#sparrow swiftsword

[thisisnotacampaign]

well this certainly got away from me. I meant to write something happy and then *gestures at whatever this is*.

-

Enoch curses and throws her dagger to the ground, the metal thumping quietly into the dirt. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Gods, I almost feel sorry for the bastard,” Larkspur sighs.

“He could have been lying,” Sparrow says, “he’s Lolth. And a sorcerer.”

“No,” Wren says tightly, “he spoke true. There was no deception in his voice.”

Lyra drops her hand and sighs. “I can feel it in the magic too. Whatever the curse on these things is it’s tied to him, and I don’t think breaking the curse would go well for any of us.”

“So we’re fucked.” Enoch blows out a breath, “Great. Wonderful.”

“We’re not-“ Lyra starts, taking a step toward Enoch, then stops and clicks her tongue, “- okay, it is pretty bad, but it’s- it’s just a roadblock-“

Enoch laughs, the edge of it tinted with hysteria, too loud and too hard to be real humor. “A roadblock? Lyra listen to yourself! This isn’t some minor detour, this isn’t something we can just move passed, this is the end of the road, alright? This is a huge fucking cliff at the end of the road!” Enoch paces, her tail lashing, her fingers sparking.

“We-“

“No!” Enoch makes a slashing motion with her hand, “Listen, for once in your fucking life-“ Lyra rocks back on her heel, her eyes wide, “-there is nothing left after this. There is nowhere else to go. There are no more healers we can try, no more mages we can ask, nothing natural or arcane or cursed or divine that can help us. The best we can hope for is to die before this sack of shit-“ Enoch kicks the unconscious sorcerer hard enough to smear blood across the rocky soil, “- gets himself killed and the rest of us lose our heads to the fuck shitting illithids.”

“Enoch, that’s enough!” Wren puts themself between Enoch and Lyra, like they think Enoch might actually try to hurt Lyra, and that’s—

“Go take a walk.” Wren says, and it’s clear in their tone it’s not a suggestion.

Anger and humiliation battle within her chest, right next to the frantic beat of her heart. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

“We’ll need to set up camp,” Sparrow says into the uncomfortable silence that follows, “if you want to scout—“

“Right,” Enoch says, and swipes her dagger back off the ground, rubbing the dirt off on her pant leg so she can put it back in its sheath. “Got it.”

“Thank you.”

Enoch tips her chin up and very deliberately does not make eye contact as she storms away.

-

Enoch felt there was this ball, a knot, at the core of herself, that was coated with anger. She could dress it up, wrapping it in cheer and empty platitudes, make it more genial, more palatable, so it didn’t seep out and poison everyone around her, but it was always there, sitting, sick and hungry, waiting for the moment her guard slipped so it could take lash out like a feral dog. That loss of control feels like a rush of freedom. It bolsters her, makes her feel confident, makes her feel righteous. And then, like the receding of the tide, the anger fades and leaves in its place both embarrassment and sorrow.

A hollowness begins, radiating out from that core, and sliding up arms and down legs until she feels cold and unstable. By the time she’s finished setting up camp and hunted dinner she feels numb from the inside out. There is nothing she feels, save for the dull ache, like the press of a bruise, she gets when she looks at Lyra.

She skins the rabbits she’d trapped and takes care not to tear the pelts. If her hands shake, well, it’s not like the rabbits are going to tell.

The mood around the campfire that night is tense. Even Larkspur declines to play their lute or sing. Enoch feels like she’s bleeding her upset into the very air. She can’t even make herself eat her half of roast rabbit, and instead hands the plate to Sparrow.

“I’ll take first watch.” She says softly, and pretends like she isn’t running away as she walks away from the fire.

The campsite she’d found them is a small clearing surrounded by clusters of dark pine trees and large rocks. She climbs up one of the rocks and sits. From here she can see the camp itself, as well as several feet into the forest on each side.

Enoch watches as the group finishes dinner and sets out their bed rolls for the night. Wren and Lyra lay theirs next to each other, Sparrow across the fire from them, and Larkspur at their feet. She watches Lyra check on their unexpected drow guest, still manacled and bound, still unconscious, and check the protective runes she’d placed around him earlier. They must meet her satisfaction because she turns away and heads back to the fire.

