LOVE, HATE, SACRIFICE, POWER: THRESHOLD

Moderators: Forum Moderators, Active DMs

Post Reply
User avatar
Paint
Posts: 299
Joined: Mon Jan 13, 2020 5:01 pm

LOVE, HATE, SACRIFICE, POWER: THRESHOLD

Post by Paint » Sun May 07, 2023 1:55 am

This is a story about a fat mercenary named Mick. And more seriously, the end of Aesyvaari.

While this can maybe(?) go in IC stories, the story is firstly, not in-character, and it uses devices that make it fairly dubious to call it canon for Arelith, even if the character the story is about doesn't come back with anything particularly fantastical. This is a sort of off-island sequel to the series of events that drove Ester mad, which you can read in Ester is an Idiot -- an actual ingame book in several libraries throughout the module that recounts the spontaneous formation of Aesyvaari. It's pretty necessary for this, since it provides context that makes any of this make sense. It doesn't help that I wrote this in two days in a frenzy. It's about? 10,000 words, putting it just at the bottom end of the length of a novella? I think it reads a little easier than that, though.

I'm not really an avid writer these days, and in the past, I did litfic. You can probably tell that from my writing, but I think that the narrative devices I used and the story structure carries the piece all the same. Enjoy.

I.

Stepping off the planks onto cold slick cobble that reflects a bleary grey sky, Ester sets her gaze on a familiar sight -- the sprawling docks of Waterdeep. The mouth of the merchant city is a multicultural hub all on its own; muttering Illuskans with shoulders squared beneath fur pelts and a mere flash away from drawing the daunting weaponry that rests upon their backs, a Calimshite aristocrat puffing on a pipe, producing lavender-scented smoke and shuffling along with an incredulously large cohort, an eager arcanist bearing a forehead dot and robed in lavish white silk, with several staves bundled tight against his back by a leather thong and buckle, a motley gang of mercenaries in garish, patchwork clothes and mismatched pieces of dented armor stumbling along with a raucous and dangerous mirth. Shifting crowds of people that seem to ebb and flow just like the tides. Despite visiting family here on the regular, and despite once working the docks in another port city -- Athkatla -- Ester always struggles with the crowds in Waterdeep; they feel more refined, mature, and cunning in a way, and with such foul creatures lurking so close to the surface of Waterdeep, far more imperiling.

Even so, she does what she usually does when she hops off the docks from Arelith: She gives whatever dock foreman is loitering around a, 'Cheers, eh?' a few gestures, and then unceremoniously heads off to the nearest pub to acquire a pint. Wading through a few bustling crowds and occasionally glancing up at the overcast sky to check if it's raining yet, and she finds herself at the threshold of a pub that wasn't here last year and probably won't be here next year -- The Bastard's Bones. The fragrance that coils out from its doors is pungent, oily, and somehow, surly. The ruckus that accompanies it promises walls packed with freshly chipped shoulders and crusty old men.

An alcoholic, naturally, she's not -supposed- to drink, but when has that ever stopped her? Doors breached, bartop located, Ester hardly registers the rest of the place before she boosts herself up onto the nearest stool, tosses a few lions on the counter and mumbles, "Gimme somethin' weak, eh? I've got family to visit. Canny show up pissed out of me brains, aye?" Wordlessly, a balding bartender approaches shaking his head, then provides a wry smile, palms the coins off the counter, and provides the halfling with a glass mug filled proper with a dark, syrupy brew. "Cheers," Ester mumbles. She stares at her mug, blinks, then hefts it, pulls down a few swallows, takes a breath, and sets her eyes upon the rickety wooden ceiling. Footsteps above cause the wooden cross braces to warp -- not particularly encouraging.

Tucked into one of the far corners of the pub lurks a few mercenary-types. One of them -- bald, portly, scruffy beard, chest bared, esoteric tattoos across his collarbone -- sets his eyes on Ester, palm flat against the wooden table he's leaning on, fondling a silver coin with his other hand. He cranes his neck to the side and mutters something silently to his companions. A chuckle is shared. Then, he stands himself up properly from the table with a creak and ambles over, nudging a few chairs out of the way with his foot. His hand slaps to the counter a few stools away from Ester. Then, he hooks a thumb towards her, eyes set on the balding bartender, and states simply, "I got 'er next, if it's the same wiv you, Chuck." Then, he pulls out a stool, sits on it, causing the flimsy wooden thing to whine in protest, and clears his throat. Ester glances towards him slowly, squinting, and takes a cautious, slow slip of her drink.

"An' who says I'm gettin' a next?" she inquires.

A fat palm turns upwards and rises. "Yore not a new face, lady. Seen you around 'afore." His broad lips spread, slanted teeth visible. "You can call me Mick, uh?"

Ester swivels around, leaning her elbow on the counter. It's a bit awkward at her height, even with the help of the stool. "Aye then, Mick... What business do ye have with me?"

His hands clap together with a loud, flat noise, he takes a breath, turns his chin up, raises his brow, and then answers, "How do you like yore tea, eh? Like mine wiv a bit of milk in it."

The answer -- pure nonsense to anyone else -- strikes a chord with Ester. The halfling's eyes fall half-lidded and irritation rises in her throat with a grumble. She raises a finger towards the balding bartender. "...Another bleedin' mug after this then, eh? If this lad's payin' fer it." Ester takes a breath, then nods. "Spill it."

Mick nods. "Been here last year, uh?"

"Aye."

"Sought 'ealin', uh?"

"Aye."

"You get it?"

"Nae." The halfling furrows her brow, pounding down the rest of her drink before groping towards the next. She turns back towards the counter, elbow still pressed to it. Her shoulders hunch, and she hides behind them as best she can, eyes filled with suspicion. "Someone holdin' it against me lad, or were ye just curious?"

Mick leans around the counter, tilting his head to the side to meet Ester's gaze. "Yeh. Someone's got some beef wiv you about it. Mister Takeman s'what 'e calls 'imselv. 'eard of im?"

"Nae. Should I?"

"Don't matter to me. Finish yore drink." Mick tosses a few coins on the counter. "We're goin on a walk." To drive his point home, the portly mercenary reaches around his side, unhooks a dagger from his belt, and gently places it on the counter, tapping the crossguard a couple of times with a substantial finger. For a moment, the balding bartender, currently busy with another customer, glances over with some concern, but Mick gives him a wink and a mercantile smile, and the bartender relents.

"...This Takeman. Told ye about me, aye?"

