Chapter Text
“Take the kid!”
Cyphur’s deep booming voice shatters the seductively peaceful song. Astarion’s face twists into a grimace, the tendrils latching to his mind uncoiling. He blinks the purple miasma away, and he bears his teeth. He abhors mind control. It’s a disgusting feeling, having someone else in his head, intruding and overriding his thoughts. Like grease settling in his brain, sludge replacing his blood.
He’s just in time to see Cyphur’s hand, as big as the tiefling child’s body, plant on his chest and lift him into the air. Gale almost gags, his arms outstretched and his body curling, as the boy is thrown back into him. If he’s angry, there’s no time to tell. Astarion readies an arrow and sends it flying towards a harpy.
Their bone necklaces rattle as the bird women shriek. Their song dies in the throat of their leader, an arrowhead peeking out of her throat. Astarion nocks another arrow, watching Gale command the child to run. The wizard’s eyes glow a shade of blue, the air around him bristling cold, and from his fingers blast ice shards towards the last remaining harpies. Seizing the moment, Astarion looses an arrow. The trajectory is slightly skewed from the flying ice, hoping to catch a harpy unawares as he moves to another position.
They had picked up the dull wizard stuck in his own portal, no less, but he’s surprisingly useful in a pinch, Astarion decides. The purple robe is a bit loud for his taste, but he assumes his own affluent clothing can’t be the standard around these parts.
Tearing his eyes away from the harpies swirling and dive-bombing out of the way of the ranged attacks, Astarion focuses on the large woman next to him.
Cyphur’s muscles bulge and her strange weapon elongates into a spear. Her eyes are wild, almost feral, as she swings the thing in an arc. Astarion almost scoffs. Why is she throwing her only useful weapon away? The distance is too vast!
He’s almost about to shout an obscenity, but his words die in his throat as the thing grows and… uncouples? Wicked crescent moon shapes are held together by a rattling chain, connected to the spearhead. He briefly wonders if it’s momentum based or if it’s cursed in some way, perhaps connected to Cyphur’s thoughts? Whatever the answer, he watches the weapon move like a serpent coiling in the air, diving for the enemy’s neck. It curls around the harpy’s throat, the blades jutting into the soft flesh. With a look of pure madness, Cyphur snarls and yanks her hand down, sending the storm spirit careening into the water, her neck eviscerated and gouged by its sharpened edges.
Astarion’s bow lowers to his side, watching the scene unfold. Shadowheart and Gale don’t seem to notice the satisfaction at the violence on their dear leader’s features. They deal with the last harpy using a few more spells and go to check on the boy. Astarion simply stares at Cyphur. She blinks back some emotion he can’t place and, with a flick, recalls her weapon. It clinks back into place as she holds it, the strange thing returning to nothing more than a small stick in length.
Despite her morbid look, he sets into step next to her.
“You don’t see that every day,” he muses.
“Right? Wild. I’ve never fought a harpy before.”
He had meant her weapon but he smiles anyway, nodding.
Cyphur marches up to the boy she had bodily thrown to Gale and gets on a knee to be at his height.
“Are you okay?”
The boy seems relieved, but not necessarily hurt or scared about what could have been his watery end.
“That was amazing, Miss! Can I tell all my friends how you threw me? There’s hay up the hill to throw them into!”
Cyphur smirks at him, eyes roaming for any wounds. Gale attentively helps by giving the boy’s skull a look over. The boy swats him away, annoyed by the mothering. Gale still gives Cyphur a quick, serious nod to assure her he doesn’t see any bleeding or injuries which may indicate a wound or concussion.
“What were you doing out here all alone?” Cyphur can’t help the small squeeze she gives the boy’s arm. There’s just something about walking in on a child about to be ripped apart by bird-people-monsters that stresses a person out. She doesn’t think about what could have happened if they’d been mere minutes later than they had been.
“I go where I please!” The small tiefling raises his nose in pride. Cyphur holds in an insufferable sigh.
“What’s your name? Where are your parents?”
“I’m Mirkon.”
He holds out his little hand to shake. Cyphur touchingly obliges. Astarion tilts his head to the side, watching. He can’t help appreciate this woman’s care for kids, and is honestly relieved to see it. So often one can run into heartless murderers that have no boundaries or ethics. Not that he has many of those, but children have always been and will always be a line not to be crossed. After all these years, there’s still one demographic that should be off the table. Deserves protection and respect. He finds himself feeling just the smallest bit fond of her. If only for this one moment. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. Hells, he would even get a chuckle out of scaring the child, maybe teach the boy a lesson about wandering off.
