chapter two.
charade
"Well? Are you going to answer? I haven't got all day."
His tone was cordial, flippant even, as if he weren't moments from sending her to the very same fate as the farmer. Fallon grit her teeth. It did not take a scholar to figure what the man had done. As much as fear and irritation gripped her, she could not deny his threat, she would have done the very same. Regardless, her anger bucked. Die cowering, Fallon would not.
"Get off me," she growled through teeth.
Her words were met with a dark chuckle and a shake of the head.
"Oh sure, I'll just go ahead and let you brush off. Turn tail to your friends. A little scummy, don't you think? Four against one. Let me remember, how was it the oaf described you all? A tiefling, some scrubby vagabond, a dour half-elf and a pretty little thing with mismatching eyes. Should I ask which one you might be?"
"Slit my throat and you won't make it past dusk."
"But I will, because if they let you stray so far ahead of the pack, then I'm hardly dealing with the brightest bunch. This doesn't have to end in bloodshed. Come now, sing for me."
Fallon twisted beneath him in a vain attempt to jam her knee somewhere tender but the move was predictable. Leveraging a hand against her shoulder, he stilled the joint with firm force, pressing the blade of his dagger against the flesh of her neck. Fallon gasped, a thin rivulet of blood flourishing beneath metal.
This caught his attention, eyes flickering down to glimpse his handiwork. A darkness swept him, the contortion of his brows coming to rest. A look close to serenity swept him, waters stilled. Fallon felt him relax above her, though the lean of his blade was unceasing. If she had been a wiser woman, what she would have sensed in the shift was rudimentary yet besotted yearning.
Just as quickly it was gone. He was gone. Bolts of light shot through the air, sizzling with heat and power and clipping the cloth of his expensive doublet. The man's weight was sent off kilter, sprawling to the ground beside her. Shock spread across his features, but before he could react, three more bolts of sharpened magic dove upon the fabric of his clothes and pinned arms and legs in place.
Fallon leapt to her feet just as Orikas appeared behind her, clenched eyes aglow. Fingers pressed against the skin of his temple, flush to a bulging vein that appeared only in deep concentration. His other hand was outstretched, splayed digits taut as he commanded his soul blades to dig further into the earth.
"I should tear you in two." His voice vibrated with a discordant note. "That would be a blessing."
"Not before I can get my hands on him!" Dalaia barked, appearing in a streak of red with Marth in tow.
Before she could move past Orikas, Fallon raised a hand, freezing Dalaia in place. Interrupting Orikas' concentration was tantamount to severing the source of his magic. She didn't trust that a break in the bonds wouldn't result in the man making a run for it.
Marth knew just as much. With a concerned glance to Fallon, he cleared his throat.
"We just need the Astarion. That's all. Hand it over, and we won't need to shed any blood."
"Or we could." Orikas replied, his fingers still outstretched. A fifth and final dagger had appeared, hovering above the centre of the man's chest. Fallon knew she only needed to say the word.
Just as the thought passed through her mind, she heard the elf bark with laughter. It was as though he had heard the bumbling punchline of man in stupor. A cruel sound.
"Now see, that won't do at all, not if that is what you seek. For you see, the Astarion is me."
Astarion was ... A person? Fallon's jaw fell before she could stop herself, exhaling a snort at his words.
"No it isn't." She replied, blood rushing to her cheeks. If he was to be believed, they had been played the fool. Fallon stole cargo, not people. No wonder Cazador had been so scant with the details.
"I hate to disappoint, but it's true." Astarion sighed as though the conversation was boring him. A rich concept, given his current position. He craned his head upwards in search of her. "I suppose I don't need to press any further for why you were so curious about me. The question now is who exactly sent you?"
"Hardly ... In the position ... " Orikas grunted, his lips twisted to a grimace. His concentration was breaking the longer he held Astarion in place. They had to make quick work of this.
Fallon wiped the back of her hand against her neck, catching a glimpse of curdled blood against the ridge of knuckles. The anger she had felt at her own misstep was now firmly on their contractor. A warning would have been nice, but if one had been issued, Fallon would have turned the work down. Stealing was one thing, capturing a person was another. They didn't deal in the smuggle of bodies. She had been outwitted on two counts.
