XII

Not Quite Love

Dez stared at his feathered fingers, pressed against the bloodied stage, his mind and body both too frazzled to stand. His wings hugged his chest and wrapped around his torso like a cocoon as he shivered in place.

“W-w- click- what h- whistle- shit- trill- MMMh… what- what h- click- st- click- fuck- stop- click- stop stop- trill-”

“What was that?” Alikath asked, warily standing, and tugging at his horns to distract from his splitting headache. “And how wasn't it magic!?”

“They could have made themselves immune,” Roland suggested, still on his back. “Clearly, they planned this out ahead of time.”

“Hard to make yourself immune to anti-magic,” Alikath shook his head. “Not a lot of herbal balms act as spell repellents.”

“I'm more interested in their motivation,” The Rembrandt chimed in, pulling her cane out of Minako's skull. “Did they say anything before you struck them down?”

“It was pretty vague,” Amira said. “They didn't like Goldheart, but we barely got two words in to each other.”

“Hm,” Murtagh wiped their cane off on Minako's cheek. “I might have killed this one prematurely.”

“Triandra mentioned something about a job,” Roland sat up. “Maybe we'll get a chance to ask her about it later- she's gone.”

“What!?” Alikath gasped, turning to see that yes, the pool of blood where Triandra once laid was missing a corpse. He cursed under his breath.

“Well let's find ‘er!” Amira picked up her axe. “She was bleedin’ out of ‘er gut, she couldn't'a gone far!”

“She couldn't have gone anywhere without healing herself,” Alikath scratched his chin. “She was bleeding out. If she ran away, we can't count on catching her blood-trail. That means we won't find her at all.”

“Because she could look like anyone,” The Rembrandt finished. “You're right. But we'll find her- eventually. Is everyone else okay?”

Roland and Alikath smoldered, and turned their heads away from the Rembrandt, nodding.

“OKAY!?” Dez threw his arms up and shouted, still lying on his wings. “I WAS STABBED! I AM- click- NOT OKAY!”

Alikath checked on Goodman, sitting on the stage floor, holding his ankle with an awkward smile.

“Ah, my savior!” He cheered. “Fantastic work with those thugs, I can't thank you enough.”

“No, you can't,” Alikath crossed his arms. “You could have ran.”

“Ran? From a threat to my people? Never!” Goodman waved Alikath off. “On the contrary, I was all too eager to stand up and fight with you. But their pesky explosive gave me a nasty tumble, and left me with a sprained ankle. You understand.”

Goodman gave a half-hearted attempt to lift his left leg, before dropping it back on the floor, and shrugging.

“All too well,” Alikath glared.

“I should really start avoiding you, Alikath.” Murtagh approached. “If we keep meeting like this, I'll start thinking you're bad luck.”

“Funny coming from a Half-elf. But I've been told I have a knack for making people's lives harder. You might be onto something, Rembrandt.”

“No, that's just your job. I can't give you too much credit.”

“It's good to see you in good spirits, Murtagh.”

“I take it these are your new lackeys? Look at that- Alikath Navarre taking seniority at the Tower of Unity. I never took you for a leader.”

“Funny, I still don't take you for one.” Alikath grinned.

Amira and a limping Dez stood at Alikath's back.

“‘Sa pleasure t'meet ya- name's Amira Callaghan! I'll be yer partner from here on.”

Amira held out her hand, which the Rembrandt took eagerly.

“Callaghan? I know that name. Would that make you the Culross Butcher?”

Amira promptly took her hand back and held it stiffly at her side.

“That nickname left Gro!?”

“In a sense- I have a fondness for folktales is all. Still, it's an honor to meet you.”

“Uh… yeah, charmed.”

Breaking up the tension, Goldheart came marching in, dusting off his coat while he spoke to his saviors.

“Fantastic work with those thugs, my friends! My apologies for not assisting, I was all too eager to stand up and fight with you. But their pesky explosive gave me a nasty tumble, and left me with a sprained ankle. You understand.”

“Are you here on business, or leisure?” Alikath asked Murtagh.