“I’m Cyphur. Where are your parents?” She asks again.
The boy doesn’t answer. He looks askance, glancing back to her, eyes wide. He waits, lips pursed.
“What’s wrong? You can tell me, it’s okay.” She tries to coo it out of him, to no avail. He simply nibbles at his lower lip, swinging his arms and playing with a loose string on his clothes.
“RIGHT.” Cyphur groans as she stands back up, leaning on her leg. She swiftly grabs the boy by his arm and gently, but firmly leads him over the small hill, taking the path back to the Grove. The boy releases a pitiful whine of complaint but allows himself to be melodramatically marched back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hey!” She yells out to the Grove. People glance her way, but no one responds, a couple simply continuing to walk past. She looks around, bewildered, slapping her hands on her thighs in astonishment.
“What the fuck – HEEEY !” She calls out again.
This disturbance gathers a bit of a crowd this time, with the couple stopping and turning back to her and others facing her, stopping conversations and gently moving forward to hear.
“Who’s kid is this,” she loudly demands.
“M’n’orphan,” the child mumbles up to her, uncomfortably.
There’s a murmur in the crowd.
“I said who’s kid is this,” Cyphur yells again.
Finally someone answers over the crowd, “‘E’s an orphan, miss.” It’s one of the tieflings.
A druid to her left scoffs and starts to walk away.
“Hey! Hey! I’m talking to all of you.” She points at him. The druid stops and stares, waiting. “Anyone wanna tell me why we found this kid almost face first in the ocean over there ‘cause of a nest of harpies?”
Again a murmur. Again no answer.
“What’s all this then?”
A tall, proud wood elf comes to view. Her red hair is pulled taught into distinct sections, curling around her head. braided into itself at her nape. Her green eyes gleam something Cyphur does not like, and her lips curl into an unflattering appraisal of the group. Her black and green robes match the others of the Grove, and her blue pendant is adorned with an acorn and fern.
Another man with a crown of antler bone comes out behind her, almost disappearing in the shadows. A tiefling girl is moving in front of him, almost as if they’re playing a game. Their looks back to the distracted crowd are almost comical. The girl darts when she’s close enough to the stairs leading to the mass of adult tieflings, and Cyphur’s attention goes back to the annoyance at hand.
Cyphur turns to face the woman, noticing carefully how she stands, how the crowd melts like butter around her. This is the leader, and by the looks of her people, not a benevolent one. Cyphur can’t help but square up to her, puffing out her chest and tossing her dark blue braids to the side, cocking her head. The woman is still, patiently waiting. She’s not threatened. She knows her control is secure. And now Cyphur knows too.
“This child,” Cyphur points to the boy, still held firm beside her, “almost died to a murder of harpies!”
“Is multiple harpies called a ‘murder’? I would have thought ‘gaggle’.” Astarion jokingly interjects. Cyphur glances at him, dumfounded. “Just cutting the tension, darling.” He holds his hands up in apology.
“This is a tiefling child.” The woman says shortly through a sneer.
“Wonderful observation. Very astute.” Cyphur makes her voice sweet as honey, with the edge of her anger just under the surface.
“They are all a parasite to our Grove. You should have let the harpies have him.”
“The fuck did you just say?” Cyphur’s chest jackhammers, her lifetime of fighting instincts roaring their head, screaming: protect child, destroy druid lady.
“He’s an orphan Kagha, have a heart!” A tiefling from the crowd raises their voice, but Kagha’s cold gaze is fixed on Cyphur. Disdain roiling off her like smoke.
“A refugee orphan is a burden upon a burden. It is of no concern where they go, as long as they do not stay here.”
The injustice boils. Cyphur burns with it.
“ No! If the kid is an orphan, then he’s everyone’s responsibility! What is wrong with you?”
“Kick her ass, Cyphur darling!” Astarion crows from behind her. Kagha glances at the pale elf, raising an eyebrow and cooly giving him a once over. He smirks devilishly back. Truthfully, he doesn’t care about the situation, but if there’s a cause for violence, well, he’d very much like to see how the large tiefling handles herself against a fuming mob.
It’s all the permission Cyphur needs. She gives Mirkon a slight shove, letting him go. He stumbles up the hill, giving a quick, “Thank you, again, for saving me, Miss,” and stands nearer the tiefling side of the crowd. When he’s far enough away, her gaze turns back to the druid and she reaches for her weapon. Kagha tenses, looking over what she believes is to be Cyphur’s biggest mistake. She begins to wickedly smile, ready for the onslaught. Time slows with suspense and pregnant static. Then, suddenly-!