"Cazador Szarr. Does the name ring a bell?"
A dark glaze swept Astarion and he let his head fall back to the ground.
"Oh yes. It rings as many bells as the ones that toll at noon. A choir, if you will."
"Well then, let that be your answer." She turned to her brother. "Let him go."
"No," Orikas said through a clenched jaw. "He meant to harm you. For that, I'll take his life."
"Let. Him. Go."
She could hear the collective inhale of Marth and Dalaia behind her. If Fallon's leadership was unspoken, so was Orikas' exemption from it. His breath left his lungs with a shudder, eyes closing as he dropped his hands. The blades that pinned Astarion dissipated, like dandelion fluff blown in the wind.
Astarion sighed with a sharp note of annoyance. It seemed above all, he felt inconvenienced by the whole charade. He picked himself from the ground and dusted off his clothes with a grimace. Having freed herself of panic, Fallon was able to fully take the man in.
He was dressed in rich colours of carmine and royal blue, while his breeches were of a dark cloth, tucked into the kind of boots Fallon knew would fetch a pretty penny at the markets. On the centre lines of his jacket was an accent of gold thread in a design much like tongues of flame, which snaked to his shoulders and formed curved lines from his chest, summoning the image of constellations plotted by hand sketch. Awfully astrological, Fallon thought to herself, mirroring Marth's earlier comment. The white material of his shirt peeked from throat and wrist, somehow managing to contrast against his skin, which seemed near impossible given how pale the elf was.
Astarion caught her wandering eye and held her in smug regard. Now more than ever did he stick out like a sore thumb against the coastline, a far throw from an origin she did not doubt was similar to her father's. To venture so far in such clothes, with no company, piqued her curiosity.
"Care to elaborate on just why someone might have asked for your procurement?"
"Hmph, certainly not to you, my would-be captor. I can't help but admire the ambition. Wandering so far from your friends. You're lucky I liked watching you squirm, else I would've gutted you on the spot."
"And bring the Nine Hells down on yourself? We wouldn't have hesitated to avenge her." Dalaia replied, sweeping her dark mane over her shoulder. "Oh Fall, won't you let me rough him up just a little? He deserves more than some dirt on his clothes."
"You'd quite like to get those hooves all over me, wouldn't you?" The elf remarked. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline, given our introduction. Now that we've sorted out that I am, in fact, a living breathing person and not whatever trinket your ... Issuer made me out to be, I think I'd best be on my way."
"Not so fast now." Fallon held a hand aloft. "Are you not bothered that someone is drafting contracts for your abduction?"
"Not particularly. If he continues sending such ineffectual muscle in my direction, then I suppose I can count on some entertainment."
"Funny." She replied, her expression betraying no humour. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions with what to return to Baldur's Gate with then? Perhaps a lock of your hair might suffice."
"You won't be having any of my hair, thank you very much. No, I think I'll be on my way if it's all the same to you. You see, that sounds like a problem for you and your charming group of misfits to sort out amongst each other." He paused to let out a beleaguered sigh. "Now, run along. Before I change my mind about letting you go free."
"Oh, you're letting u—" Fallon began with a scoff.
"Yes, yes I am. You're lucky to get away with your life. An apology should be in order, truth be told, but I'd rather not listen to the poorly strung together lies of a scoundrel. Off you go now."
With that, he held a hand aloft and swept his fingers back and forth, as if to shoo them away. Fallon bristled but said no more. With a huff, she turned on her feet and started up the road.
It was not long before the group caught up with her, for as short as she was, her steps were nimble. Dalaia grabbed her by the arm but Fallon shook her off. In the aftermath of what had happened, she found herself as resistant as a petulant child revoked of a well-worn toy. Marth cleared his throat.
"Well that didn't go particularly well."
"No, it didn't."
"Are you sure I can't double back and wrestle him or something?" Dalaia interjected. "Seriously, with the way he was talking he could use another go on the ground. Might humble him up a bit."