"Didn't. Haven’t spoken to him myselv, honest. But 'e didn't have to. Not afraid of you little lady. You won't do any of yore ruddy finger wigglin 'ere, I'm sure of it." Definitely sure of himself. Mick thumps his collarbone with splayed fingers and proudly grins to Ester, still leaning across the counter so the poor halfling can't avoid his cheerful gaze. "Wouldn't be very noble of you to," he states. The implication is clear enough.

"Well yer right," she concedes with clear irritation in her voice. "I come here maybe twice pikin' a year an' I've already got this much of a reputation, aye?" The halfling simmers into her second mug. What's one more? Today's clearly not going to be an enjoyable one.

"Money's got a reputation, little lady. And yore family's got money, don't they? My people? We pay attention to money." Mercenary to the end, Mick turns his chin up towards his companions in that corner nook. They begin wordlessly downing their drinks and collecting their things, exchanging almost excited grins. "S'just a little walk anyways. Ain't gonna hurt'cha. Whatever mister Takeman wants to do wiv you is 'is business, innit?" Sensing Ester's begrudging compliance, the mercenary scoops his dagger from the counter, puts it back in its place, then gestures towards the threshold.

II.

Along the great barrier between the trees and the vast plains, Aesyvaari wanders, eyes forward and empty, expressionless and stoic. In a trance. The wind is a loud hiss, branches and grass bowing to its passage. The skies are a bleak grey, dotted with faint, smothered stars. There was something she protected here once, but for the life of her, she can't remember what it is. Her footsteps are soft, accompanied by the chime of clattering silver that dangles from her neck and the jagged antlers sprouting from either side of her skull. Unable to leave this thin trail, when Aesyvaari looks across the plains, or deep into the forest, an impassable barrier that reflects the green of her eyes crystallizes and stares back at her.

Gripped tightly in one hand, bowstring pressed to her forearm, is a coiling shortbow of ivory and silver. Her wrist is adorned with red petals from a peony flower, laced together with thin morning glory vines. Wreathed in flowing white gauze, golden chains, and leather sandals that coil her calves. In this place at least, the woman cuts an imposing silhouette; nearly six feet tall, wiry, and sharp with squared shoulders. She sports a wild mane of unkempt orange-red hair with brilliant white streaks running through it.

This is, as always, as she has seen herself. Though when she 'shares,' with Ester, she finds herself staring back at Ester's face instead. Long has Aesyvaari accepted this reality. After all, many people don't get to be who they want to really be, and to seek such change for the sake of vanity would be a fairly selfish endeavor. Especially if it came at the cost of Ester's life. But Aes would be lying if she said it didn't bother her. It's easy to forget the trail and stare at herself like this for a while. Wonder at what could be. But, the trail awaits. And so, Aesyvaari wanders.

The sky seems to shift with every step she takes -- slowly but surely night rolls away, gives purchase to dawn, and summarily subsumes it once more in the eternal stride. The wind never stops, the clouds never quite part, and the dense treeline never seems to lighten. And though the barrier prevents her from passing into it, Aesyvaari's stomach tightens occasionally, when she wonders if the things that lurk behind the treeline are similarly halted. She's never seen any of them, of course. Never heard any of them either. But -- she knows they're there. Somehow. This is a rhythm that Aes is used to, and not many things break it except for when she surfaces in Ester's mind once more. It's as if this whole place becomes oblivion -- a brief, muddy memory of a distant dream.
Except -- something else is breaking that rhythm now. A signpost. A signpost? There's never anything along the edge of the forest. Confused, Aesyvaari hustles along the trail towards it, stopping in front of it to squint at it, bemused. The signpost points towards the plain. Carved across it is a single word: "OUT." Aesyvaari looks over the plain, then back to the sign. Hesitantly, she raises a hand towards the barrier and pushes towards it, only for her hand to face no resistance. She steps forward, hand still out, and shoves again. Then, the woman stammers, and for the first time in awhile, speaks in this space; "A-alright, sign. What gives?" Does she really expect an answer? No. But, she wants an answer. So, Aesyvaari looks back toward the forest, flinches when she thinks about what could be inside, then steps out into the plain away from the thin line separating the two. The natural impulse to nock an arrow finds one from the quiver at her hip quickly, and she strides warily, feet brushing aside the tall grass.

Aesyvaari wanders like this for a while, bow half-relaxed, arrow resting against it, shoulders hunched. Her expression remains a perplexed frown as she reaches the peak of a hill and then another. As she looks back, somehow, she can still see the treeline, growing distant as it is. The desire to return to the dividing space grows -- some fear of the great unknown begins to overcome her. But just as the fear starts to tighten her veins, she spots it as she reaches the top of yet another rolling hill and looks down it into the slumping valley below: Flickering torchlights are held aloft by humanoid figures whose eyes are fixed on Aes. One of which, she recognizes -- a bespectacled red-haired woman who looks a lot like Ester but significantly taller, and maybe there's a pattern to examine there. The rest of the figures are wearing wooden masks that obscure their features aside from aforementioned eyes; coiling tattoos upon them are erratically written sylvan runes. They seem to warp when Aes tries to read them -- at least from all the way up here. So she uh, goes down there. A few haphazard trots down the slope later, and she finds herself right in front of the group, bathed in the orange torchlight.

"Bookkeeper," Aesyvaari greets. "I thought you disappeared after I uh, did that thing."

"That thing," The Bookkeeper repeats with an amused lilt. "You mean cheating fey out of a deal that almost entirely benefitted you?" The bespectacled woman gives a quirky smile and turns her free palm up. "I did. And I'd lecture you about how disappointing it was that you broke our pact, but." A pause. "I know you."

"Well," Aesyvaari starts. The wind whips up harshly, grass flinching to the side. The smothered stars above intensify for a short moment, and Aesyvaari's brow knits. She folds her arms across her chest, jewelry clinking. "What can I say? I love Ester. It wasn't right to keep her locked up like that."

"You had a chance at a real life, Aes. Now here you are, with Ester again, circling the drain. Does it feel right?"

"It's her body anyways. I've always just been a passenger in her head," Aes quickly responds with a frown.

The Bookkeeper stares at Aes silently, smile still fixed on her lips. There's no amusement in her eyes.

"She kept waking up and causing trouble! What was I supposed to do?!"

Silence. The Bookkeeper shifts her weight from one heel to the other.

"You can't just expect me to go through life without her, do you? I need her!"

Deafening silence. No wind. No rustling of grass.

"This isn't the LIFE I wanted!" Aes yells hoarsely, lip trembling. "Why am I expected to make the best of it? All the godsdamned magic on Toril and nothing can be done?!" She reaches up and grabs at her own antler in anxious frustration, gnawing her lip. "Why couldn't we just be separated?"