“I don't have time for leisure anymore, God grant. I'm following the trail of some concerning rumors the circle brought to my attention. The debate seemed like a worthy detour... which I was both wrong and right about.”

“Rumors?” Dez cocked his head. “What rumors?”

Murtagh smirked. “Easy, boy- I'm a Conscriptite, what's that information worth to you?”

“Not enough,” Alikath herded Dez away. “My partners and I need to get back to our own. We don't have time to run your errands, Murtagh.”

“And you used to be so fun.”

Alikath and Murtagh stood face to face, and shared a look. Dez studied both of them curiously, but couldn't place either of their expressions in that odd beat of silence.

“...But of course.” The Rembrandt finally broke the silence. “The General and the Princess want to meet soon, don't they? You shouldn't keep them waiting.”

“And we don't intend to.”

“Well, keep us in your thoughts, Alikath.” Murtagh stepped back, and hopped off the stage. “We're counting on you!”

Alikath nodded, and gathered his three companions to rendezvous with the other party.

The two groups converged, and shared their separate adventures as they meandered toward the Crossroads Inn to spend the night.

Fletch gawked at Amira's fortitude in blocking out her very senses to catch Minako, while Dez thought Fletch's mimicry of a Dorodor's mannerisms were more worth attention. Fletch disagreed; he desperately wanted his actions on the road to not be mentioned. He nearly swung at Andrés when he brought it up.

The group chattered all the way to Crossroads, but when Alikath opened the door to let his friends in, Roland pivoted to leave without a word.

“Where are you going, Satyr?” Alikath prodded, the first to notice him breaking off.

“Nowhere. I don’t do inns.”

“Well where are you going to sleep?” Dez asked.

“I have a place.”

“No, you don’t,” Andrés rolled his eyes. “Last time he ‘had a place,’ it was a gutter half a mile out from where I was sleeping. You need to bathe, Roland.”

“I don’t sleep at inns,” Roland repeated, his tongue cutting the harsher syllables. “Good night.”

“Are you broke, Roland?” Alikath asked. “You aren’t paying for the room-”

“No. Stop asking.”

Roland turned again to leave.

“What are you so afraid of?” Rosellia asked. “It’s a fine building, I've been myself once before.”

“Rolan’, c’mon, don’t be like that- we just killed t’gether, let’s share a drink, ah?!”

“I’m not spending a second I don’t have to with you insects! Your voices are annoying, so shut up before I burn this alehouse down! Then we'll ALL sleep in a gutter!”

“Insects?” Fletch tensed. “What did I do to you?”

Alikath watched Roland walk away, and leaned against the wall.

“Alright, Roland. I guess we’ll see you in the morning, then. Tell me if you come across Triandra- I was hoping to have us sleep in pairs so we could all keep an eye out. But I doubt she cares enough to track us down.”

Roland stopped in his tracks.

Andrés raised an eyebrow, and quickly caught on. He chuckled, and waved his hand.

“Yeah, what are the odds a Changeling can sneak into an inn, right? We’ll be fine having someone sleep on their own. Won’t we, Roland? And you can always let yourself into one of our rooms tonight if you- ahem- change your mind.”

Roland stood still, his back turned to the group. After a long pause, he sighed.

“...Fine. I’m gonna slit that canvas’ throat next I see her.”

Roland turned back around, and walked in with the party.

Crossroads was as rowdy and discordant as it was when Alikath and Rosellia shared their first drink together. People from all walks of life were bringing their own flavor to the celebration of drunkenness, rambling and flirting in dozens of half-languages. Prostitutes and drug peddlers picked off the youngest ones sitting alone. Two bards bickered and fought over the right to use the stage to perform. The Ambassadors spread out, and made themselves comfortable.

Andrés, seeing an opportunity, waltzed up to the competing bards, and joined in their conversation. Fletch observed close behind him.

The first bard, a lanky Genasi girl with a flute, was trying to kick off a dwarf wrestling with a set of drums.

“Hey- hey- what's this all about?” Andrés waved them down. “This is a tavern, I don't remember walking into an arena.”

“Aye, an’ this poser doen't seem t'understand th’ stage is fer music, n'not comedy!” The dwarf barked. “Get out'a my spot!”