"Or I could just tear open his chest," said Orikas. "Granted if Dalaia held him in place."
"Now you're talking Ori!"
"Enough!" Fallon came to a sudden halt, causing Marth to run straight into her back. She stumbled forward, regaining her footing just as he opened his mouth in apology. The look on her face stopped him short. "Enough. We'll speak no more on this. I need to think and a migraine isn't going to help. Let the matter lie."
There were no further words after that and the group trudged on in uneasy silence, with only the whistle of wind to underscore the crunch of earth beneath their feet. The question between them all was certain — what next? They had committed much of their resources to travel this far, and now they had come up empty handed. More than that, now they bore yet another mark of humiliation, and the very thought drove Fallon crazy.
Wasted days, where all she had to show for her efforts was a cut across her throat. As they marched back to camp, she touched the place Astarion's blade had pressed. The blood had stopped and crusted, pulling her skin taut. It stung bitterly but the song of pain was not unfamiliar nor entirely uninvited. What held her anger was the wool that had been pulled over her eyes. Cazador Szarr. She certainly had a word or two for him.
With their search cut short, the group returned to the cave, though tensions lingered as the sun found its peak in the sky. Fallon's frustration had left her limbs leaden and her tongue weighted by stone, there would be no move to make their return just yet. This decision was met in silent agreement, indeed none of the others brought up the matter further, and conversation was sparse as they passed the day's remainder.
Marth went scavenging right before twilight along the edge of the mountain's flora for herbs, accompanied by Dalaia. Orikas had started the fire and stirred a pot of vegetables, slowly coming to a stew above crackling flame. Fallon sat with her back to the wall of the cave, her hand darting across the pages of her journal as she eased angst into a couplet, every so often letting her eyes rise to meet her brother's.
"As you are," he said.
"As I'll ever be," Fallon sighed in return.
A shared turn of phrase, oft whispered between the siblings that had taken the place of checking in with the other. Neither were particularly gifted in conversations tending to the emotional. He returned a soft nod at her reply, concern shadowing the outer reaches of his brow. He knew better than anyone to push no further when she grew sullen.
It was not until the long shadows were swallowed by night that Fallon emerged to sit among the group, spooning the watery stew into her mouth and caring not for the singe of its heat against her tongue. By now chatter resumed, muted but steady growing, a collective brushing of dirt from the cracks of their scuffed knees. Like one sinks gingerly into a kettle warmed tub, Fallon found herself slowly offering contributions to the half-hearted discussion of whether they should consider making a stop at the farmer's holdings on their way back to Baldur's Gate, now that they knew the owner would not be around to interrupt a loot.
"We could fetch a pretty price for some of his equipment?" Dalaia volunteered, ever the optimist.
"I'm not about to make you lug all of that back to the city."
"No but ... I would."
"I know, Dalaia, I know."
"Still think we should've killed the elf. Or at least took his clothes," Orikas shrugged, "gold thread is the mark of a man whose interests are poorly aligned."
"They teach you that at wizard school?" Marth joked but was met with only a sullen glare. "'Twas an honest question."
"No but they had a lot to say about quarterstaves. Always test for splinters."
At this, both men cracked a smile. Fallon felt a kick in the gut. She wished she could recover as quickly as them, for even Orikas knew how to tend his battle scars better than her. Perhaps it was their self-assuredness, that no matter what happened it could never reflect on the true essence of who they were. Fallon did not feel so sure when it came to herself. Always there remained an inkling, the pale outline of doubt muddying the contours of her psyche. Fallon's actions had had deadly consequences in the past and each misstep threatened a repetition of history.
Soon thereafter Orikas retired, then Dalaia, who gave Fallon one of her bone breaking hugs and a hard peck atop the head before departing. Marth lingered by the fire, picking at the embers with a long stick. Fallon sat across from him, humming just low enough to hide song in its sizzle.
"I'm sorry for what happened." Marth said, diving the quiet. Her eyes rose to meet his, tangerine glow reflected in the dark of his irises.