The Bookkeeper reaches out and grasps Aesyvaari by the chin. At first, Aesyvaari tries to resist, but as her eyes meet the mirthless gaze of the Bookkeeper, she relents. "Because, you dope. You're the same person. You're a mangled soul. You know that. I know that. There is no Aesyvaari and Ester. There's just you. Trying to escape yourself. And, well," she chuckles coyly, "It really isn't working, is it?"

Aesyvaari's jaw quivers and she purses her lips. She glowers at The Bookkeeper. "Why are you doing this right now? I'm supposed to be on vacation."

The bespectacled fey's mirth returns. She releases Aesyvaari's chin and adjusts her glasses. "I wish I could save you, Aes. But the best I could do would be a cheap lie. But don't worry. Mister Takeman is going to fix this. In the meantime, why don't you tell me some stories? You must have a few fun tales from Arelith, no?"

III.

Considering the implicit threat of violence, as the pack winds through the narrow streets and back alleys of Waterdeep, Ester gets along with Mick and his gang pretty well. She prattles on about some old stories from Arelith involving a healthy contempt of elves and elven activities. Her complaints get some encouraging chuckles from the human entourage, who in turn share some fairly bigoted stories. And while the fairly flimsy nature of their casual contempt seems to be all but on the tips of their tongues, they enjoy the elf-bashing while it lasts. Then, along one narrow curve leading through a back alley with more than a few precariously open doors, cobbles littered with all sorts of unscrupulous rubbish, they slow. The overcast sky makes it next to impossible to peer through any thresholds. Mick raises his forearm to the chest of one of his comrades and halts the ensemble with sharp eyes. "I fink this is around the spot. Bit awkward 'ere though, innit? This would be easier if I 'ad any idea what Mister Takeman looked like."

One of the mercenaries responds, "Aye? And what of it, Mick?" He jerks a dagger from its holster and holds the pommel fast to his palm presenting it. "Anyone stupid enough to get in the business of a buncha half-drunk mercs gets whats comin' to them, eh?"

Mick seems unconvinced. He opens his mouth to respond, until Ester lifts a finger towards one of the doors and bobs it a couple of times. "Aye, five of 'em. Hidin' o'er there. Dunnae why, honest," she mumbles. Her eyes briefly glimmer with a soft purple light.

The substantial man squints down to the halfling. "'fought I told you no ruddy finger wigglin'." All the same, he grasps for the handle of a scimitar and pulls it loose from his hip, then the dagger. He holds it curiously, thumb pressed to the curved crossguard and the pommel resting squarely in his palm. He clears his throat, then announces loudly, "Oi, you lot. Been made, innit? Shuffle out, hands up an' we can have a conversation. Else, the boys n' I are goin' over there wiv blades out ready to draw blood, uh?"

Distant cursing, a few windows slam shut. Wreathed in flowing black robes contrasted against similarly black leather underneath from the neck down is a slender, pale elf -- probably a moon elf. As he moves, his steps produce no sound. Fingers splayed wide out to his sides, slightly curled. Though no weapons can be seen upon his person, it's almost entirely evident that he has more than a few stashed away. He wears an understandably annoyed expression. "Alae, humans," he mutters in a fairly sarcastic tone. A few more elves in similar garb follow out behind him -- one clutching a faintly glimmering silver staff that she seems to refuse to part with.

"Cheers, guv. But ain't this convenient, uh? Here we are trashin' elves the 'ole way 'ere an' what do we run into? Want the halflin', don't you?"

"Hin," Ester corrects.

"Pike off," Mick retorts, casting a hand towards the halfling. Ester sulks, but she decides to stay quiet, folding her arms while she intently studies the elf. "Righ' anyway. Sorry, lads. The lass is ours. An' don't fink we aren't worth our salt, uh? I've gagged more than a few spellspeakers before," he insists, jabbing the point of his dagger towards the staff-wielding elf. "Got names?"
The leader of the elves draws breath, lets his shoulders slouch, and replies, "You can call me Erethian Brookstrider. The 'spellspeaker,' to my side is-"

"Moonfell," she interjects. Adding tersely, but almost proudly, "I picked it myself. And I am not just a 'spellspeaker.' I have mastered the arcane in ways you could scarce comprehend. Before you even have a -chance- to draw close enough to 'gag' me, as you sa-"
Erethian places a hand on Moonfell's shoulder and gives it a shake. "By Corellon, that is enough, cousin. Mercenaries, known for their lack of civility, certainly aren't known for their lack of love for coin. We can settle this." Moonfell wrinkles her nose, displeased, but follows Erethian's lead all the same. He bobs a finger towards Ester. "This one has crimes to answer for. Her family, too. Brazen insults against Tel'Quessir, petty violence, vicious rumor mongering. I would pay you a purse to entrust her to our custody, sellsword."

Mick laughs heartily. "If you want to hire us after this lass is done wiv mister Takeman, I'd be happy to lend our services 'untin' 'er down, uh? Until then, you keep your bloomin' mitts off of 'er. I've a reputation to keep. An if I break my word every time someone else's coin comes around, I'd-"

The elf rummages around in his things, provoking Mick and the mercenaries to tense. But with half-lidded eyes and an unamused expression, he turns a small black pouch out onto his open palm. Slowly, pieces of pressed platinum and small gems spill out and clatter, clearly visible, forming a sizable mound. The jewels and coin glimmer with an attractive luster as they shift around against the elf's gloved fingers. Very enticing.

"Suppose I could make an exception or two,” Mick mumbles, entranced. "Could pay for a lot of 'fings, a trove like that." His inferiors mutter amongst themselves, seeming to agree. The sizable man opens his mouth to speak, but Ester, in turn, lifts a finger.
"S'fake ye idiots," the halfling claims. Erethian's brow twitches. Moonfell turns off to the side.

"You'd accuse me of impropriety? Really, do you see, sellsword? This halfling's a career criminal. The ruthless slander my people have to put up with," Erethian laments in a tone somehow devoid of and filled with passion at once. "You would be doing all of Waterdeep a service entrusting her punishment to me."

Mick considers, then sniffs. He looks down -- pretty far -- towards Ester, then up towards the coin in Erethian's palm. "Prove it," he challenges the halfling.

Ester takes a few casual steps forward. The elves reach for their armaments. "Not another step," Erethian demands. "We know what you're capable of, halfling."