“It's mine!” The Genasi refused. “You can't tell an instrument from a training dummy, you barbaric chimp! Sit back down and let me perform!”

“All right, let's not be that way, guys! We're all artists here, can't we find a way to play together, and make something new instead-”

“No! I'm not playing with him!” The Genasi said. “I got here first, this audience is mine to take!”

“I come t'this spot every other Diemor- y'think haulin’ my four-foot-five ass around with a drum set is easy!? I ain't leavin’, bitch!”

“So we really can't-”

Both bards glared at Andrés.

“We aren't sharing the spotlight with you, either, call boy. Trying to get your tab paid tonight?”

Andrés shook his head and backed off. “Not at all- I'm not here to dance, I just want to hear some music- that's all!”

“Not that I wouldn't love to get to perform with you!” He continued, not looking at either of them in particular. “Actually- have I seen your routine before?”

“Me?” The Genasi asked. “On the road, maybe, but this is my first time at Crossroads.”

“Really?” Andrés scratched his head. “But you look so familiar... I remember really liking a bard that looked just like- ah! It's your garb! Where did you get it!?”

The Genasi raised her eyebrows, and pinched their collar. “You've seen this outfit before? It's a planeshifter's gown- kind of a- um, deep historical cut for Genasi. You saw another bard wearing this?”

“I did! I'm sure I did! Ohh man, it's coming to me now. It was this older Genasi guy with all these different tools he was using to change the sound of his instruments- it was inspiring! It was like an orchestra hanging out in his back pocket, was- was that a Hecatian performer?”

“I should hope so,” The Genasi laughed. “If he was using dabt sihriun. You liked him?”

“Would you two go away and talk so I can-” The dwarf began.

“Liked?” Interrupted Andrés. “I can't get him out of my head, obviously. So, hang on- you know how he changed up his instruments like that?”

“It's more magic than anything, but there's a pattern to it. I've been trying to learn it myself, actually.”

“Really?”

Andrés stepped on one of the dwarf's drums, and got closer to the Genasi. She pulled back a little.

“I'd love to hear what you've learned! I've wanted to hear more Hecatian music for years, but I never got the chance.”

“Ah- is that so?”

“Absolutely. I can't seem to find anything so otherworldly, so- so regal outside of Hecatia. It's hard to find someone carrying that place's spirit with them. But you do. I can tell.”

“C-can you now?”

“Mhm.” Andrés smirked, tracing one finger through the Genasi's scarf. “You wear it on your shoulders, at the very least. I really do adore that getup. It's all about heritage though, isn't it? I'm a little jealous I can't wear it myself. Not that I'd- ah, pull it off like you do.”

Andrés’ chest was inches away from hers now. His stomach was all but pressed against her hips. She looked uncomfortable, but not enough to leave. This was her stage, after all.

“You're the first man in a while who's complimented it, let alone recognized it.”

“That's a shame. You shouldn't get to stop hearing how beautiful your hometown looks on you. Hecatians put such an emphasis on those legs of theirs, don't they? And even your perfume- is that greybalm?”

“You do know Hecatia.”

“Not enough,” Andrés pouted, fluttering his eyes. “I haven't had the chance to really learn from someone native. I have such bad luck with strangers, you know?”

“I- I know the feeling.”

“You do…?”

Andrés leaned in that little bit closer. As his skin met hers, the Genasi still did not back away.

“I'd love to hear some stories from back home, if you'll let me bother you a little more.”

“You're not bothering me!”

“Are you sure?” Andrés asked. “Well, let me buy you a drink for your trouble, just in case.”

“Hah... if you insist.”

Andrés hopped off the stage, and held out his hand to let the Genasi step down. The two walked to the bar, as the Dwarf happily started moving his equipment on stage.

As Andrés passed by Fletch, he leaned in and whispered to the Kenku.

“Finally, some music. Woodwinds drive me crazy when I'm drunk.”

Andrés walked off, and Fletch's feathers stood up on end.