"You have nothing to apologise for. I led us down this path. I should have known something was amiss, but ..." Her brow crumpled and she let her voice trail off. She hated the idea of them seeing her weakness, and that was exactly what had happened today. Fallon sighed. "I didn't vet it as I should have. Now look where we are."
"Hey, there will be other jobs awaiting us at home, perhaps even on the road. Never know what a sunrise will bring. You need not worry. Your reputation stays as it was."
"Will it though?" She didn't hide the fact she was unconvinced. "You're too kind to me Marth, truly all of you are. I have gotten lax with our successes, now we have yet another expense without payment to push the balance. I fear I might have lost my touch."
"Nonsense. You could never."
He rose, pushing a hand from the ground to steady himself and crossed from his place closest to the cave's mouth, coming to rest beside her. He propped up a leg, resting arm to knee as he placed his hand on her back. Fallon relaxed into the familiarity of his touch though she dared not meet his eye.
"You are the famed liberator of coin. Hungry purses cower at your mere mention, coffers groan and wheeze. There is no pocket safe in all of Baldur's Gate from your wandering hands."
"You dare make fun of me at a time like this? I should send you back into the wilderness to pedal phony potions on the roadside again." She murmured in sly whimsy. "That'll teach you to make a jest at my expense."
"Perhaps you should. But you wouldn't. I know you all too well, Fallon. You're as soft and mellow as the rest of us."
"If you say so."
"Share your gaze for a moment, would you? If you're going to banish me, the least you could do is meet my eye."
Fallon turned to allow for his request. His features, though always soft, had grown suppler yet. Bathed in campfire luminescence, he appeared before her aglow with the very same earnestness as he had the evening of their dalliance. A mistake she had later grown to regret, when she realised how his eyes had always loitered, all friendly exchanges revealed in their bitter reality. It was no mystery to Fallon how Marth felt about her, even despite the silence that had followed the night of drunken amorous exchange.
Her resolve, though, never shifted. It could never bear fruit. True love was a path she had long vowed to never walk. Heartbreak was the easiest pain to resist the call of. These things could never end well, certainly not with the path in life she had chosen.
A twig snap. Marth's hand parted with her back just as Fallon swung her gaze behind them. Through the darkness, her eyes fell upon a lone figure standing several feet from the mouth of the cave.
A goblin, clad in iron plate, his gnarled features obscured by the weight of a helm. In his fist, a rusty short sword clutched at his side. With the sudden attention, the goblin's pained look of focus broke into a foul snarl. He let out a huffed growl.
"Fuckin' sticks! Always getting in the way."
Fallon leapt to her feet, her hand gripping the dagger from her belt with no hesitation. In response, the goblin let out a harsh bark of laughter.
"Put that thing away miss, before you hurt yourself."
"I could say the very same to you," Fallon snapped, "be on your way before I turn your stomach to ribbons."
"Mouthy thing you are. We were warned as such." The goblin let out a harsh cackle, far too confident for a lone operation. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, aware then of the feeling of a dozen pairs of eyes pressing upon her. "Let's skip the small talk. Get 'em boys!"
Just as Marth began to utter something beneath his breath, the whistle of a great weight streaking through the air pulled Fallon's attention to her side. Right before the rock met her head, she caught a glimpse of bodies previously hidden by the side of the cave.
Dull pain rung through her head, her body crumpling beneath her as a yelp rung from her lips. Her vision blurred, fighting against the pull of her consciousness' retreat. Behind her in the cave, she heard the rustled response, Orikas and Dalaia roused from shallow slumber. Then darkness, as her lids pulled closed, cognition snuffed to coals, and Fallon fell ignorant to the world around her.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
AUTHOR'S NOTES
i. i'm using a combination of bg3 lore + dnd stuff i've read from wikis (yet to play my first campaign but i have some friends who have invited me recently) and i was reading the rogue archetypes. orikas is a soulknife, i felt like it made a lot of sense for his character and i'm basing some of his abilities on a bg3 nexus mod for the subclass.
ii. i'm legit addicted, and im about to go into another bg3 coma and make all of the characters in the character creator screen bc i have 0 self-control xoxo