"Firstly, ye lot. It's hin. An' I don't want to get into the social implications of callin' an entire very proud race of people halfling all the bleedin' time right now, but I swear, the lot of ye- Oh whatever." Ester flicks her wrist and speaks a few draconic syllables. As she does, her eyes flash a bright blue, and a bolt of crackling magic leaps from the tips of her fingers. Erethian yelps and closes his palm, but a moment too late. As a wave of eroding energy courses across the treasures in the elf's palm, their true forms are revealed: Buttons, bits of clay, and Inferior Copper.

The elf bares his teeth, clenches his fist tightly, and then growls. Clay dust falls from his grasp. "This could have been easy, sellswords. I am not leaving without that -halfling-," he emphasizes.

"Time to earn yore pay, uh?" Both groups ready themselves. Mick shoots Ester a glare. "Don't you go anywhere, little lady." Ester gives the big lad a wide, innocent grin.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she lies in a lying way that would suggest that she is lying. Narrowing his eyes, Mick, who is getting used to being cut off at this point, is unceremoniously cut off by a bright flash and a bolt leaping from Moonfell's staff. Excited that her spell hit, the elf lets out a noise that can be described as audible and disappointing. As the energy washes over him in a milky white pulse of static it leaves a scorch mark on his bared chest. He grits his teeth and a fury comes across his features. Seeming to forget to threaten Ester entirely, Mick lets out a truly profane litany of violent curses, rallying his men, and storming off towards the elves with his cohort in tow, scimitar raised and swinging.

An elf is socked in the jaw and stumbles back into the hewn stone wall behind him. A ragged mercenary finds a dagger sliding up between his ribs. Mick headbutts Moonfell with a crunch so loud that even the miserably sarcastic Erethian lets out an empathetic, "Ooh," and cringes before bringing his knee into the chest of one of Mick's companions, next, a shoulder, then summarily sweeps them off of their feet. For a moment, Ester watches the confusing melee with awe. It -is- a after all, a little flattering that so many people are fighting over -her-, even if the purpose is mainly who gets to profit off of her. Then, after she's seen Mick shotput enough elves into one another and enough blood spilled, she takes a breath and incants. Moonfell notices immediately, even sporting her Brand New concussion, and raises a hand herself, reciting her own spell with quivering vocalization. "I know how to counter this one!" Moonfell insists excitedly. "Or wait was it-"

"How many -unff- times do I have to tell you: No bleedin' finger wigglin!" Mick yells back, bracing against a hidden dagger of Erethian's with his own in a surprising struggle of might. "How much muscle can you pack into that -ngh- tiny little stringbean body of yores, you knife-eared-"

Ethereal green vines quickly sprout from Ester's fingertips, solidifying in midair as a true, coiling plant matter across the raucous brawl. Immediately, the slithering tendrils coil around the limbs of the various belligerents, halting the lot of them. The halfling turns her head aside, claps a hand across her chest, clicks her heels together, and raises her other hand skyward, palm facing herself as a rude gesture before turning heel and bolting off down the alleyway. Mick lets out an angry cry as he rips vines off of his shoulders, and the elven leader Erethian elegantly spouts vitriol from the privileged venue of Mick's chest hair, inconveniently tied up a little too close to the mercenary. Somehow, Ester feels a bit bad for abandoning Mick. It's hard to live the sellsword life, and his boys aren't going to be happy to lose their lunch money, but she'd prefer -not- to face any sort of judgment today.

Skidding around a corner, her boot raking against the grit on the stones beneath her heel, Ester looks forward, seeing a busy street just ahead. She stumbles, then runs forth, huffing and puffing while her various satchels jingle against her hips. Everything seems fine until her foot snags on something. "Eh-" is all she manages to get out before she falls forward and lands flat on her front, hands clapping loudly against the ground. She tries to look back before a boot forces itself into her spine and against the stones. "Piking hell!" she cries out. "Ye could stand to be a LITTLE MORE GENTLE?! WHOEVER YE ARE?!" When Ester finally gets enough of a moment to look up, she sees yet -another- elf -- a frustratingly frequent occurrence today. Except -- something is off. As she meets the eyes of what appears at first to be a pale-skinned elf with long black hair and a tired smile, she sees another face superimposed atop his own -- somehow entirely too real and impossibly ethereal at once. It shuts her up quickly enough. The halfling's tense body relaxes, features once again dissolving into defeat. "...If yer lookin' fer Aes, ye got the wrong one, sidhe."

"Not quite a sidhe, darling, but close enough," he hums. "You can call me Mister Brisk Takeman. And I'll be happy to deal with you. You've broken a lot of hearts with your cruel spurning. Though, before I get to work, I have to ask. Are you still a nihilist, dear Esterhaven?"

The halfling blows a bang of hair out of her eyes miserably, then huffs out her nose. "Unless yer keen on buyin' me a drink, mister Takeman -- and getting yer boot off my bleedin' back -- I'm not going tae be too eager to express my thoughts and opinions to ye."
Brisk turns his palms up and lifts his shoulders, angling his chin off to one side. "This is going to be a long talk, isn't it?"

IV.

Voices;

"A damnsed Sharran!? Ester?! Says WHO?"

"N-no. They just -think- she's you know, I don't know. Prime. Prime material for it. Lost her faith or something. I'm working on it."

"I can't keep doing this. It seems like something new is wrong with that hin every week."

"You're a self-destructive mess, Ester. Every time someone reaches out to help you, you burn them. How many people can you wound before you run out of people to love you?"

"I thought I told you to get rid of that letter. Nothing good is going to come out of thinking about that -murderer-."

"I'm trying my best to rely on you, Aes. But you're letting me down, and we're in the middle of a conflict here. I need you to step up or step out of the way."

"That thing you call a friend, Ester? She's eating you alive. You need to get rid of her before it's too late. The more you two circle the drain, the further out of balance you'll become."

"You tricked me! You're not Ester. You're not my friend. I don't know you. Stay away from me."

Memories;

Ester slicks her hair back, only then realizing that she's just smeared the blood of an orc across her forehead. Hot dunes. The thump of distant war drums. Someone that could, by some stretch of the word, be called an elf, bends down, then reaches out with a crimson-scaled hand and wipes across Ester's brow with her thumb. "You're a mess," she chuckles. The halfling grumbles, agreeing in muttered speech as she hefts a war axe that is -clearly- too big for her against her shoulder. When she swings it, it nearly lifts her on her feet. But -- she's having fun.

Aesyvaari throws a bottle across the living room of her burrow with a frustrated cry. It smashes into the far wall, a shower of glass washing over the coat rack, forever coating it in shame and temporarily coating it in razor-sharp shards of glass. The halfling, in a furious huff, curses Ester's name, stumbling drunk, trying to get a grip on herself as she gropes around the pouches on her person for something to cure her dizzy state. Why does Ester always leave her with the tail-end of these stupors? Forcing her to -exist- so that Ester can avoid the consequences of her own stupid habits? If Ester had an ounce of respect for her...