“Whoa whoa whoa, now, hey!”
A man steps in between the two women. Bright cheery eyes fill Cyphur’s vision. A man they’d seen at the gate during the failure of a goblin invasion. He wears rather refined sturdy cloth armor dyed in red and light greens. Scars adorn his face, and his brown eye is matched with a fake white one. His hair delicately twists back atop his head, the sides of which are shaved, and is pulled to the base of his skull by a band. Blood still stains his clothing, but he has since washed his face.
“No need for violence, either of you.” His hands are up in peace while a nervous smile plays, shining bright in the sun.
Cyphur’s hand stills on her weapon, her mind bristling.
“You were helping out the kids up there, right?” She remembers him. He was giving instructions while they whacked away at dummies, trying to learn how to defend themselves when they could barely hold swords, let alone think tactically.
He smiles and nods. “That I was. Mirkon is a part of a fun little gang of them. He’s sharp and wiley, so slipped by me.”
Kagha scoffs as if to push against the ‘gang’ comment. Cyphur’s eyes narrow back to her and her lip curls.
“Is she with you?” Kagha demands of the man.
“Unfortunately, no. No I don’t believe we have anyone as admirable or brave as her leeching off your Grove , Kagha.”
Kagha’s lips purse, the sour expression unbecoming of someone in a position of such power.
Shadowheart sighs, “Come, we need to get moving.”
“I concur,” Gale chimes in. “Pardon me, but I don’t think this woman or these druids are going to help us.”
Kagha crosses her arms and nods. “Listen to your wizard, you might live longer.”
Cyphur scoffs but lets the two lead her away, heading up the hill back to the shops and refugees. Gale gives a cheery smile but it’s gone in an instant as he turns away. Shadowheart openly rolls her eyes and sighs loudly again, as if bored.
Astarion sucks his teeth and says lowly to Cyphur, “I think you could have taken them, darling.”
Cyphur beams at him but shakes her head. “Doubt it. Magic always wins in the end.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that,” he says, his voice dripping. Shadowheart elbows him, fiercely.
“Ow! Would you-” He bites himself off, glaring at her but covering it up quickly for Cyphur.
“You okay?” Cyphur raises her eyebrows at the two. Astarion turns to her with a toothy smile so bright it could replace the sun.
“Fine, darling, fine!”
They’re almost to the turn in the path, before their attention is called back.
“Oh, and, Adventurer?” Kagha’s low, snarky voice drifts tension straight into Cyphur’s back muscles.
Cyphur turns, the fire in her heart roiling over and daring to escape her lips. She could burn this place to the ground. They underestimate who they’re dealing with. What she would do… if she were ordered to. Though, the hole in her chest reminds her, there’s no need to be like that anymore. And, of course, if she didn’t find strange comfort in the tiefling children, laughing and playing further up the hill. There are still families here. People in need.
“Cyphur. My name is Cyphur,” she settles on, biting the words back to Kagha.
“For your information, multiple harpies are called a ‘storm’.” Her nose scrunches in dismissal, and the scar cutting from her cheek looks more severe as she does.
“Actually-” Gale stops, turns back with a lifted pointer finger, and begins.
He’s stopped by Shadowheart, flicking her hand back towards Kagha with disdain.
“Oh, what does it matter, Gale !” She turns her head so her words may carry, pointing in abject judgment at Kagha, making sure she sees her: “Do better!”
Kagha simply turns, done with them.
Gale clears his throat and abashedly scuffs his foot in the fine powder dirt. He gives a small, “Quite right,” which makes Shadowheart offer an apologetic smile. Cyphur barks a laugh, and Astarion rolls his eyes.
They pass the slew of tieflings, crying in relief over the same child Cyphur noticed sneaking out of the Grove. She beams up at them as they pass, and Cyphur gives a thumbs up. The others don’t even notice. Wyll leads them back up the winding hill, past the oxen, and stops them on a scaffolding.
“Well that was… bracing,” he says, smiling widely. Cyphur nods, her eyes skimming over Wyll’s features and forgetting to respond. The warlock clears his throat and continues, “Thank you for saving Mirkon. A watery grave is one of the worst ways to go and, especially, a child should not have the displeasure of having one.”
“Seems like the druids would disagree with you, as long as it was a tiefling kid.” Cyphur crosses her arms, annoyance ripping at her mind again. “Thanks for stepping in. Doubt it’d be the best idea killing the druid leader and all.”
