Work Text:
As each day passed, the tension in the Grove grew. Stepping through the gate in the cool dawn, Nuelith sensed the unspoken fear and unresolved conflicts sitting amongst the dew and dust.
She kept a cautionary eye on the watchful guards that allowed her to pass through, and looked about at the individuals who were already busying themselves around the Hollow. There was one in particular she was looking for before she found her companions in the camp they’d established inside the Grove: a woman, dark hair falling forward over one of her horns, waspie corset on her waist, shortbow on her back. She found her picking through a crate of supplies, pulling out old, blunted knives and discarded broom handles. She watched as the woman gathered the make-shift weapons, counting them, and making a sound of disappointment at the pathetic haul.
“Know you’re watching,” Lia called out, “won’t bite, I promise.”
Nuelith stepped out,
“Sorry,” she stifled an embarrassed smile, “never sure how much to involve myself. Seems like everyone here knows each other.”
“Not everyone,” Lia assured her, “more like a few of us know a few of us. Still, here to support each other, best we can.”
“I only wish I was of more use,” Nuelith added, looking awkwardly at the ground. Lia crossed her arms and regarded the new addition to the gathering of tiefling refugees. A purple tip to her twisted horns, purple streaking through her dark hair that she had pulled back aside from strands that framed the sides of her face. Lines of the tattoos across her face pulling attention to her eyes – one a shining violet, the other a blazing red. The slight impressions she left in the morning dew as she walked into the Hollow in the early morning.
“You’re here, and you’re willing to help,” Lia was direct and sincere in a way that caught her off guard, “better than some people ever do.”
Nuelith nodded in embarrassment; she couldn’t help but feel she deserved that, after all, she hadn’t encouraged them to stay when Lia’s brother was so vocal about wanting to leave.
“Sorry for not coming over. I – well – I suppose I didn’t want to be a bother. You have a sureness I wish I did.”
“Need you to talk to my brothers,” Lia scoffed.
The tiefling woman wiped her palms down the fabric of her clothing.
“Lia,” she held out her hand.
Nuelith’s breath caught in her throat as the open palm thrust out towards her. She flinched, the memory of a thousand strikes fresh on her skin.
“Nuelith,” she managed with a small gasp, her head dizzy, vision blurring at the edges, unable to see beyond the outstretched weapon.
“Stupid custom anyway,” Lia quickly withdrew her hand.
Nuelith offered a weak smile of gratitude, fighting tears of humiliation as the panic dissolved. She took a deep, embarrassed breath.
“Something happen?” Lia asked, nodded towards the entrance to the Grove, “To get you kept outside of the gate? You do something?”
“Not yet,” Nuelith sighed. “It’s less that I’m kept there, and more that it’s for safety. My choice.”
“They do something to you?” Lia raised an intrigued eyebrow.
“Not yet.” Nuelith repeated with another knowing exhale.
“Can’t expect me to not ask what all that means.”
“It’s…” Nuelith chose her words carefully, dangerously balancing her fledgling trust in Lia with her distrust in the world at large, “I can do magic, yes. Always have been able to. That’s not the problem,” she stopped, taking delicate steps with each word, waiting to see how they landed.
“Leaving an obvious question,” Lia noticed that Nuelith’s tail curled tightly against her leg, “the problem is?”
Nuelith paused, realizing that she had set the stage, and now she was going to step upon it, a performance she’d never rehearsed. She looked over at Lia, her eyes genuine in her questioning, steadfast in her ideals. If there were a more receptive audience, Nuelith wasn’t sure she’d ever meet them. She took a deep breath.
“The magic, it’s not mine. Well, it is – but not in the way you may know it. It is not a tool or force which I wield, the way you might wield your bow, or the way you have seen Rolan wield the Weave.”
“Can’t say I’m familiar with magics,” Lia mused, “but think I know what you’re getting at – sorcery. Innate.”
Nuelith nodded.
“Not just that. It’s not about where it comes from, it’s about control. Or to be more accurate – a lack of it. Like a temper that flares and the more you want to soften it, to pull it back in, restrain it, the greater it grows until you can hardly recognize who you are.”
“Can relate to that.” Lia muttered, not attempting to hide any guilt, “gets out of hand.”
Nuelith made a soft sound of agreement and managed a weak smile,
“One way to put it.” She said.
