What's your favorite headcanon?
When you’re a low level cleric, you have so little slots to cast that it’s not wise to spend them unless you are in true dire straits. Knowing this, Pike started out by caring for Grog and her new friends in the most frugal yet attentive way she could afford at the time. She always made sure that everyone who needed a potion had one, she constantly prayed for their safety, she would clean and bandage cuts while they took their short rest, and she made sure to stay on top of everyone’s unique health needs.
Scanlan’s was a particular case she was not familiar with until their first major fight together. Without his voice, he could not cast his powerful magic and the little man was unskilled with a weapon other than his own bare hands. He really only carried a sword by the insistence of the group and avoided wielding it whenever he could. He was good at keeping his distance from the worst of the fray, but when his voice cracked and faded from constant use, he was next to useless. Even spell-casting through his instruments could not remedy the situation. He had an affinity for wind instruments, which would still irritate his throat. As a result, there were some days in which the often informal and brash gnome would stand apart from the team in a defeated silence, forced to rest his voice until they found somewhere to sleep for the night.
So Pike took it upon herself to keep tea leaves in her component pouch just for him. Preparing, pouring and steeping tea turned out to be the most time consuming task among all the others in her short rest medical routine. But it was worth it for many reasons. Sure, she (alongside the entire team) knew just how important it was to have Scanlan backing them up. The effort was worth it just for his talent alone. But for Pike, there was also something about this process that brought her glee. Him being such an overacting buffoon most of the time, Pike would eventually learn what Scanlan’s genuine thankfulness looked like. With just his expressions to communicate and flirtatious eyebrow waggles only being tolerable for so long, Scanlan would ultimately take the tea from her hands; his eyes full of awe and a tinge of guilt— feeling undeserving of the trouble she went through just for him— but with a thankful smile in the end. “Is it good,” she would ask, and he would nod enthusiastically before taking another sip. What a sight to behold. Her first glimpse into the man under the mask. And she already liked what she saw.
Almost each and every time, it was the same thing. She would brew without a second thought, he would take his unworthy stance, she would insist, and he would falter to her kindness. With each gulp of tea, he would throw his head back and let the warmth pool over the back of his throat before swallowing with a satisfied sigh. Pike would laugh. Too adorable for words, she often thought. Sometimes she would even join him in the silence and bask in his gentle gratitude whenever she accidentally [on purpose] made enough tea to spare a cup for herself.
Years after their adventuring slowed to a crawl so they could settle into married life, this tradition persisted. Pike could now fetch fresh tea leaves from the garden Wilhand had grown long ago for their sustenance. She would crisp and prepare them herself and head to the music room with two steeped and steaming cups. Every time she entered, Scanlan would immediately set down his instrument or book, no matter the circumstance. When he’d see the tray in her hands, they would exchange knowing looks, sit across from each other and sip their tea in absolute silence. “Is it good,” she would ask, and he would smile and nod.
Pike laughed one day and teased, “You know you can talk now, right?”
Scanlan returned a mirthful chuckle and whispered, “I like it this way…”
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