Midnight, crickets chirping, a stream churning. Ester is down on one knee, holding a carved and runed sword above her head with both hands as an offering to a somewhat amused, and somewhat shocked halfling. Her face, however, is blurry. "I offer this blade tae ye, lass. As is traditional for my clan, aye?" she starts. "I want to live the rest of my life with ye. And so, I ask ye to judge my worthiness with this sword. Here an' now." The other halfling takes the sword and chuckles. She lines it up against Ester's neck, as if she might take a golf swing, and Ester huffs. "Oi! It's ceremonial. Yer not actually supposed t' consider it!" she protests. Both women erupt into uproarious laughter and the other throws the sword over her shoulder, commenting on how cute it is. "Careful wi' callin' that cute. I had the former bleedin' commander of the hawk'in forge that with his own hands."

"Yes, of course," she says. "I love you, Ester. And I-" The halfling glances back towards the shadows and a large creature lurking within the shade of the nearby treeline. "I really think we should deal with that before we examine this -very- insane courting ritual you just put me through. Like. What is -wrong- with your clan?" she mutters, trudging off to meet the stalking predator with a measurable nonchalance.

A silver sword rests across Aesyvaari's shoulder. A hand is raised towards the ceiling of this borrowed space, deep within the heart of a halfling village's sacred temple. Around her, a swirling tapestry of runes, flickering torchlights, the hum of arcane energy. Her hair whips around, clothes seem to lift of their own accord. A smell, not unlike ozone, fills the air. The blood of fell creatures smeared across planks, mingling with glimmering dusts of gems and flat-pressed bars of gold, silver, and copper, forming a crossroads to invite a visit of the fey. Not to beg for a deal, no, but to cruelly sever a deal already made, and to avoid the consequences. To one side of her ritual, another halfling, beautiful in his own right, and with long white hair, incants. To the other, an aging dwarf, upon whose nose rests fine gold spectacles. Their faces are a blur -- as if they're hardly real at all. But behind her, a hooded halfling looks on with concern. And though she can hardly see his face at all, she remembers every detail clearly. His teeth are grit, his daggers ready for action. His shoulders are squared. She wants to tell him not to worry, but the words spilling out of her mouth are yet another way to deal with problems Ester has created. She can't stop, even for a moment. A barrier between realms grows thin as the ritual reaches its summation. Aes abruptly stops her own chanting. The halfling sees what she's been waiting for -- sees what only she can. She grips the hilt of the silver sword tight, digs her heels into the ground, and whips her entire body around in a single cleaving motion. A thunderous bang erupts across the room, sending the dust scattering, the blood rolling across the floorboards, and extinguishes each and every torch. The dwarf sits himself up and chuckles heartily. The white-haired halfling sighs in relief. And the hooded halfling finally relaxes and sheathes his daggers. A pit forms in Aesyvaari's stomach as she realizes the weight of what she has done. The deal she has cheated the fey out of. She has stolen youth and failed to uphold her end of the bargain. But Ester -- but that damned halfling. She needs Aes. Clearly. "I'm going to need a ward," she states. "Something to prevent the fey from coming after me. At least for a little while. I'm sure they'll stop eventually, right?" In the corner of the room, a bespectacled shade frowns and turns away, shaking her head.

"Can the lot of ye pike off?" the halfling says with a wide grin, snorting and snickering. Once more, a dark sky overhead. The chirping of yet more crickets, and the churning of yet more water -- a river that cuts through the entire village. "Gods, a lass canny knock on another lass's door in this day and age without attractin' the whole bleedin' town, eh?" Ester rocks on her heels back and forth before a large -- relatively -- round wooden door -- the threshold to a burrow. Atop a cliff overlooking a few burrows, a few halflings look down towards Esterhaven who is dressed up in a fancy ensemble; gold and silver, custom-tailored green and white clothing that takes advantage of her figure. They're cheering her on in a sort of playfully mocking way. "Feh, I swear. I fancy anyone in this town and the whole bleedin' rumor mill starts up." She sticks her tongue out and shakes a fist up to them, then finally, flicks the pin on her vest. "Ye keep this up, and I'll find reasons to make ye lot do some paperwork, eh?" At the threat, several of the halflings gasp, then scatter. Those that remain -- the more obstinate hecklers -- prepare for another volley of teasing, only for the door to swing open. Ester squints up to the lot of them with a look of victory on her impish face, disappearing into the dark.

"I'm NOT going to stab you, father!" Aesyvaari insists in a chorus of voices while a blonde-haired and bearded man wreathed in red and white tiredly offers her a thin stiletto. Despite her protests, he taps a spot on his chest just below his collarbone a couple of times. Around them, tomes and loose pages swirl. Arcane runes dance between them. As they exchange stares, she realizes just how serious he is. "If you make me do this, I am never going to forgive you." The man simply smiles. Her lips curl with horror, and Aesyvaari lets out a desperate whine. For a moment, she hesitates, but she's acutely aware that time is short. She plunges the dagger into her father's chest. Her eyes flash with heat and the tears start immediately, uncontrollably. Another ritual to stave off the monster. It has to be done, of course. It's the only way to save Ester. From herself. It's the only way to save her from herself again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Save her again. SAVE. HER. AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAI-

Faith and Purpose;

"You've lacked both for awhile," the Bookkeeper states, looking Aesyvaari square in the eyes. Her companions encircle the antlered woman to keep her in place. One gently takes the bow from her hands. Another, the quiver from her hip. Aesyvaari doesn't so much let them as she does decide it isn't worth fighting them. "So many good memories. So many fun stories. So many burdens beared and passions pursued. But all swallowed up by a miasma of doubt and loathing. You have been chasing your tail from the moment you began to exist. In you heart, you know the truth..."

"You are an illness," Brisk states to Ester, balancing a knife upon his index finger. He glances out the nearby window on occasion. Half-heartedly, the halfling struggles against the rope binding her to some plush old cushioned chair. She, too, looks out the window. Long enough to see Mick and his gang charge right past it -- evidently looking for her. She chews on the gag currently in her mouth, struggling to spit it out. The fey gives Ester a pained, empathetic smile. "You're killing the part of yourself that loves with your destructive behavior. Your loathing. How long can you keep this up?"