Hours pass.

Enoch watches the flickering shadow of the fire as it cools and dims throughout the night. She should have waken Sparrow or Wren for second watch already, but she doesn’t bother, she doesn’t even want to think about sleeping tonight. The forest drones around her. Insects buzzing, mice and frogs darting through leaves, the occasional snap of a twig under a fox’s paw. Sounds that have become just as familiar to her by now as the sounds of the city she calls home.

She misses Civitae. She misses the people, mostly. The laughter in the university courtyard, the children playing in Fountain Square, the warm smell of baked breads and savory pies. She misses the sound of cobblestone under foot, and the gentle murmur of distant crowds.

Even as she misses her home, she knows she would miss this too. The sound of Larkspur’s voice drifting over the campfire, the hum of insects in the air, the feeling of a casual arm draped over her shoulder, or a hand pressed into hers. She would miss Lyra’s laughter and Sparrow’s prayers and, gods, she’d even miss Wren’s awful snoring.

I love them, she thinks, and then, oh.

Because… of course. Of course she loves them. These people are the best friends she’s ever had, closer than even a sibling could be. It’s why this is all so terrifying. The thought of losing any of them makes her heart turn to raw flame. The fact that, if the sorcerer were to die, tonight or a decade or a century from now, they were all doomed to die with him. Or, not even be given the dignity of death, but forced to become the breeding ground for something awful.

I love them, she thinks again, pretending the beading up of tears at the edge of her vision is just from the bitter wind, I just wanted us to be okay.

Enoch realizes she can feel eyes on her. She wipes her hand over her eyes quickly, her other hand settling on her dagger. A silhouette is making its way over to her rock coming from the direction of the campfire. It takes very few seconds for Enoch to realize that it’s Lyra. She lets go of her dagger and slumps back a little in relief.

Lyra stops in front of her, staring up at Enoch from the ground. A pang of guilt swipes through Enoch at the look on her face. She looks exhausted.

“Can I come up?” Lyra asks.

Enoch blinks down at her. “Can you-“ Enoch shakes herself, “Yeah, obviously, you can- you can do whatever you like.”

Lyra watches her for a moment, like she’s waiting for Enoch to change her mind, before she climbs up to sit at the top of the rock next to her. She’s dressed in her thin camp clothes. Linen shirt and breeches. Not even a pair of socks. She shivers a little when the breeze hits.

“I’m sorry.”

Enoch almost breaks her neck with how fast she turns her head. “What?”

“Earlier…” Lyra catches her bottom lip between her teeth, “I tried to make light of our… situation. I don’t like feeling hopeless, and I just wanted… I don’t know.” Her hands, clasped in her lap, begin to fidget, “but you were terrified, and I just brushed it off-“

“You didn’t.” Enoch says, reaching out instinctively to grasp Lyra’s hands in both of her own, thanking each and every god she knows that Lyra doesn’t wrench away but instead leans into the touch. “I swear you didn’t. Lyra, I’m sorry. I was scared, and so angry, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“It’s okay,” Lyra says, tugging her hands out from Enoch’s, but only so she can hold her face in her hands instead. Her thumb brushes over Enoch’s cheek, and it takes a few seconds for her to realize that she’s crying. “I forgive you.”

Enoch’s breath hitches, and she wraps her hand around one of Lyra’s wrists, feeling the steady pulse of her heartbeat under her thumb. “I don’t deserve it.” She says.

Lyra frowns, a sweet little furrow of the brow and downturn of her plush mouth. She leans up and kisses Enoch, first on the mouth and then higher up, on her cheekbone. She leans back. “Don’t say that.” She admonishes, “don’t you ever say that. You’re my best friend Enoch, of course you deserve it.”

Enoch closes her eyes. Lyra’s hands are so, so warm. “I’ll earn it.” She promises.