“I was all for it, darling,” Astarion says, glancing over his nails and leaning against the bannister of the scaffold.
Gale scoffs. “Were you now? Because I happened to notice your hand quivering ever so slightly!”
Astarion gasps. “You take that back! I will not be insulted by a grown man in a purple onesie! My hand is always steady. Here, I’ll show you.”
“It’s a robe!”
“Oh, come on, it’s a dress and you know it! I’m sure you have very strong and handsome thighs under there. When will they come out to play, hmm?”
“Can we stow this for another time, boys,” Shadowheart cuts in. Gale thanks her with a sideways glance, his cheeks growing a rosy tinge, “You were saying? Wyll, was it?”
“Aye, my name’s Wyll. Before I was…”
“You can say ‘abducted’, we all were,” Astarion quips.
“Yes, abducted, I was hunting a rather powerful devil. In fact, she’s about your size.” He looks up at Cyphur and clears his throat after a pointed stare. “I was on her scent when the damned mind flayers caught me. However, I’ve heard she draws breath near. Will you do me this honor and help me destroy this foul devil?”
There’s a pause as the group shuffles, looking at Cyphur for her word. Instead, she turns to the others.
“What do you all think?”
Gale puts a finger to his lips and hums, “Finding this devil could help prevent needless innocent deaths in Faerûn.” Still, he sounds unsure.
Cyphur turns to Shadowheart. Her metal-braided hair swings while she speaks.
“I don’t know much about devils or demons, but if Wyll thinks it’s a danger, they may be worth looking into.”
Cyphur purses her lips. Why does she sound so… vaguely noncommittal? She turns to Astarion, gesturing for his opinion.
“We don’t need to get ourselves messed up in this. At least, not without being paid for it.” He folds his hands across his chest.
Cyphur blinks at them, then looks back to Wyll.
“Sure, we’ll help you find the devil.” She looks the man over. “I doubt you have payment…”
Wyll laughs, full and deep, shaking his head. “Only the clothes and weapon on my back. But,” he says, raising a hand, “I am a remarkable ally on the battlefield. If you require my blade, all you must do is ask.”
Cyphur looks him over again with a grin. Before she can speak, Astarion comments, “Oh, he’s offering you his blade , dear. Well, at least take a good look at it first.”
Wyll clears his throat, and Cyphur tries not to laugh. She glares at Astarion, smirk on her lips, before setting her face and turning back to their new ally.
“I don’t see the harm in you joining us. We haven’t made camp yet, but you’re more than happy to follow us when we leave the Grove.”
Wyll claps his hands and says a pleasant, “Excellent!”
The party nods and moves past him. Out the corner of Cyphur’s eye, she sees him speaking to a gnome trader, no doubt getting camping supplies for the night. She sets her gaze on the large stone slab separating the small area the refugees set up for themselves, and their leader. Getting to the door, as if by magic, it simply opens for them.
The area looks of old druidic statues and carvings. A small moat flows to the right, and the trees have long since grown throughout. Moving forward, the group sees a dark crimson tiefling, his gnarled horns at home on a weary face. His clothing is worn, seeing plenty of battles, and Cyphur wonders if his profession should be closer to a scholar at his age rather than a warrior. A younger tiefling stands at his side, a second in command.
“Hello,” Cyphur calls, warning the duo of their coming.
He worries his lip, but gives a hearty greeting back.
“Cyphur, you said your name is? Pleasure. I’m Zevlor.” He offers his hand to shake, smiling sadly. “First, I can’t tell you how relieved we all are that you saved Mirkon. We absolutely agree with you, Mirkon is all of ours. All the orphans are. Of course, without a home of our own it’s hard to keep track of anyone, let alone the wilder children, but that’s no excuse.” His eyes are cloudy, distraught. “We owe you his life. Thank you.”
Cyphur swallows the surprise at such a display of gratefulness. Feels the sheepish grin clench at her cheeks.
“It was all of us, really.”
She’s not used to such praise. Not used to this type of attention.
“Well…” Zevlor searches her expression then smiles politely at the rest of her party, “We’re in your service, all the same. Please let us know if we can do anything for you.”
“You could pay us!” Astarion pipes. Shadowheart elbows him again, eliciting an annoyed “Hey!”
“Ah, well, we don’t have much, but here.” Zevlor offers a small money pouch.
“There’s no need for that.” Cyphur pushes Zevlor’s hand back, practically feeling Astarion’s eyes burning into the back of her skull. “Your people were in need. That’s all that mattered.”