Artemis sat on their chair, leaning forward on the table, smearing the back cover of their book along the wooden surface. They picked up the book, tsk'd, and smacked it back down, moving it around again. They pressed and pushed against this little leather-bound tome, too focused to notice the large, bipedal eagle staring perching on the back of a nearby chair, staring at them.

“What are you doing?” Dez asked, starling Artemis.

“-AH!” They jumped, glaring at Dez for his spying. “Trying to flatten a plant.”

“Why?”

“So I can keep it.”

Artemis lifted their book to let Dez get a look at the flower they were flattening. It was a timid little yellow thing, whose stem was putting up a fight against Artremis’ pressing.

“Feverbalm,” they said. “Found it growing outside of the inn. Never seen it before.”

“How do you know what it is, then?”

“Know about all sorts of plants.”

Artemis lifted the book over their head, and slammed it on the flower- catching the attention of the surrounding crowd. Finally flat, Artemis picked up the flower with two fingers, swabbed one of its petals with another finger, and touched it to their tongue. They instructed Dez to do the same.

“Taste this.”

He did. As soon as his tongue touched his feathered finger, he scrunched up.

“It's bitter. It's- oh- it's really bitter!”

Artemis nodded. “Mhm. Monks in Broker's Hold brew it into tea that gives a temporary break from magically-induced insanity. Depending on the potency of the flower, it's said to work anywhere from six minutes to two days. Say it's that unusual bitterness overwhelming your senses and bringing focus, when it spreads through your body.”

“I think I'd go insane if I had to drink that.”

“Hm. Funny.”

Artemis opened the book, about three-fourths of the way to the end, and placed the flattened flower inside a transparent sleeve lined along the page. In the sleeve were about four other plants, of different sizes and shapes, all flattened and sharing space. In the page beside it, about eight more.

Dez cocked his head. “You collect plants?”

Artemis reached into their bag, picked up another, smaller book, scrolled through it, and crossed something out with a quill.

“No.”

“No?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Did you know that the Eastern Continent has more diverse fauna than the West?” Artemis asked.

“Really? But the earth is so much better in the West.”

“Mhm.” Artemis put the smaller book back away. “Granted, most of the plants in the East are weeds. But Lyveria sends so little foot traffic past Highland Field that it's basically an undisturbed ecosystem in Arbante and Thyme.”

“But Graycove's a wasteland-”

“-And Dustlow would outperform the entire continent if half of it weren't cut down. But the West puts so much effort into cash crops and medicinal herbs that hardly anything else is allowed to grow. So, the east is more diverse. No one cuts the weeds.”

“Fascinating.” Dez took out his own journal, and scribbled a note. “What other plants have you found?”

Artemis started flipping backwards through the tome, each page filled to the brim with flattened and preserved plants. Color after color, shape after shape- Artemis hardly left a second for Dez to look at them before moving on to the next.

“Flax used to grow all over the Land District, according to botany records. But at some point, about 1,500 years ago, some world-spanning whatever happened, and now they only grow in the clearing above East Clearbrooke, right below the Terraque alps. Seeds are basically just bird food, now. Flax isn't valuable enough to be expensive, even with how rare they've gotten.

“Euphorbia used to be considered a thief's herb- rumors said if you ate it you'd be able to pick the next lock you come across, no matter what. But in practice, it's only useful as an aphrodisiac. Still call it the ‘lockpicking plant’ though. Heh.

“Ooh- Apothecary from Thyme once got chased by bandits when word spread he found a Memoria Gem. Fled to Dagan's tomb and doused himself in Magasorium oil to keep the scarabs off him. Bandits were all eaten alive, but he walked out unscathed. Got mugged the next week.

“Oleander is understood to be wildly poisonous, but lovers still go head over heels to gift them to each other. Say it represents purity in a tainted shell… one of my favorites.”

“That's so cool!” Dez finally exclaimed.

Artemis looked at Dez, confusion in their eyes. “It is?”

“Yes!” He chirped. “I want to know more about your plant collection- where did you start!?”

Artemis blushed. They flipped the book all the way back to page one, and took a deep breath in, ready to ramble to Dez for however many hours they could get away with about their book of plants.

Roland stood in the corner of the room furthest from the main mass of the crowd. He lingered there, letting his eyes haze over, when Rosellia snuck up beside him.