Lyra huffs a breath. “It’s freely given,” she insists, “but alright.” She lets go of Enoch’s face, but takes ahold of her hands. “You’re freezing,” she says and Enoch opens her eyes to see Lyra bring her hands up to breathe warm air on them, “you need to come back to camp, get some sleep.”

“Someone has to keep watch.”

“We’ll wake Wren,” Lyra seems unconcerned at the notion, “you can take their bedroll. It’ll be pre-warmed.”

Enoch makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Alright, I can be convinced.”

“Of course you can.” Lyra says, squeezing her hands, and she smiles like the sun finally coming out from an endless dark cloud, “I’m very convincing.”

Enoch lets Lyra guide her back down from the rock and back into camp. Lyra wakes Wren with a gentle hand and even softer kiss and asks if they’ll take over for Enoch.

To her surprise Wren does so without complaint- redressing into their armor- and even pats Enoch on the shoulder when they pass by to take up their post.

Lyra gives Enoch her privacy to let her change into something more comfortable to sleep in, and then guides her down into the comfy nest that she and Wren have made. The blankets are still body warm which makes Enoch sigh and close her eyes. She’s only a little surprised when Lyra lies down and immediately pulls her into her arms, tucking her head under Enoch’s chin.

“Is this alright?” Lyra asks, “I’m cold.”

“Yes,” Enoch says, and wraps her arms around Lyra in turn, “yeah, this is fine.”

“Good.” Lyra says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Enoch closes her eyes. She realizes, when she is just on the edge between wake and sleep, that the sharp ache at the center of her, for once, feels gentle and quiet. Then she is asleep, and thinks about it no more.

[thisisnotacampaign]

So I heard it was oc kiss week?? I have ocs and I like kisses! This was for the prompt ‘sunrise’.

-

The campfire has burned down to nothing but embers by the time Lyra gives up even trying to sleep. She sits up on her bedroll and scrubs at her eyes with her hand. Wren is deeply asleep in the bedroll next to hers, their face unlined and unworried, peaceful and unbothered. It is rare that they sleep without nightmares, and if Lyra has to sacrifice her sleep for Wren to have some, then that seems a fair price to her. It hurts her heart sometimes, how much she loves them. How much she knows they love her in return. She longs to reach out, to touch, to kiss, but they’re sleeping so soundly and she can’t ruin that. She kisses her fingertips, and presses them to the ground next to Wren’s hand, and smiles.

She gets up quietly and steps around the fire.

Larkspur is asleep against the cave wall, lute still firmly in hand, head bent at an angle that makes Lyra sigh because she knows they will spend the rest of the day bitching about their neck. She doesn’t try to move them. The last time she’d attempted to take the lute from Larkspur’s sleeping hands she’d ended up with a knife between her ribs. It had been a deeply unpleasant experience. They had apologized profusely, of course, but with an air of apathy and insincerity that let Lyra know exactly where Larkspur stood on the issue. So, she would just have to deal with a whiny bard.

Sparrow’s bedroll was already tied with her pack, resting against the wall near Larkspur.

Lyra looked to the mouth of the cave and saw Enoch and Sparrow sitting together. Sparrow was sharpening her sword while Enoch kept watch on the woods around them.

Sparrow looked up from her sword and waved at Lyra.

Lyra walked over and sat down beside Sparrow, staring out at the sky and trees beyond. The sky was starting to lighten from an inky black to purplish blue under the first rays of light creeping up from the dawn.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sparrow asks.

Lyra shakes her head.

Sparrow makes a sympathetic noise and puts down her sword and whetstone. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nothing to talk about,” Lyra shrugs, overly unconcerned, “just a bad night.”

“Mm.” Sparrow looks at Lyra, and the weight of her gaze pins her in place.

A thought about the half formed nightmares comes to her unbidden, the things she’d dreamt in that space between sleep and waking, the way her heart had raced and she’d felt like screaming but her lips were sewn shut. Lyra swallows against it all: the fear, the pain, the rising bile and nausea, all of it.

“It-,” She starts, her voice cracking on the word, “it was a really bad night.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sparrow says, and gathers Lyra into her arms.

Lyra lets out a shuddering breath and throws her arms around Sparrow’s neck, pressing her face into her throat. She lets herself cling there like a child, breathing slowly and deliberately, forcing back tears.