“Actually, there is another problem if you could be persuaded to help further?”
Cyphur nods, listening, trying to ignore the small moan of anguish coming from the pale elf behind her.
“Kagha means to throw us all out where the goblins will tear us apart. You’ve seen us: we’re not in fighting shape. We’re mostly women and children at this point. But Kagha isn’t the true leader of the Grove. She’s stepping in for a man named Halsin. He went to confront the goblins at their camp and hasn’t returned.”
Cyphur waits for a punchline, a small request, further details. When nothing comes she tries to piece together what she heard from a solution standpoint. The goblins have Halsin who has the power to save the tiefling refugees from being slaughtered. So…
“What do you need us to do?”
Zevlor answers immediately, sweeping his hand up in dramatic fashion, depicting the great future battle Cyphur is to perform.
“Infiltrate the goblin base and find Halsin, then bring him here to overthrow Kagha.”
Cold specks of anxiety nibble at her palms and fingertips. Infiltrate? Overthrowing? This is political. If they get caught it’s practically complete annihilation of the Grove… or their own death. It’s an insane thing to ask. Even stranger to assume anyone – or four – capable of such a feat.
What was she to say? Just ‘yes’? ‘Of course she’ll espionage her way in and out of enemy territory for a prisoner of war that just so happens to be sympathetic to Zevlor’s people’s presence’.
She’s not sure she could say it with a straight face. But he isn’t kidding.
She turns to her companions again.
“What do you all think?”
They stare back at her. Gale has the audacity to simply shrug.
“Astarion?”
“It’s a suicide mission, dear. Not worth our time. Though it is fun to kill things.”
Not helpful.
“Shadowheart?”
“These people need our help, it’s true. But what of us? Are we really up to such a job? We don’t even know if this ‘Halsin’ can help us.”
Why is she asking her? She doesn’t know either.
“Gale?”
“The weave is with us always. It will guide us despite any choice we may make.”
“That’s not- none of you are giving straight answers!”
But they simply watch her back, lackluster and ready for whatever she decides.
“Well, what do you want,” Astarion asks.
It takes a moment to process. She stares at Astarion as if he said something intentionally annoying.
“I-...” She quirks her head, “What do I want? Well… I mean I dunno.”
He raises a brow. He asks again, “What do you want? You don’t know what you want?”
“Well,” she sputters, “it’s not like any of you do either. Why is it up to me to decide?”
“Because you’re the one leading us through this. I rather doubt I’d willingly party with this lot even if my life depended on it. And it does depend on it. So, yes, I believe it’s a fair assessment for you to take up that title.” Shadowheart sounds baleful, but her eyes are kind.
Leader. Right. And a leader does what’s best for the group, right? She gazes curiously at the three of them. Or does a leader do what’s best for all people? Her eyes wander to the second in command meandering past, to Zevlor, patiently waiting for an answer.
“Okay…” Then with more confidence, “Okay. We’ll do it.”
Zevlor and her shake on it. He thanks her profusely.
Getting outside feels like glimpsing the sun again after so long in the dark. Cyphur breathes deeply, unable to realize she had barely drawn breath while speaking with Zevlor. He was so… forthcoming. So praise focused. She feels if she recanted, he’d have a look of dismay and acceptance that’d grow the hole wailing inside her chest.
She shakes her head and almost snorts.
And if she had said no? All of that praise would vanish as quickly as sugar in water. He’d be just another person holding something over their heads. Instead, he’s putting the lives of all the women, children, and men in this Grove at their feet. If they fail, countless will die. If they win, well… she supposes it’ll be a story to tell the ages.
So she can’t fail.
What else is new?
Astarion prattles on against the decision, sighing heavily eventually and says, “We better take all of their money if we survive this. Honestly, not even mercenaries get this bad of the stick.”
“It’s the closest we’ve gotten to a cure so far, might as well try,” Shadowheart grumbles.
At least now they have opinions…
Gale’s voice lowers in Cyphur’s mind as her eyes train on Mirkon running around camp. He’s talking to another boy his age and eyes over a trinket.
“Hey, kid!”
The tiefling boy looks startled and scurries off immediately. Mirkon smiles brightly, waving as they get closer up the hill.
“Hello again, Miss! Fancy seeing you around. I thought you’d be fighting more nasty harpies!”
She bends on one knee again to be at his height. His wide eyes wonder at her visage, her clothes. She imagines him growing up to be just like her one day. Ignores the weird emotion that stabs at that thought. Tries to give the boy a warm smile.