“Going to give any details?” Lia asked.
“Not sure it matters,” Nuelith replied after some thought, “maybe I will one day. What matters is I can’t predict it. What, when, or where it happens. And when it happens… I can’t stop it.”
“Why you sleep outside of the gate,” Lia guessed correctly.
Nuelith nodded and met Lia’s eyes, surprised to see how quickly she understood, and moreover, how slow she was to judge. In fact, she didn’t seem to be judging at all. It made her uneasy.
“It…” she struggled to find words that would do it justice, and decided that now was not the right time, “makes people uncomfortable.”
“Sounds like you need to learn how to control it, then.” Lia said, matter-of-fact.
“Easier said than done,” Nuelith muttered.
“You have a tutor?” Lia’s tone was curious, an idea sparking in her words, “An apprenticeship, that sort of thing?”
“It crossed my mind,” Nuelith recalled the evening that Gale had approached, eager in his willingness to share what he assured was a vast wealth of arcane knowledge and the tutelage of an expert. But something about his magic curled Nuelith’s nostrils, the Weave in his hands turned her stomach. She recoiled at even the thought of touching it, “I’ve yet to find a suitable teacher.”
“Bet my brother can help you,” Lia nodded, the plan already formulated in her head, “he’s a wizard, the best from here to Baldur’s Gate.”
“Rolan,” Nuelith tried the name on her tongue. She’d heard Lia yell it on a number of occasions since they’d arrived.
“Not sure how good a teacher he is,” Lia admitted, “but he sure as shit knows magic. He could show you how he controls it, and all you’d have to do is copy him. Be a pro in no time.”
“I wouldn’t want to bother him,” Nuelith mumbled, almost reflexively as an awkward flush decorated her cheeks, “and I wouldn’t even know how to ask.”
“Not going to give him the choice,” Lia said bluntly, and she turned to march away before Nuelith could find the words to dispute. She reminded herself that this headstrong attitude was why she liked Lia in the first place, but her anxiety did not seem to listen as she watched the woman stride confidently down into the Hollow.
Rolan was sitting on the ground, his legs outstretched, one ankle crossed over the other. He was holding a well-worn book – spells or something, whatever it was he found so damn interesting – and working his way through the pages. Her younger brother was nearby, idly cleaning the tip of his spear, not that it needed it.
“Rolan,” Lia ventured, and her older brother recognized the tone.
“What do you want from me this time?” Rolan raised a droll eyebrow.
“Want to talk to you about Nuelith. Think we can help her. Well, you can. If you can stick your neck out long enough to benefit someone other than yourself.”
“Lia,” Cal hissed, instantly on edge, “we just got over this. Again.”
“Not sure why you think a pathetic attempt to guilt me will aid your cause,” he gave a dismissive wave, “regardless, I don’t know who Nyoolith is.”
“Nuelith,” Lia corrected his pronunciation, “and you do, if you’d been paying attention. Purple in her hair, twist in her horns.”
When he didn’t respond she continued, changing approach.
“There’s a reason you were chosen for this apprenticeship, Rolan,” she paused as he looked over to her. She knew that would get his attention.
“What’s my apprenticeship got to do with it?” He looked up, suspicious of her sudden change in tactic.
“Not a bloody thing,” Lia was exasperated, “but she needs help, and I’m saying you’re in a position to help.”
“I’m waiting for the part where you tell me why this is worth my time.”
“Rolan,” This time was sharper, surer; she was asking, not suggesting, and if he didn’t agree, she’d demand, “if you don’t help her, I am going to snap your shins.”
“Sound like a productive way to resolve this,” Cal muttered.
“Do be my guest,” he gestured towards his outstretched legs, “you will be carrying me the rest of the way, I assume?”
She settled with a hearty kick to his thigh.
“Why put so much effort into being so damned talented if you’re going to insist on keeping it to yourself?” Lia snapped.
Rolan sighed. He did hate it when she had a point.
“Why does she need my help? Can’t she transcribe spells herself?”
“Not a wizard,” she explained, “sorcerer.”
“Ah,” Rolan’s relief apparent, “a different field entirely, not one of effort and dedication. You hardly need a skilled master of the arcane where that is concerned.”
“Pull your head out your arse,” Lia crouched onto her haunches, bringing her down to his eye level, “can you really say you’ve never had a spell go awry? Never struggled to do the… whatever it is you do with the Weave?”