Sparrow hums lightly, a soft melody Larkspur had played for them the night before, and holds Lyra tight, rocking her gently.

Lyra’s mother had died when she was just a babe. Her father and brothers loved her very much, of course, but her father had worked away from home most of her childhood, and her brothers were much older than she was, either already gone from the house entirely or simply old enough to not know how to connect with their little sister. No one but her closest friends had ever held her like this. Like she was something precious. Like she could break apart and they’d hold all her pieces together. She wondered if this was what having a mother was like.

Lyra felt Sparrow kiss the crown of her head and a puff of breath like a sob escaped her mouth.

Eventually Lyra would need to pull herself together. She would need to wake Wren and Larkspur and they’d have to break down camp and go over the maps again. They’d have to leave this cave with the overhang and the trees and the sweet sky turning indigo to blue to violet and make their way to Civitae. In less than a day they might manage to find a mage that would have the answer to pulling these things from their heads.

But that could wait a little longer. For now Lyra just let herself be held.

[thisisnotacampaign]

The consuming darkness of the keep had nipped hungrily at your armor as you and Sparrow wound your way up the spiral staircase. She kept a hand on her locket at her throat, her other hand holding her dagger at the ready. You waded your way through the darkness like trudging through high water. It pulled at you, weighing you down, making your movements sluggish, but Sparrow kept moving so you kept following.

The Sorcerer had laughed when the two of you finally cornered him.

“The Mother has ordered your death, Seldarine. Come, let us mete it out in haste.” The Sorcerer had called, red eyes bright with amusement and bloodlust.

You leapt forward with a growl, and the fight was on.

You remember very little of it, save for when Sparrow activated the beacon, and the darkness around you screamed as it washed away, and suddenly the others were there as well, Lyra leading the charge with her glaive lifted high to slash at the quickly retreating sorcerer.

You followed her, your great sword swiping at the drow as he rolls from her attack and into yours.

The Sorcerer stumbled back and snarled an incantation that lashed out at Lyra like a whip and sent her flying back against a stone wall. She hit the wall hard and crumpled to the floor like a doll.

“Lyra!” You screamed.

The Sorcerer is already speaking again, another incantation aimed at Lyra and you don’t need to think anymore. Your body is already moving, putting yourself between the sorcerer and Lyra.

You feel sharp pain along the side of your face, radiating down your shoulder to your arm, fiercer than the fires of Avernus. Someone screams, and then everything goes dark.

-

You wake slowly, awash in a sea of greens and browns.

“Easy,” A calming voice next to you says, “took quite a hit to your head.”

You make a questioning sound and shut your eyes. You open them again, making out the shapes of limbs and branches and crumbling stone.

“There we go, gently. I’ll help you sit.”

A warm hand slides under your back and very gently pushes.

You hiss through your teeth, your eyes slamming shut against a wave of pain and nausea, but you force yourself mostly upright.

Another set of hands settles a few pillows behind you, and the hand at your back eases you back against them.

“That’s it, lad, very good.”

“‘M not.” You say, because that makes you almost more nauseous than the pain had.

“Hm?”

“Not a lad.”

“Ah, my apologies then.”

You brace yourself to open your eyes once more. The room around you is vague and blurred, but you can make out the shapes of trees and stone slabs, bookshelves and desks. The Druids, you think, and then you remember the Sorcerer.

“My friends,” You say, looking to the Druid healer, “are they-“

She waves a gnarled hand , “Your friends are well, and camped nearby. I’ve already sent Ellaria to go fetch them. Now-“ She presses a mug into your hands, “drink this, slowly.”

You lift the mug to your nose, but smell nothing more than cool, sweet water. You open your mouth and start to drink with a satisfied sigh.

After a long moment you ask, “what happened?”