“Brooding by yourself, little hooves?”

“Go away,” Roland snapped. "Don't you have some ghetto to gentrify? Your makeup is running.”

“I'm flattered that you think I'm wearing makeup.”

Rosellia smirked, but briefly turned around, and checked her mirror, just to be sure.

“-Ahem. What has you in such a bad mood, anyway? I don't think I've seen you smile since we met.”

“Oh, would it make you happy to see me smile, cleric?”

“It might.”

Roland looked Rosellia in the eye for a moment, and did not change his expression. After a beat, he looked away again.

“...Hmph,” Rosellia crossed her arms. “Well I'll have you know that I don't let my subjects stay miserable. Even if they prefer it that way. I'm going to make you smile, Roland.”

“The clown is a bardic profession, fish. Stick to reading scripture and get out of my hair.”

“What are you even staring at, anyway?”

“I'm not staring at anything.”

Rosellia ignored him, and traced his line of sight with her own. She found, more or less, that he was staring at Alikath, playing some sort of game with Amira. She chuckled.

“Huh. I see where your taste in men lies,” She teased. “How's your taste in women, Roland?”

“Bitter.” He said, and walked away.

Rosellia scoffed, and turned up her chin, going to join her other friends.

“Just hold your palm to the table, fingers spread out, and stab the space between your fingers.” Alikath explained. “And go back to the space past your thumb between each one.”

“Like this?” Amira asked, demonstrating.

“No, you go back to the thumb every other stab- here, look.”

Alikath took out Daemor, and started playing the knife game for Amira to watch. A few moments later, she got the idea, and copied his movements.

“There ya go!” Alikath cheered.

“Don't tell me yer still watchin’ my hand.”

“Just peeking. What, you scared?”

“Ha! Scared ‘a what, pox? I know my way around a knife- ghk- but this is hard.”

“Just focus. I could disqualify you for that little slip, Amira.”

“I got it!”

The two kept up this dexterity context, both keeping their hands relatively unscathed, though it was clear that Amira was trying much harder than the cross-legged Alikath.

After a few more moments of steel puncturing wood, Alikath looked up from his hand, at Amira.

“So, who's the Culross Butcher?”

Amira broke her concentration, and immediately stabbed herself in the dorsal.

“AGH! FUCK! AH!”

Amira pulled the knife out of her hand, and scowled, shaking her wound to ease the pain.

“In't it a little disrespectful t’ play a party game with a Memoria Gem?”

“She doesn't mind,” Alikath put Daemor back in his coat. “So?”

“‘Sa nickname, darapok suar. Got it fer killin’ a monster.”

“Really? What kind of monster?”

“It was like a big white, um... the word- serpent, ah? Brought in flooding water wherever it went. Folks called it the King.”

“I think I've heard of that one, wasn't it hoarding territory out in Gro or something?”

“Or something,” Amira sighed. “If ye don't mind, I'd like t'take a little time before I, uh…”

Amira trailed off, and started looking around her person, realizing she had misplaced her knife. A moment later, Fletch popped up from under the table, holding it in his lap.

“You got a title for killing a monster?” Fletch asked. “Does that make you a folk hero?”

“Sure. Gimme that!” Amira snatched her knife back. “Look, it doesn't really matter- I don't like th’ name. Lookin’ t'get it replaced, actually.”

“Why's that?”

“Full'a questions, aren't ye?” Amira glared. “It just… I traded a friend fer that name. Dredges up some bad memories, s'all.”

Alikath shrugged. Fletch reached for Alikath's coat to grab Daemor, but pulled back when Alikath slapped him on the wrist.

“I think you should be proud of it!” Fletch cooed, rubbing his hand. “If you killed something worth earning a title for, it must have been really strong! That makes you really strong!”

“Hah! I don't need a nickname t'know that, Sootfoot,” Amira beamed, and gestured to her bicep. “I already know I'm th’ strongest two-legged bitch on th’ continent! I can do better than some fuckin’ snake.”

“How strong are you, Amira?” Fletch asked.

“Lookin’ fer a demonstration, short stuff?”