"I was on the mend," Aesyvaari mumbles to the bookkeeper, swatting the fey's hand away from her and leering. She leans forward, as if to gain some sort of ground. "Ester and I -- we hit our stride, you know. We had a good rhythm for awhile. I just -- Could all of you stop crowding me for a moment? Really,"

Ester finally manages to spit out her gag and squints at Brisk Takeman. "Is all of this even bleedin' necessary? I swear. Don't ye have some sort of place set up where we can, I dunno. Talk in peace without ye hiding from rampaging elves and hungry sellswords? Or I dunnae. Maybe just -pay- Mick? Clearly ye got me! Besides. For yer information, my relationship wi' Aes isn't like that. We make eachother better, ye know. I benefit from 'er just as much as she benefits from me. I just wanted tae sleep fer awhile is all. I wanted tae give her a chance to be herself."

"And how has that worked out for you, Aes? Do you feel satisfied with your life right now?" The Bookkeeper adjusts her glasses, gesturing for her friends to finally distance themselves from Aesyvaari a bit. They retreat against the tall grass, but their eyes remain fixed on her. "I get the feeling you don't. I see the way you look at yourself through Ester's eyes. I know you think about what you could be. What you think you -deserve- to be. You can't possibly..."

"Be fine with living half of a life. Having half of your experiences truncated. Even if your plan to simply fall asleep and allow Aesyvaari to take control worked, my hinnish friend..." Brisk Takeman gently lifts Ester by the chin. His shifting faces both smile at her once more -- that same sad smile. "You would still have only delayed the same conflict. And in the meantime, you have become a festering wound. A bitter nihilist. We've been watching you. Even while you try to keep us out. And oh, we noticed how the talents you used to use to call upon the natural world for aid slowly devolved into stealing from it. The blight your footfalls leave. It's impressive and unfortunately, deeply painful to see you abuse a talent so well."

"So what is this? A lecture? What are you planning to do to me?" Aes asks, folding her arms across her chest as she darts her eyes around. Far behind, she sees the very edge of the expansive forest. "Nothing is going to change her, and maybe she's not so wrong about the nature of our existence. We're just playthings for the gods. To live, to die, and to slowly dissolve into the ether, having suffered truly, but never knowing true suffrage. And here I am, a freak-accident. But yet I think. I desire. I need. And you would call -us- unreal. You would insist that we're -not- what we think we are."

"Well if we're not two people, why in the nine hells are ye talkin' to me and not her, eh?!" Ester rattles against her bindings and sulks. "And fer the record. If Aesyvaari is a delusion, she's a delusion that's done a hell of a lot for me, aye? And I've -struggled- to keep her alive. Mangled my own soul further. Done experiments and rituals to keep -us- separate. Because she -deserves- a life of 'er own. And I deserve mine, aye?!" The halfling's tone darkens. "And if I want to lower myself fight against something I feel is truly, deeply disturbed and wrong... Why should I have to drag her into it with me?"

The bookkeeper pinches the bridge of her nose and adjusts her glasses. In turn, Brisk Takeman does the same. He paces towards the window once more and looks outside. The shafts of light that pour in are almost blinding now. A room covered in dust -- abandoned ages ago. Its entrance, a threshold one could transgress without a second thought, if they but made the choice to. And yet wholly, utterly irrelevant -- save for this moment. Brisk Takeman speaks in two voices, unified. "Stop, Ester."
"E-eh? Have I finally outwitted you?"

The bookkeeper frowns to Aesyvaari, then paces away from her. She glances towards the edge of the forest, so far away. "You really don't want it to just stop? Don't think. Don't tie yourself up in your morals or your guilt. Just. Tell me. Truthfully."

"Don't you want it to stop?" Brisk asks.

Aesyvaari swallows hard. As she struggles to find words, her legs begin to shake and her breath grows rapid and unsteady. She looks to the grass at her feet in shame, afraid to meet the bookkeeper's gaze.

Ester stares at the motes of dust caught in the beams of light that stretch into the room. Her fingers flex and relax. Her jaw is clamped. She knows the answer to Brisk's question. She just doesn't want to say it.

"Well?"

"Yes."

V.

"Ye missed it, Aes. I've been bein' bullied by this fat-arsed sellsword all day, eh? He kinda grew on me though. Somethin' about his dogged drive to get what he wants. Mismatched clothes. Smells like a brothel. Charming accent. I dunnae. Root for the poor bastard, I guess. Shame I had t' screw 'im over, but I like living." Ester grins up to Aesyvaari with tired eyes and a fraught, worried brow.

Aes shifts her jaw to the side and purses her lips, squinting down to the halfling. "If -you- didn't have such a penchant for -keeping me out-, I could've seen the whole thing play out. While you've been having fun in Waterdeep, I've just been asleep here again. My dreams haven't been very fun though. And it occurs to me this is the first time you've spoken to me in months. Didn't you need to set up some elaborate ritual to make that happen?"

"Gods. I'm so sick of elaborate rituals and esoteric nonsense," Ester huffs, laughing. Aesyvaari shares in the laugh, shaking her head. Then, there's a moment of silence. And their expressions meet. Both wearing a resigned, melancholic frown. "...Seems like there's no place in the world for both of us, lass. No matter how hard we try, eh? To be honest, sometimes I think I just made you up so I could have something to force all of my darkness onto."

"And look how that turned out." Aesyvaari hunches over, folding her arms across her knees to meet Ester's gaze a little more comfortably. She prods the halfling's nose. "You're the bad guy now," she teases. "Are you going to give him what he wants?"
Ester wiggles her nose, then rubs it, squinting suspiciously. "Dunnae. Are ye going to give her what -she- wants?"
Aes bites her lip. "This is going to make uh, I don't know. Zero sense to you? But I can still see this line of trees, right? And I bet... if I run fast enough, I can make it there. Except. There's this barrier. I don't know if I can get past it. It's always been impossible for me to push through before, but. I'm feeling lucky today."

The hin smirks. "There's this window nearby me, aye? That merc I mentioned is runnin' around wi' his boys outside lookin' fer me. Dunnae. If I yell hard enough, maybe I can get their attention. I'll probably get a few bruises from 'im for my troubles, but if I can stall 'im long enough... Well. Ye know. But. Suppose if I fail, lass." Ester turns her chin up. She forces her expression to brighten. "Doesn't matter what anyone says, eh? You were real to me. And honestly. Some days, I wonder if anyone -else- is even real."

Aes wiggles her head, the jewelry dangling from her antlers clinking. "Ironic to say this, considering both of us are about to run from our problems, but -- you really, really need to stop running from your problems, Ester. It is -exactly- what gets us into situations like this."