“Listen, I just wanted to tell you-”
His face falls.
“I know Miss, don’t go wandering. Everyone’s been telling me since you saved me, even Mol.”
“No, no that’s not what I-” She tries to gather herself again with a shaky breath. “Listen, even if you don’t have a mother, you matter. Okay? Just because your mom isn’t around to help you figure out things and guide you, or keep you close, that doesn’t make you any less than anyone else. You can still do great things.”
Mirkon’s face swims from offended to unsure to confused and wary.
“Okay, uh, thanks Miss.” He scratches his neck awkwardly, “You know I don’t have a dad, either right? I mean, it’s okay, I never had either actually, so it’s not as bad as some’a’the other’s who’d known theirs an’ lost ‘em…”
Astarion leans over to hiss into Cyphur’s ear.
“Not to interrupt but your pep talk isn’t exactly encouraging. What are you trying to say to this child?”
Cyphur thinks, blinking at the boy. She’s not sure, actually. She clears her throat.
“Ah… good, that’s… good.” Her lips feel numb as she mumbles, standing and turning, letting the kid dart away. He runs off to join a group of other children peddling a fake shop, selling spoons and rocks.
“You okay,” Gale asks.
She hadn’t noticed her eyes had been unfocused. She was remembering a feeling of- but Gale’s face seemed concerned. She balks at him.
“Of course!” It comes out a bit harsher than she had meant, but it’s done now. She starts off in a direction, walking through the Grove. The others simply follow, as they have been since they’d all met.
When they leave, they find Wyll waiting by the entrance. He joins the party back to camp. Cyphur supposes: the more the merrier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They finally make camp between a rather ominous abandoned village and the Grove. Gale cooks supper, some stew of the potatoes and meat they found along the way, and the others speak amicably. Shadowheart gathers information about this devil they’re supposed to kill, and Astarion reads a lengthy tome pretending not to listen. The stew is served in little time, and conversation prattles into the taste of it, and how good a cook Gale is. The wizard beams, looking about the fire, before launching into the longest tale anyone’s probably ever heard.
It’s comforting, in a sense. At least to Cyphur. Everyone else seems to be uncaring or waiting for the next moment to escape.
Cyphur watches Gale craft the story, entrapped, until its conclusion. She asks her questions, and ignores the jokes and snorts from Astarion as she’s answered.
At one point, she reaches to get more wine at the same time as Astarion. Hands barely brush fingers, but it’s soft, tender. Astarion retracts, letting her continue, murmuring a quiet, “Oh, apologies, my dear.”
There’s no reason why it should have called Cyphur’s attention the way it does. No reason to feel the small hunger at his sudden pliant demeanor. But she glances at him. Something in his voice curtailing her. His calm, half-lidded eyes watch her. That was all he intended, she’s sure: just to have her look at him, just for a moment.
She smirks at him. Gives a playful wink.
In an instant, it’s forgotten. He goes back to riling Wyll up and she tops off everyone’s drinks.
But she does wonder if he’ll do it again…
Eventually, the stories end and everyone begins to settle for the night.
It seems… strange. Foreign, to have so many people just talking with her. It makes her chest ache, just a smidge, as the others unfurl their newly acquired fur rolls to sleep. Shadowheart and Astarion sit upright, their hands facing downward in their lap, and their fingers press together, as they meditate. Gale and Wyll say pleasant goodnights, before curling into their furs. Gale even has a make-shift eye cover that makes Cyphur stifle a giggle.
But Cyphur… she stares up at the stars.
‘What do you want? You don’t know what you want?’ it echoes in her head. She supposes she never thought about it before. It’s never been a necessity or a privilege to be able to decide her own actions. It feels alien to her. It makes sense to push forward for these people, and for her small and growing group of tadpole-victims, but if she were not in this situation, if her companions weren’t here, if the people of the Grove had not asked her for help: what would she want? Who would she be?
The whisper tickles in the back of her mind: perhaps she would simply return. Go back to her old life before all this.
Her head hurts. Her stomach twists.
She doesn’t have to think about this right now.
She does have a party of tadpole-victims to lead. She does have a Grove full of refugees asking for her help and a druid leader kidnapped by goblins.
What she wants outside of that doesn’t matter.
She turns away from the stars, cuddling into the furs.
But for some reason she can’t shake this doubt, crawling like tendrils cold on her back.
Because she’s realized: she’s not sure if what she wants is supposed to matter.
As the world fades to the void, and sleep takes her, she just can’t get the idea out of her head.