She let the obvious answers sit in the air for a moment.
“Besides, we’re not going anywhere until the goblins are dealt with,” she added, putting a hand on his book she he couldn’t read as an excuse to ignore her.
“Don’t they say you might even learn something by teaching what you know?” Cal offered, sensing his opening.
Rolan considered. He couldn’t deny what they were saying, and he had read this book cover-to-cover so many times he could recite it without even pretending to read it. And after all, he was to be Lorroakan’s apprentice, if anyone could teach her in this Godsforsaken place, it would be him.
“Alright,” he conceded, “I suppose there are more pointless uses of my time, perhaps it’ll help make this ridiculous detour less tedious.”
“Thank you, Rolan,” she sighed, tired though his agreement was, she was glad to finally get it.
He fussed to his feet and brushed off his robes, making sure they fell just so. He looked about the Hollow, the blacksmith complaining about his tools, the pathetic group of useless human adventurers, the grieving and terrified tieflings.
“Let’s say I hadn’t been paying attention,” he gestured about vaguely, “which one is Nuelith?”
Nuelith was cautiously curious as the tiefling wizard had approached, wondering exactly what Lia would have said. Based on his expression he wasn’t thrilled, though she couldn’t fault him for that. And as far as she knew, he always looked like that – couldn’t fault him for that either, not with their situation being what it was.
“Nuelith,” he nodded curtly.
“Rolan,” she replied.
“Shall we…” he gestured impatiently in the palpable awkwardness to the area higher up the Grove where the newest encampment of tents was pitched, “wait for your companions?”
“No, there’s no need,” Nuelith said quickly, “it’s best if I learn independently.”
“I did suspect you weren’t close,” Rolan noted, before quickly adding, “not that it’s any of my business.”
“I… simply prefer my distance. We have little in common other than-” she stopped herself just in time, “we’re merely traveling companions.”
“People are insufferable company, aren’t they,” Rolan replied dryly.
Nuelith couldn’t help a short laugh that caught Rolan off-guard and the hue of cheeks deepened. He cleared his throat.
“Well, let’s see what we’re working with,” his tone had revealed that his expectations were not high. She wished she hadn’t met them. The magic between her palms bubbled and burst, disobeying what she had thought were clear demands. Her demonstration fizzled and she shook her head.
“I didn’t mean to waste your time,” she said, “I know you don’t owe me this.”
“Hardly the point, I gather this is all Lia’s doing,” Rolan dismissed her concern, “she’s always wanting to do this – put our noses in places they don’t belong. Stooping down to those who can’t bother to stand themselves.”
Nuelith shifted on her feet but did not reply. She registered contempt and dismissiveness in his tone. It wasn’t exactly comforting, but at least it felt familiar.
“You really don’t have to,” she said, settling into the response she’d expected from the start.
Rolan cleared his throat,
“That was not the kindest thing I could have said.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she hesitantly admitted.
“It’s… it’s been a long journey, and it’s not even close to being over. I simply can’t let anyone stop us – stop me.”
“I won’t,” Nuelith replied, quickly, “and you aren’t obliged to help me. I wasn’t expecting it – if you believe it will stop you, you shouldn’t do it.”
Rolan sighed.
“No,” he apologized, “it won’t. I’m sorry – I do understand why she’d recommend my mentorship; I gather your concern is of an arcane nature.”
“You could say that,” Nuelith said, “it’s -”
Rolan waved his hand dismissively,
“I’m aware of the particulars. Not everyone has the capacity to train themselves as I do, but under my advanced tutelage I believe anyone would have the ability to learn,” he nodded at her pointedly, “even you.”
Even me. Nuelith held the words close. She looked over the tiefling wizard. Maybe this would work after all.
Rolan’s attitude left something to be desired, but truth be told, it somewhat put her at ease. Hard to disappoint someone when their opinion of you already seemed so low. They met each morning, before she had to join her fellow tadpoled companions for whatever increasingly dangerous and asinine task they found themselves involved in. They’d start with basic exercises, verbal and somatic components mastered by every spellcasting novice. Then Rolan would demonstrate his technique, loathe though he was to share it he relished in someone looking up to his ability more. And his grasp of the arcane couldn’t be questioned – if only she could share that grasp. His instruction was clear, his command of the Weave masterful, and her own seemed even more of a failure against his proficiency.
