On the Death of Stars

Act I, chapter 3: Poisoned Ivy (part 2)

You see a tieffling woman crying out of rage as her companion holds her by the shoulders, half trying to pull her away from the druids, half clinging to her body to draw strength.

"Let my daughter go!" she roars with anguish.

One of the three bastards wildshapes into a bear and lets out a thunderous growl, succesfully intimidating the small crowd that begrudginly retreats into the refugee camp. You walk up to the distressed parents to assess what is happening. Their kid's name is Arabella, and she is being held captive in the inner sanctum of the Grove after she tried to steal the Circle's holiest idol, the very same one they are using as the centerpiece of their ongoing ritual. The parents keep blaming themselves, especially the mother. You've learned over the decades that most mothers have nothing in common with the one who brought you into this world, and you've taken great comfort in that fact. Astarion seems to appreciate the idea of a bold tieff' kid ready to steal druidic idols, and so do you. He, however, doesn't like you immediately offering to try pleading in her favour to the anxious parents. Too bad for him: if you can't assist the refugees, you will at the very least try to help out their children.

You return to the druids guarding the entrance to their praying grounds. They look pathetic, thinking that their petty display of intimidation will scare you away just as it did those poor souls. You decide to remind them of their place, mentioning you just saved them from these gobbos at the gate, but you just get barked at by the one in the middle, making you cock an eyebrow out of disdain. "The bitch won't stand down", you realize, coiling yourself to put on a show of force of your own. But her peer to the left intervenes just in time.

"Jeorna, a moment please", he turns to you. "You are the ones who defended our shelter earlier? Kagha, our archdruid, wishes to speak with you." He indicates you the way with his hand, and you refuse to deign even giving the shortest of answers, walking by them with your party in ice cold silence.

Despite this Grove reeking of political pollution, you must admit that the tall wood carved idol of Silvanus presiding from the high altar at the center of the gardens is extremely powerful, bathing the air around it in a green hue and emitting great appeasing waves that fill you with a rare sense of serenity. You wonder: do the druids praying and chanting for their life saving ritual know that once a Rite of Thorns is completed, a grove tends to fastly become a converting playground for a Shadow Circle? In such a case, their precious cult to the Old Father would drastically change. They probably do not: they're all too eager to accomplish it, aside from a few ones. It is so easy to feed lies to a small isolated community. For now, you will relish the calm under their God's gaze. Gale is being hailed by a bard, asking him all sorts of questions about your earlier battle, excitedly scratching his quill upon a comically long piece of parchment. Astarion stretches out his head right between yours and Shadowheart's, gasping in an intentionally bad forgery of admiration:

"-Oh. My. Stars. It's Volothamp Geddarm! The greatest bard to ever counterfeit History!

-I didn't expect you to be such an admirer of his works." says Shadowheart, trying not to laugh too loudly. Astarion puts his right hand on his heart, feigning to think her jab hurtful:

"-But I do love a good charlatan darling!

-Oh, so it really is that famous fucker, huh?" you ask rhetorically. You've heard of the man way too many times from Father Azul. He always took a peculiar pleasure in wallowing in his hatred for him, composing entire verses about pissing on his future grave during your drinking nights. You note how accurate his descriptions of Volo were, from his screeching faux-honeyed words to his total absence of fashion awareness.

You focus a little to hear his conversation with Gale more distinctly. The wizard's absolutely befuddled expression at the mention of an inexisting brass dragon during the fight is priceless, it sends you and your companions into uncontrollable giggles. You stray away to calm yourselves, mercilessly leaving Gale to his fate. On a hill above a small creek, you finally begin to catch you breath, unintently interrupting the musings of another bard, a tieffling this time. She throws a frustrated glance at your company, but doesn't say anything. Once your own composure regained, you decide to sit cross-legged at her feet, rummaging inside your bag to take your old flute out. She looks at you, curious, and so you prompt her:

"-Writer's block?

-Yes. Gods it's so frustrating. I have a tune, I have a lot of ideas, but I keep on blanking out.

-This place could become quite dangerous soon enough, how about I help you out?

-It... could work. Would you accompany me?

-My fingers are itching for it." you answer with a soft smile.

As your duet begins, while nudging yourself comfortably in her lead, you remark that the rogue and the half-elf finally calmed down as well. Shadowheart lays on her side in the grass, eyes shut and ears open, Astarion leans against a tree, cross-armed and trying not to look too attentive. It reminds you of home, it reminds you of the Clan. The long evenings spent with Azul in musical communion as the other three listened, Anderson and Silken Touch's heads resting on each of Jezebelle's large shoulders. Father is the only person you've ever met who still actively worships Milil to this day, the banished Lord of Song. You slowly come back from your memories as you hear the tieffling's voice, starting to sing in a melancholic tone tinged with distinct strings of hope, her articulation meticulous and her vocalizations as perfect as the sight of autumn leaves gliding to the ground. You slip a silent prayer for her safety to the Guardian of Singers in your mind. While you smoothly walk along her notes, you feel a familiar sensation growing from your heart, an enjoyable one, as invisible strands of nature hug you. It goes on for a short while longer, and you lightly clap at your partner when it is over, noticing that Gale has joined you.

Before you realize what had truly just happened, you hear an excited bark greeting you. It's her. She has returned, she found you. Wild Howl, your loyal companion. A slender and long legged wolf with a lake in her eyes and the night under a canopy in her fur. Your shock is overpowered by your ecstasy, and you run to her, falling to your knees and burrowing your face inside her thick coat, your tears of joy drying at its contact. She smells of every fragrance of the forest, from blooming wildflowers to decaying wood: her scent is of the Feywilds. Your group and the young bard look at each other in a confused silence, and Shadowheart seems to try and hide her fear. You cup the beast's head with your hands and give her a vigorous rub behind the ears, making her tail wag rapidly.

"-Oh my sweet sweet girl, how dearly I missed you! You managed to track me down across half a continent, I'm so proud of you!

-Didn't think you the dog kind", jeers Astarion. You pay him no mind, but his jest opened the way for the others' comments:

"I'm more of a cat person myself", asserts the wizard as if anyone had asked him. The cleric gives a warning, probably more to reassure herself than spoiling your happiness:

"I do not want that wolf anywhere near my tent."

You haven't been able to establish contact with her since your infection, and you had feared the worst, forced to push these thoughts away to not risk spiraling into anguish. A beast master without their companion is always an incomplete picture. But there she is, back at your side. You notice the bard has approached you. She asks:

"-Can I pet her?

-Put your hand near her snout. If she likes you, she'll let you know." you answer, guiding her arm. Wild Howl sniffs her fingers for a few seconds before pushing her head into the open palm.

"Yes, you can pet her. She loves scratches." you confirm. The tieffling laughs, apparently extremely content at this outcome.

"-My name's Alfira, by the way.

-Elen.

-If not for a wolf showing up, I would have thought you a bard, not a ranger. And I mean this as a compliment.

-Thank you, I had a great teacher."

Alfira smiles despite the unspeakable sorrow building up in her eyes.

"I just lost mine", she whispers, trying not to burst into tears. You offer her the best comfort you can, even if you are extremely uneasy at her sudden show of sadness. Your malaise seems to highly amuse Astarion and Gale looks daggers at him, which, to the wizard's credit, makes him stop smirking.

You say your farewells to Alfira and get back on your way to the inner sanctum, intending to confront Kagha and get the kid out of there, your company being a bit more large with the wolf walking close by your side like an afternoon shadow.