues past midnight. Long past it. There is more wine. More music. A second round of pastries. An argument about whether Lae’zel dancing counts as dancing. Astarion steals the last piece of fruit from Karlach and nearly starts a diplomatic incident. Shadowheart falls asleep briefly against the side of Halsin’s chair and threatens everyone upon waking. Scratch curls at Deia’s feet. The owlbear cub eventually collapses beneath the table, full of crumbs and victory.
At some point, Deia sits with the crystal violin across her lap, one hand resting lightly over its strings. Gale sits beside her. Wyll on her other side. Karlach pressed close behind them, warm as a hearth. Shadowheart nearby. Astarion in the shadows, near enough to be included and far enough to pretend otherwise. Halsin tending the fire. Lae’zel standing watch with her cup in hand, though her eyes are calm.
Deia looks around. The night has grown quiet around the edges. The chosen birthday is here. It does not feel like a date on a calendar. It feels like this: crumbs on a table, candlewax on stone, laughter still lingering in the air, a white crystal violin warm beneath her fingers, and every person she loves close enough to hear her breathe. For once, Deia does not wonder whether she has earned it. She simply stays. And when Gale takes her hand under the table, she lets him. The fire burns down slowly. The stars remain. The song, once played, does not leave.