Half a tenday had gone by, and Nuelith could feel a prickle of frustration growing. They’d worked this stance for hours now, or at least it felt like it. She knew what Rolan was trying to show her, but she just couldn’t seem to get it right.
“I am trying,” she said, failing to shake the feeling off.
“I have no doubt,” Rolan was steadfast in his instruction, “it’s not me that needs convincing. You’re not far off.”
Nuelith took a deep breath. She placed her feet sturdy in the ground, her weight balancing on her haunches, torso held tall, and in a smooth motion brought her hands around and into the position she had been shown. She huffed self-consciously; something still felt off.
“You have it almost perfected,” he assured, though his brow creased in dissatisfaction, “I fear I may not be making my instruction clear. Here, allow me to-”
Nuelith was so focused on her work she didn’t see it. Couldn’t prepare for it. Rolan moved quickly, his fingers reaching towards her, and in a moment his hand was on her arm. It was there only moment before she flinched, but she felt the sudden touch, firm and unexpected. Invading. Terrifying.
She gasped and ripped away from him. Her hands whipped around, fast as lightning, and a rumble of thunder erupted into the air, throwing Rolan from his feet and he hit the ground hard.
“Please, don’t!” She recoiled as if burned, holding the spot on her arm he had placed his hand. He looked back, hands poised, ready for a retaliatory spell, when he saw her. The wind that threw him back was picking up dust, swirling around Nuelith. Faster, faster, a whistling and howling growing. She was throwing her hands around, frantic, but not forcing the air – she was trying to steady it, control it. The more panicked she became the more the air disobeyed her, the quicker the wind whipped.
“You mustn’t,” her desperate eyes filled with tears, much as wished they wouldn’t, she shook her head, “I can’t.”
The sky darkened as thick clouds rolled in faster than was natural, shadows blanketing the Grove as the light was extinguished. Rolan shivered as a sudden chill plummeted down into the Hollow, the air around him grumbled and crackled with electricity.
With a blinding flash, a lightning bolt cut a jagged tear down to the ground, an explosion of heat catching a wooden crate. Splinters flying, flames threatening to spread across the ground.
“Fire!” A terrified call, and a clattering of hurried footsteps.
A drop of heavy water stained the dry ground. Then a second, a third. Then a cold sheet of rain descended, thumping the dirt, the dousing fire hissing. Another rumble, directly above, shaking loose rocks and pulsing through bodies. The youngsters screamed and ran, adults hesitating between their fear and confusion.
“What in the Hells?”
“Must be magics-”
“The damned druids...”
“No, her!”
Nuelith was gasping, desperate for breath. Her body doubled over, muscles strained, eyes tightly closed. The wind tore her hair from its bun, whipping the black and purple strands around her face, picking up twigs and leaves as a whirlwind flickered. The growing hurricane erupted from her, threatening to consume the entire Grove. A torrent of water lashing out from the demonic sky, darkness broken by cracks of light that clawed across the air.
“The Hells is she doing?”
“She’s going to destroy the entire damned place!”
“The ritual-”
“I knew allowing them in was a mistake…”
“Who let her inside the gate?”
“Someone stop her!”
As the gathering crowd approach, the wind lashed out, clothing pulled, feet stumbling against the force. A tiefling hand grabbed a stone from the ground, aimed, and whipped the pebble through the air. It caught in the wind, the impact dampened as it struck Nuelith on her thigh.
She didn’t register it, but the shouting of the crowd grew, a terrifying symphony she’d heard before. She clamped her hands onto her ears and bowed her head, ready for their onslaught of insults and makeshift weapons.
“She’s trying to kill us all!”
“Was she with the Absolute?”
“Knew she was damned liability.”
“Who has any fucking bolts?”
“Get her to stop, anyone!”
A hailstorm of rocks rained onto her, refugees and druids united in their desperate efforts to disrupt her tempest. A thrown dagger lacerated her sleeve, an arrow punctured her calf and tore the muscle, but her eyes only closed tighter. A wooden spear launched from a muscular arm, the pointed tip a precision missile. It pierced Nuelith’s shoulder and splintered, flesh ripped open. She gasped, body seizing in pain.
“Enough!”