"Hey, Ester?" Aes purses her lips. "If this is the last time I ever get a chance to talk to you. I want you to know that I love you. And that you're worth loving."

The halfling smirks. "Aye. Love ye too, eh? And besides, do ye think I don't know that ye love me? We're more alike than ye think, lass."

Aes squints at Ester. Ester squints at Aes.

"Don't even get me started," Ester mutters, eyes snapping open.

Brisk catches the knife he's been balancing and blinks. "Started on what? Are you going to make me wait all day for a decision? I've got tea soon, darling. Tea with a -very- nice dryad who, for reasons that are plain, cannot come to this dusty den to meet me."
Ester takes a breath, furrows her brow, as if she's considering, and then, with great gusto yells out, "OI, MICK, YE FAT-ARSED BUFFOON. WHO THE HELL DO Y' THINK IS GOING TAE PAY YE IF YE CANNY EVEN KEEP TRACK OF ME?!"

The fey flinches and squints, jabbing his knife towards Ester. "It was an incredible deal, Ester. And considering you spurned the court for this long, the only other one I can offer you is a quick death, and I know you know that, darling. How self-destructive can you be?!" Brisk steps towards the bound halfling.

"Pike you! Why are ye so meddlesome wi' me anyways, eh?! I'm just a little hin! I dinny cause nobody any problems!" she lies, again, very lyingly in a way that, again, would imply that she knows that she is a liar who is lying. She wiggles her hips furiously and grits her teeth, then with all of the gusto she can muster, rocks and causes the chair to tip. Surprisingly maybe, the thing is flimsy enough that when it hits the ground, it erupts into pieces, and the halfling lets out a yelp as Takeman's knife jabs into the floorboards right next to her ear, leaving a nice knick on it. "Ahh! Ye bastard!" Ester butts heads with the fey. Takeman actually recoils from the blow -- and maybe Ester's forehead now hurts like hell, but the halfling takes advantage by flipping herself over, bunching up, and quite literally worming her way towards that threshold, staring at the door. Every thump and thud that manages to get her closer brings her towards cheating the fey once again, and that is something that satisfies her immensely.

Aesyvaari shuts her eyes tight and clenches her fists. The bookkeeper raises her brow. "When I said think hard, that's not really what I had in mind, Aes. Though, I am glad you're taking me seriously. Just, I don't know if the theatrics are really necessary, is all," the fey states with amusement. The silence that rides causes The bookkeeper's features to melt into concern, then worry. "Aes?"

Then, in a genuine display of ferocious, primal prowess, Aesyvaari erupts with a mighty rage, swinging her arms like a windmill towards a very, very confused fey who lets out a yelp before she's clocked over the head, glasses flying off. "I'm not going to throw Ester under the horse cart just because you think she sucks! She DOES suck. But she's working on it! And that counts for something, right?!" Her companions are startled, but leap towards Aesyvaari almost immediately. Aes grits her teeth, lets out a yelp of her own, and swerves out of the way of a torch, then scampers off up the nearby hill as fast as she can, foot slipping once or twice. Her hands push along the slope as well, tearing up the grass as she propels upwards. Just all in all a very articulate, dexterous, and graceful frantic scramble for her very life. An arrow lodges into the hillside next to her hand. The color drains from her face, and her scrambling intensifies.

The woman, antlers and all, breaks into a mad sprint as soon as she reaches the top of the hill, tumbling down the otherside gracelessly before stumbling to her feet to repeat the process. She looks over her shoulder to see her pursuers shaking torches at her menacingly, and the bookkeeper shuffling along as well, hand clasped to her nose, blood running down her fingers. She'd feel bad about it, but the bookkeeper does want her to enter a deal that'd screw Ester over again, so it's hard to lament it that much. The trees in the distance slowly draw closer and closer.

Ester bonks her head against the door facing the alley. She stares up at the handle and squints. Even if she -could- reach it, it'd probably be locked, right? Even if it wasn't, her hands are tied behind her back, aren't they?! She tries to wriggle up to her feet to give it an honest go anyways, but as she does, she feels a sharp pain plunge into her foot as Brisk Takeman attempts to pin her to the ground by driving a knife through her. Gruesome, but to his credit, it works. Unfortunately for him, it does manage to provoke a -very- violent cry of agony from the poor halfling, loud enough to make the window tremble. "Ye. Ye stabbed me?! -Through- the foot!? My foot?! That foot's one of me favorite feet, ye tree-smoochin’ toad licker!"
"I'm disappointed, Esterhaven darling. After all you've done, I reached my hand out to give you one last chance, and you'd rather hold onto your very unhealthy delusions. And for the good of the world -- for the health and balance of the natural sphere -- I have to put an end to you," Takeman insists. He rips the knife out of her foot, grasps her by the ankle and drags the bound halfling close. Hand against her neck and jaw, and their eyes locked, Ester's full of defiant fury, and Brisk's full of genuine disappointment, he readies to plunge the blade through Ester's heart.

Aes returns to that signpost, stumbling to a stop. The fey pursuing her haven't stopped for a moment, and they're already close behind. She raises a hand towards where the barrier should be and attempts to shove through it. She expects there to be no resistance -- at least on this side. But her hand plants on the barrier, solid and shimmering. As it reflects her own eyes once more, Aes gets to witness her own features fill with dread, as she realizes her defiance was for naught. "Oh no," is all she manages to squeak out before a hand grabs her shoulder from behind and rips her away from the barrier.

The door flies open. Ester's gambit has worked! Here comes Mick in all of his portly glor- Ah. No. That's not Mick at all. Erethian, cupping the side of his face -- a nasty forehead cut gushing down through the gaps between his fingers -- nudges the door aside with a wet dagger and steps through slowly and deliberately. Brisk Takeman groans as his final action is halted long enough for him to look towards the moon elf. Erethian meets eyes with Brisk Takeman, and says, in a quivering, violently irritated voice. "...I h-have no idea who you are, cousin. I have had a -miserable- afternoon filled with humiliation at the hands of a human and. And chest hair. So. So much chest hair. But by Shevarash, if you steal my prize from me, I will, and I-I cannot stress this enough, hunt you to the ends of Toril." A discernable madness fills his gaze that Brisk can't handle. And so the fey sets his knife aside and groans.

"You do not know what you're interfering with, moon elf," the fey mutters, standing himself up. He raises his palms and steps away slowly all the same.

"And I do not care. Stand up, -halfling-," the irritated elf commands.

"O-oi. That bastard stabbed me through the foot. Ye think I can walk on this?" Esterhaven miserably protests.

"Stand. Up."