Amira gave Fletch a mean smile, but her confidence shook when all she got in return was the same curious stare. She scoffed, and brushed off her arms.

“Lifted twelve hundred pounds, last I tested.”

The night dragged on for a few more hours, until the weight of their liquor began to hang on the Ambassador's eyes. All congregated around the same table, Alikath fished for his coin purse.

“Alright, I think this place has a three-bedroom, but even if it isn't taken, it's way more expensive- so let's just sleep in pairs again. You guys have a preference?”

Rosellia looked at Amira by default, but Amira shrugged, and laced her fingers behind her neck.

“Ye wanna bunk with me, Dez?”

“-Oh! Um, okay!” Dez nodded.

The two of them thought nothing of it, but the rest of the group gave them odd looks.

“Isn't it safer to keep the women together?” said Fletch.

“Oh. Oh yeah,” Amira bumped her forehead. “I just figured Rosellia n’ I slept t'gether last time, n’ th’ bookworm seems good fer conversation.”

Dez shared in Amira's surprise over their little faux-pas, which made Artemis smile.

“Soldier's trifecta,” they joked. “Women are just as stupid as the men.”

“Would you prefer to stay with Amira, Rosellia?” Alikath asked.

“I don't mind. It isn't really, um… well- it's not the same here as how I was raised in Lyveria. The women are usually, um…”

“Oh, right,” Alikath realized. “You wouldn't care, then. Alright, how about you and Fletch, Andrés and Roland, and I'll take Artemis.”

Everyone nodded.

“Great!” Alikath stood up. “I'll go pay our tab and get our keys, I'll be right back.

“Click- tax collector!” Dez blurted out.

Alikath turned back. “Pardon?”

“I, uh- I um…” Dez stammered. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Alikath walked off, leaving the group to wait for him in silence. While he was away, Amira looked at Andrés, who had earned some mild bloodstains on his shoulders, and in his hair.

“What happened ta you?” She asked.

“The Genasi broke a bottle over my head.” Andrés answered. “I made a... flute joke she didn't understand.”

“Oh.”

There was another short pause, while everyone other than Andrés were lost in thought.

Fletch spoke first. “Did you ask if she would-”

“I asked if she would blow me,” Andrés answered. Everyone nodded knowingly.

“I got our keys,” Alikath returned. “But someone already paid our tab.”

“Really?” Rosellia asked. “I didn't realize we had fans here.”

“We usually don't. Oh well, goodnight everybody.”

The pairs took their keys, and meandered upstairs to get some rest.

Rosellia sat on her mattress, picking up her pillow and re-setting it on the bed, over and over again until it felt right. And it never felt right.

She wasn't sure why this happened- and it hadn't happened in at least a month, but disaster just so happened to strike her on this particular bedroll. If she tried to sleep on this pillow before her brain wanted her to, she might as well try to sleep on a porcupine.

Fletch noticed this, while setting his own things out around his mattress; just a few caltrops and ball bearings, nothing excessive.

“What are you doing?”

“I can't-” Rosellia growled. “It doesn't fit.”

“It's a pillow.”

“I know very well it's a pillow, it won't fit!” She snapped.

“...You aren't going to sleep for a while, are you?”

Rosellia sighed, and let go. “No. I think I won't.”

“That's good.”

“It is?”

“It is!” Fletch trilled. “I'm not ready to sleep yet either- but I thought it wasn't worth staying up if no one else was going to- but since I'm bunking with you-”

Fletch reached into his coat, and started pulling bottles of wine out of its shade. Not flasks, or wine skins- full sized, unopened bottles of wine, one after the other, just sitting in his clothes.

“Look what I grabbed from behind the counter!” He cooed proudly, pulling out his fourth bottle from God-knows-where.

Rosellia couldn't believe her eyes. “Fletch! You stole those from the bartender!?”

“Yeah,” He answered, only now realizing he might have upset this Aquatic landlord.

“A-” Her voice caught in her throat. “-All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Just... right under her nose?”

“I'm sorry.”

“...How did you do that?”

Fletch shrugged like a guilty ten year old. “She wasn't looking at me.”