Rolan dipped his hands into the Weave, a new spell gathering at his fingertips, summoning the arcane energy under his authority. He threw a protective barrier through the crowd, a shining sphere enveloping her before fading to a glittering gold. A stone thrown with force that would smash bones flew through the air, ready to collide with Nuelith’s temple, but with a spark of arcane energy it shattered into Rolan’s Shield, and ricocheted back, bystanders jumping from the returned danger.
‘Command’ would be useful about now, Rolan thought in the back of his mind. If only he’d found the right scripture to master it, personalize it. He supposed mere non-magical words would have to do. Though, as Cal and Lia liked to remind him, they were not exactly his forte.
Another wooden spear shattered against the magical shield.
At least, he’d have to try.
He rushed forward, the tails of his robes thrown tightly around him.
“Nuelith,” he called out through the arcane barrier, “can you hear me?”
If she could, he couldn’t tell. She was transfixed on trying to block it all out, focused solely on trying to endure it.
“I’m going to need you to calm down,” he shouted, but his voice was snatched by the wind and did not reach her. His hair was pulled out of its knot and was twisting around his horns and his efforts to tuck it away from his eyes were hopeless. As he desperately tried to find words she might hear, a poorly aimed rock caught him off guard, smashing into the side of his face, lacerating his skin and scratching his horn. He blinked, desperate to maintain his composure, another projectile arriving soon after the one that hit him, almost shattering the shimmering shield.
“Nuelith,” Rolan cried, “I need you to hear me!”
Finally, her eyes flickered open. She looked up to find blood trickling down his cheek.
“I am here with you,” Rolan shouted, unwavering in his focus, “I won’t let you endure it alone.”
Her face was streaked with tears, and her hair was stuck against her skin. She nodded against the wind that had worn her skin raw.
“Breathe with me,” he instructed, as he might if they were practicing a spell, “in and out.”
Through the burning fight in her lungs she tried to copy his breath, forcing air in where her terror tried to refuse it.
“Master it,” Rolan encouraged, “as you will with your magic – I know you can. You will.” His shoulders and chest heaved as he demonstrated his breaths, nothing but inhaling and exhaling filling her vision. She focused on the flickering in his eyes, the rising and falling of his hands, as if he were manipulating the Weave. She followed his direction, her trust in his tutelage grounding her to the earth beneath her feet. Holding his gaze they felt steadier, her legs remembering how to hold her up. The wind cooled the streams from her eyes that had dried up, the control over her breath steadying.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he said, “you have what you need, keep breathing – as you are. You’re more capable than you know.”
As her breathing returned, she could focus on his face, the dappling of freckles inviting her attention. As she followed them from cheek and across his nose to the other, she didn’t notice the torrential gale subside, the wood and metal clattering into the dirt as the wind dropped them from its grasp. The air came easier, her shoulders loosening. The clouds relaxed as her muscles did, tension dissolving in her body and in the sky. A brightness gathering in her eye and behind the clouds, the biting cold of the air subsiding.
“I knew you were a competent student,” Rolan said, aware of the eyes watching them. With a cautious flick of his wrist he dropped his shield, keeping his hands where she could clearly see them. He nodded, holding himself between Nuelith and the anxious crowd. “If you can control that, you can control anything.”
Nuelith stretched in front of the campfire, easing the pressure of the day from her tired limbs. A minimal rest had helped, but her wounds ached and her body pulsed with lingering, unhealed pain. Her companions had moved their belongings to join her outside of the Grove, but she moved her own tent outside of their camp circle, giving them the wide birth they felt they deserved. Even with the gathered tents, was quieter than it had ever been outside of the gates, the soft sounds of night chirping and hooting in the distance.
Nuelith wasn’t quite sure what to say. Neither was Rolan, as he sat nearby. She held her tail close to her, but not with the tightness she might have the day before. Soft crackling from the dying fire filled the space between them. She replayed that moment in Grove again in her mind, or what she could remember it. She remembered her fright, the sudden fear of everyone around her, the pain of their jeers and weapons. She remembered Rolan’s instruction, his steadiness, his shield. She remembered his unexpected touch.
“Has it always been like… well, as it was earlier today?”
Rolan broke the uneasy quiet and it startled her.
“More or less,” she gave a weak smile, “from the panic, the hurricane, the angry mob.”