Begrudgingly, considering how imperiled her life is right about now, the halfling attempts to comply. This is -not- an easy thing to do with a wounded foot and her hands bound behind her back, but through a complex series of steps and missteps, she manages, mostly with her weight on one foot, to stand. "There. Happy?"

"No. Far, far from it. But I will be pleased when justice is finally served to you." Erethian hesitates at the threshold for a moment, staring at Brisk. "Tell no one I was here, cousin. Fret not. She will face the gallows."

The fey frowns. "It would be quicker to do her in here and now." In the light pouring through the doorway from behind, Erethian's face is cast in a polarizing shade. Despite his lithe figure, he cuts an intimidating silhouette. Brisk Takeman considers Ester. And briefly, the fey feels regret.

Even as the tattooed fey pin Aesyvaari to the ground, she glances towards the mouth of the forest. She was so close. And yet, was she ever? The barrier has always been there. She's never been able to cross the threshold before. Why would it be different now? Aesyvaari gives in, finally, to the truth. She never stood a chance. After all, Ester is the real one. She's only ever been a figment.
"I'm sorry Aesyvaari. I tried to help you, but since you don't want my help, I guess this is the end of the line," the bookkeeper insists. "Also what the hell was that windmill thing? Have you ever thrown a punch in your life?" She adjusts her glasses and shuffles up behind the assemblage of fey. Now that Aesyvaari is pinned, the bookkeeper produces a tome. She begins to read from it, inciting some old magic in the sylvan tongue.

Aesyvaari opens her eyes to look back towards the bookkeeper, but before she so much as inclines her head half an inch, something else catches her interest. A pair of great, black eyes staring at her from the darkness of the forest. Hollow and threatening, they stand out from the shade and are all too easy to fixate on. A word comes from Aesyvaari's mouth, though she's not even quite sure she spoke it herself; "S-serpent."

"Huh?" The bookkeeper looks up from her tome. Her veins fill with ice almost immediately. She drops the book into the grass with a thud and takes a step or two back. "Here? No. No. None of this is even real. This is just a figment of a-"

The eyes lurch back into the treeline with a swooping noise, then suddenly, a great black mass forces itself through the barrier with a deafening crash and a thunderous boom. It leaps forth from the threshold and takes to the sky above the plains quickly, slithering coil after coil coming from behind it. The force of its takeoff alone is enough to send the poor bookkeeper and several of her cohorts off of their feet with a thud. It’s enough for Aesyvaari to kick off a few of the fey surrounding her, scramble to her feet once more, and with sudden purpose and vigor, race into the hole that the serpent punched. Lungs burning, body quivering, and her eyes wide with fear and determination, Aesyvaari races off into the dark canopy. Echoing in the base of her skull she hears in a violently loud and authoritative voice, "RUN INTO THE DARK, CHILD. SEE THAT THE GREAT SERPENT IS WITHIN US ALL. CREATION BEGETS DESTRUCTION BEGETS CREATION." The fey try to pursue Aesyvaari, but smack right into a barrier. The bookkeeper watches Aesyvaari diminish into the darkness and frowns deeply. Regret creeps into her. Not for Aesyvaari, no. But for an opportunity that she missed. She bends down to pick up her tome, sighs, and then closes it.

As she hops out into the light, Esterhaven suddenly seizes and cries out in a miserable, awful pain. Erethian scowls down to the halfling. He reaches down to grab her by her bindings, only to flinch when he notices that the halfling's eyes -- closed tight -- are weeping a thick black smoke. "You know, it was rumored that you were some kind of demon, halfling. And now, I am convinced that this is true. Disgusting little creature." Steeling his resolve, the moon elf plucks up the packaged halfling and holds her far away from himself while her throes of agony continue. The elf trots out into the back alley proper, though begins to pat himself down for something to gag the halfling. So distracted by his search, he notices a haymaker approaching his face a little -too- late. The bundle of traumatized halfling flies from his grip and tumbles against the wall, Ester somewhere between hysterically laughing and screaming at this point.

"Tired of chasing yore leaf-munchin' arse around these ruddy streets, elv," mutters Mick, sporting a fresh black eye, far too many cuts for a man with any less girth to sustain healthily, and a scowl very similar to the elf's. "Respect th' hell outta you, though. Put up more than a bit of a fight, innit? But I'm breakin' yore legs if you stand back up."

Still reeling from the haymaker, head screaming, and his bleeding worsening, Erethian stumbles to a crouch to try to stand, listens to Mick's words, and finally, sits down with a thump against the wall, kicking the cobbles with a miserable growl. "Respect?" he hisses. "Hrh. We'll see what you think of respect when I come for you, sellsword." Mick tap-taps his collarbone a couple of times proudly with a fatty finger, wide lips spreading into an even wider grin with crooked teeth.

As the sensation begins to pass, Ester regains enough of her senses to see Mick boasting and she smirks. That smirk is quickly replaced with a sulk as she sees Brisk start to stumble out of the dark of that threshold. However, without a second thought, Mick looks over towards Brisk, says, "Another one of yore cohorts, uh?" Unwittingly, Mick socks his client square in the jaw with enough force to cause him to lose consciousness before he even hits the ground.

"Wasn't," Erethian mumbles. "Some vigilante, I suppose. Wanted to give the -halfling- a quick death rather than a real punishment."

Ester rolls over onto her back and huffs, smoke starting to dissipate. She speaks, but her voice splits, as if speaking in duet. "What in Toril, beneath the gaze of the gods themselves, have I just experienced?" she groans. Her eyes set on Mick miserably. "Oi, Mick? I screwed ye pretty hard, aye?"

"Did, little lady," Mick agrees, sniffing and rubbing his nose. "Not really the time to gloat about it, though. I'm gonna get you to mister Takeman an' get me bloomin' coin already."

"Nine hundred and fifty gold, lad," she mumbles.

"Uh?" Mick approaches Ester with a slight limp, eyebrow raised. "Wot's that?"

"Ye get me to my family's manor on the other side of Waterdeep alive, and I'll pay ye nine hundred and fifty gold. An' I'll patch yer boys up, eh? Pike Takeman. Ye don't even know what 'e looks like anyways. Maybe he got spooked by yer fightin' and ran off, eh? Ye said ye know money. Ye know I'm good fer it, fatarse." Ester offers, squirming her hand free from her bindings finally. She reaches up towards Mick.

The portly mercenary considers for a moment, stroking his stubble, then snorts, sniffs, and nods. He takes Ester’s hand gingerly and helps the halfling to her feet. "Feh. Fine. You got a deal, 'alflin'.” He pauses and thinks. “'at's a good take, man."


Post Reply