Rosellia forced herself to stop staring at Fletch like a zoo animal, and regained her composure.

“Go bring those back down and pay for them.”

“All of them?” Fletch pleaded.

“Yes, all of them.”

“Even the Sordelle?”

“Yes, th-...”

Rosellia felt something inside of her crumble.

“You have Sordelle?”

Fletch nodded, and pulled out half of a deep red wine bottle out to show Rosellia.

She sighed, and waved Fletch over to her mattress.

“Bring it here.”

Fletch brightened up, and hopped over to her, almost bouncing one of the bottles off the mattress.

Andrés laid back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, while Roland leaned his polearm against the foot of his bed-frame.

“Funny how you and I got bunked together again,” said Andrés. “Think Alikath did that on purpose?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, me too. Might be for the best though- I don't think we really know any of those guys yet. We feel safer with each other than they would with us, y'know?”

“Sure.”

“But that's weird, right? Didn't these guys band together, like, a week ago?” Andrés looked over at Roland. “That Aarakocra-”

“Dez.”

“Yeah- he told me he's only known them a day longer than we did. But they're like- all over him, it feels like. You notice that?”

“Mhm.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“...”

“...Why do you think that is, Roland?”

“He's a child- are you going to keep this up all night?”

“Sorry. I'm just not tired, I guess.” Andrés sat up. “Elves don't really sleep, so I only need about four hours before I-”

“I know. I'm a Half-elf.”

“Oh yeah,” Andrés smirked, and stared at Roland's hooves. “The legs throw me.”

“...”

“...So… if we're gonna be up for four more hours… might as well pass the time, right? Silence gets boring after so long.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Oh yeah? You like it?”

“...”

“Come on!” Andrés whined. “What's it gonna take for you to talk about yourself? I haven't learned a thing about you yet!”

“I don't know anything about you either. Despite how much you like to talk.”

“Oh- is that all it takes? Well, I was born the son of a concubine-.”

“Oh gods.” Roland smothered his ears in his pillow.

“My father wanted to keep me and my mother his dirty little secret, so he gave us some money to pack up and fuck off to Conscriptus. It was there that I picked up my unrequited love for music, and my unreciprocated love for women. A few dozen heartbreaks later with a few shallow girls looking for a boy-toy, and I'm working three jobs trying to support my sick ‘ma. But that's when this noble type- real nasty sonofabitch- moves into town and starts putting my employers out of business. All in the name of money, that one. 

"The change in scenery hit me hard- too hard to keep buying food for my mother. So I do the only thing I can do: I beg the noble for help. I offer to play every song I know to get some cash off her, but she tells me to get lost. Says my music isn't worth the time she's taking to hear it, and kicks me out on my ass. My mom doesn't make it.”

Despite how long Andrés has been dumping exposition, Roland tried to hide that he was paying attention.

“I couldn't look at the city the same way again. Now, I'm on a journey to hone my craft, and become the perfect musician. I'm gonna honor my mother by writing a song so good, I'll earn a spot back at my father's side.”

Roland laid there, and drank the story in.

“...So?” Andrés leaned forward. “Your turn.”

Roland stared at the ceiling for a beat, and sighed.

“...I was born in the Northwest. But I left home when I was twelve.”

Andrés couldn't hold in his excitement. He listened with bated breath.

“A few years later, I met this Wood Elf.

“He paid for my protection, but then tried to feed me to a flesh-mass in the woods. So I killed him in his sleep.”

Andrés was not amused.

“I'm sorry,” Roland caught his tongue. “We haven't gotten to that part yet.”

“Alright, fuck you anyway!” Andrés stood up. “I've got errands to run.”

“Where are you going?”

Andrés rolled his eyes. “I'm going back to the OneWood.”

Roland stared at Andrés, said nothing, and turned over in his bedroll.

Andrés scoffed, and finished the conversation by himself.

“But why? I don't care about the treasure. ‘I'm not going for that, just stay here.’ You're gonna die! ‘Bury me.’ Unbelievable.”

Andrés closed the door behind him, and left Roland in peace, ironically defeating the purpose of him being there in the first place.