#e mirkon

[gribbo]

Wyll's new companions come from near and far: the spires of Waterdeep, the shires of Reaching, the ever-wheeling stars. And, he thinks with a pang, a dearer place.

"It's been years since I last saw the city," he says—and if he leaves out a pertinent detail, no one's parasite squirms in protest. "How fares the Gate?"

"The city's a rathole," says Astarion, making a fanged face. "Public health ordinances never pass. I should know."

"It's the same as ever," says Shadowheart, elusive. "I don't miss the smell."

Wyll misses the smell. Balduran's bones, he misses the smell—sausage pasties sizzling in the Wide, patriars' wafting perfume, the salt and sweat and tar on the westering wind. The green, tender bouquet of Portyr's hothouse garden. The grease that Father rubbed into his coat of mail. The stinking streets of Heapside that he'd played tag in as a boy, splashing through puddles beyond description, arriving home filthy to the knees and full of thorns from climbing the trellis. It's no wonder, after everything the Pride of the Gate got up to, that his father believed he could do worse mischief still.

(But his father, the blacksmith's son, had always scolded him with a smile—)

Poor, abandoned pup, croons a voice like poisoned treacle in his ear. No one else looks up. On his neck wafts a breath of sulfurous perfume. No use scratching at that door, you know.

He tries not to talk to invisible fiends in others' hearing. It's simple enough to slip from their company, in the bustle of the tieflings' shanty-camp, and walk—then, when he's out of sight, stalk—behind an outcrop of greening stone. "I'm not a dog."

Of course you aren't. The treacle all but oozes down his neck. You're a Blade—my Blade, the voice adds, sticky-smug, in case you've forgotten.

"How could I?" The old anger rises stiffly, like some beast frail with age; he stays its snarling with the old patience. When he taps the sending-stone, his whole face smarts. "Even when I sleep, this bauble rolls around in my head like a—"

How am I to know when you're asleep? whines the voice, feigning petulance. Then it sweetens again. I only peek through your poor eye every now and then—to make sure that my valiant Wyll is well. Two spectral fingers walk up his arm to pinch his cheek. Hard. You know I worry so.

Either she's in a good mood, or a very bad one. The difference is not always clear. Wyll touches his sword-hilt, for all the good it will do him. "Tell me what you want."

I want the head of Karlach Demonsbane, the voice snaps like molasses in the pan. Flame-roasted, à la carte. And it's been so very long since I ordered. The wait times, these days! Tut-tut.

Four long, lacquered nails trace the scars that mar his cheek. He hadn't flinched at seventeen; he doesn't flinch now. "No one says tut-tut, Mizora."

He's never seen a cambion lose her composure—but no cambion, he thinks, has ever seen him lose his. He watches his shadow stretch across the grass—

An insubstantial chin rests on his pauldron. From his shadow, like an omen or a growth, unfolds the vast shadow of a wing.

I wouldn't tarry long, if I were you, murmurs the devil on his shoulder. He doesn't flinch. Her nails, long enough to reach out of Baator, prick his throat like points of fire. Remember what you signed.

* * *

They rest that night in the tieflings' camp, in cloaks and wagon-beds, full of Okta's gruel. Gale grumbles and rubs his knee. Lae'zel, with brusque affection, tends her sword. The refugees murmur and cast bright, shy looks at the Blade of Frontiers.

The Demonsbane, he thinks, is a danger to them, too. He flicks a fleck of dust from his rapier's tip.

"Is it sharp?" asks a small voice at his shoulder.

He smiles. "As a dragon's fang."

Lae'zel raises a scarred eyebrow, but says nothing. Wyll settles the sword in his lap as the boy—one of the orphan-thieves, thin as a pauper, his horns buried in a mop of curls—steals around him to peek at his face.

"Mol, um—she says you'll help us," the child mumbles, abashed, toeing a line in the dirt. His eyes flick to his feet, then up again. "You and your friends. Will you, really?"

Exile looks at exile.

"I am your Blade," says Wyll, and touches a solemn fist to his heart.

[redroomroaving]

For Want of An Axe (Harper Geraldus x Harper Bor - E, shortfic, WIP)

The couple broke apart a moment, although didn’t let go of one another, and the man with shoulder-length chestnut hair tilted his head to one side. His expression searching a little, frowning, before breaking into one of recognition. “Oh, it's you,” the tiefling said, face brightening somewhat, “you … you checked us, when we arrived at the inn - didn't you?” Bor felt an immediate stab in the gut, sharp as a punch; the first time this had happened in a few days, although he expected it wouldn't be the last. He held his small smile; this man wasn’t to know. “Ah, no that was …” he trailed a little; now that he had to say it out loud it felt much harder than he’d expected it to. You’re thinking of Arthus.

After burying his brother with the fallen of Moonrise Towers, Harper Bor has followed the High Harper to Baldur's Gate - hoping to make sure the little tiefling on a treasure hunt he'd befriended back at Last Light Inn, Mirkon, has made it to safety.

He's just in time to find himself in the wrong place at the right time as Jaheira regroups with the Harpers in the city, and come to the aid of the Last Harper Standing in Baldur's Gate.

(Harper Bor x Harper Geraldus short fic; a bit of a shamless double rescue fic featuring two lovely Harpers finding a bit of healing and romance, working through some grief, and doing some Harper Adventuring and rescuing of tiefling kiddos along the way.)