Nuelith saw the sincerity that burned sincerely in the glow of his eyes. He continued,
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”
She furrowed her brow,
“You weren’t the ones who were throwing things.”
“No,” he agreed, “but I did touch you. I fear I may have inadvertently started the whole ordeal.”
She sat quietly for a moment, not entirely wanting to agree with him, but not able to deny it either. Eventually she settled on,
“I should have warned you. You weren’t to know.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded, “though as Lia and Cal never hesitate to remind me, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if I were to have noticed your discomfort beforehand.”
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
Rolan looked over, surprised by her tone. She sounded judgmental, harsh in her assessment of herself.
“Not used to anyone stepping in though,” she looked over at him, “to help me, protect me.”
“Contrary to what Lia believes, I am capable of doing the right thing.”
“Yes. You are. Thank you,” Nuelith closed your eyes briefly, remembering when she first entered the Grove, and had seen the three tieflings arguing, “and thank you for not leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“For Baldur’s Gate,” she looked over at him, “I know you didn’t want to stay. For what it’s worth, I agreed with you. But if you had…”
“We needn’t rehash it,” Rolan said quickly, “clearly I am capable of being humbled in my decisions.”
“It is always smartest to look out for oneself.”
“Oneself… and others,” Rolan cleared his throat, “that part is harder.”
“I’ll trust your judgement,” Nuelith said slowly, “as you’ve noticed, it’s best if I keep my distance.”
Rolan hummed in acknowledgement, but not agreement. He frowned. He should say something. Though what was no simple decision. In the calm, his non-magical words seemed pointless, useless to change a thing without any arcane sway. But then, if they could calm a storm, what else could they do?
“Care to…” he struggled to find unfamiliar words.
“Talk about it?” She offered.
“If you’d like,” he was grateful he hadn’t had to say it.
“If you’d rather not, I promise I won’t be offended.”
“No, no,” he flustered, waving awkwardly, “I think after today you owe me an explanation.”
Nuelith watched the dancing flames of the campfire, wondering where to even start.
“It’s always been this way. The effects can be catastrophic, a stray lightning bolt, for example. If it catches your home in flames,” she left a telling pause, “you can imagine.”
Rolan nodded along,
“You lost your home.”
She shook her head,
“Far more than that.”
“My family situation is… was, complicated,” she added quickly, though not unkindly, “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“No, I don’t suppose I do,” he replied.
Nuelith couldn’t place her suspicion, but something in his voice told her she didn’t entirely believe him. She trusted him more for it.
“You have Cal and Lia. I had Kamnos and Kandor.”
“Had?” Rolan spoke before the implications caught up with him, and he stumbled on his own thoughtlessness, “Ah.”
“At any rate,” Nuelith continued quickly, as though she’d given away too much, “the blaze took the place I lived, but it wasn’t why I left.”
“You’re frustratingly good at setting up obvious questions.”
Nuelith paused. She looked out into the darkness, avoiding his gaze. When the quiet became too awkward for him to hold, Rolan grasped what she had offered.
“What happened?”
Nuelith looked at the ground by her feet.
“My father. I can’t blame him. I never found another home, or another family. But at least I survived.”
“He blamed you?” Rolan scoffed, “Hardly a moral failing when the arcane has a mind of its own.”
Nuelith shifted uncomfortably.
“No. It was my fault. All of it.”
The uneasy quiet settled in again, and Rolan saw how Nuelith was sitting, curled in on herself, holding her arms close. He saw her discomfort.
“Someone had power over you, and he abused that power. Can’t say I’ve had the experience myself, but I’m quite sure you didn’t deserve it.”
“Perhaps,” she was not convinced, “but the harm because of me is undeniable.”
Rolan was shrewd enough to know there was more she hadn’t said. But perhaps now wasn’t the time. Or perhaps his non-magical words didn’t feel enough. They certainly weren’t enough to protect her. Then, or now. But he did have magic.
“Should you ever need it again, my Shield is at your beck and call.”
“With your expert tutelage, I hope I shan’t need it.” Nuelith tried a small smile.
“Well, quite,” Rolan smiled back, “I am Lorroakan’s apprentice, after all.”
The fire began to dim and the air around them cooled, inviting the warmth of each other that they were not ready to embrace. It was only the first evening that they spent in one another’s company. It certainly would not be the last.