The healers eyes darken and she takes the mug from you. She purses her lips before speaking. “You were hit by a very nasty spell. It was my understanding you took the brunt of the spell to protect a friend. The damage was… very severe.” She shakes her head, as if shaking off a memory, and continues, “Your friends brought you here. The spell had damaged much of your right side, and caused some internal injuries as well. We managed to save your arm, and heal the injuries inside, but your eye…”

Your hand jerks up, covering over your right eye. You can feel something under the skin there, hard, like a stone. You had assumed your vision to be cloudy from some lingering effects of a potion, not-

“We tried everything we could to save it. I’m very sorry. We replaced it with a glass eye. It is charmed, and with hope it will bring you luck.”

A sorrowful noise catches in your throat and you slump forward.

The healer puts her hand on your shoulder and squeezes once before letting her hand fall away.

The soft murmur of voices, humanoid and animal, drifts around you lowly. Soon you begin to hear the sound of boots slapping against stone. You look up in time to see Lyra burst into the room from the doorway. She sees you and stops, her eyes wide and mouth hanging half open.

“Wren.” She says, relief and despair in her voice all at once.

“Lyra.” You say, and all of the weight and pain in your body lifts at once because Lyra is here, and if Lyra is here then everything is going to be alright. “Lyra.”

Her face crumbles and she rushes to your side, clambering up onto the stone they have you resting on. She perches over your lap and leans in close to press her face into your neck and sob. Her hands cling to your shoulders, digging in hard enough you’re sure later tonight you’ll find tiny finger print shaped bruises in the skin there. She’s careful not to rest her full weight on you, which is considerate but not necessary, so you wrap your hands around her back to tug her in closer. You press your face into her hair and it smells like orange blossoms.

“Gods, don’t you ever do that to me again.” She jabs you in the chest with a finger, hard enough that you grimace. “Thought we’d be too late, getting you back here, and there was so much blood…”

“Hey,” You kiss the top of her head and the heel of your hand presses down the delicate curve of her spine. “Hey.” You say again, and she looks up at you. “We’re okay.” And then you kiss her softly on the mouth, because her lips are trembling and you’re weak. “We’re okay now. I’m sorry, I know, but we’re okay.”

“Fuck.” She lets go of your shoulders to wipe at her face in a valiant attempt to dry her tears. “Fuck you.”

“I know.” You settle your hands on her hips and wait for her to pull herself together.

Lyra takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. She does this twice more before taking your face in her hand, rubbing her thumb gently under your eye.

“They couldn’t save it.” You say and she makes a small noise and leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” She says, and you’re pretty sure you can live with it as long as she keeps looking at you like this. “It’s pretty.”

“I haven’t seen it yet.”

“It’s blue. The iris is blue.”

“Mm.”

“And there’s this soft gold filagree around it.” She places another kiss to your temple, very close to your eye. “It’s pretty.”

You squeeze her hips in acknowledgement.

Peaceful silence slips between the two of you. The Druids continue their work around you, tactfully avoiding you and averting their gazes. Their low chatter drifts in and out and you close your eyes.

Lyra hmms and climbs off your lap. You miss the warmth and pressure instantly. “I should get the others, they’ve been very patient.”

You sigh, but it comes out fond, “I suppose, if you must.”

She laughs at that. You’d give anything in the world to continue hearing her laugh just like that. You can give her this.

“I’ll be right back,” she says, and squeezes your hand hard before leaving.

You can do nothing but smile helplessly, and wait for her to return.

[thisisnotacampaign]

Sword. Dagger. Crossbow. Arrows. Shield.

Rhythmic. Soothing. The soft tap of metal on metal.

Gloves. Mail. Boots. Cape. Locket.

Gentle. Repetitive. Slow and relentless, the forward march of an army.

Sword. Dagger. Crossbow. Arrows. Shield.

Deep breath in. Slow breath out.

Gloves. Mail. Boots. Cape. Locket.

Easy. Relax. It’s safe here.

You are safe here.

Your mother’s voice in your ear, low and soft, says easy now songbird, it’s alright, mommy’s got you.

Sword. Dagger. Arrows. Shield. Cape.

Locket.

Locket…

Your fingers clamp down over the tarnished bronze pendant. They are slick, wet, somehow sticky. The smell in your nose reminds you of your father, of how he’d come home smelling of metal and fire. Your thumb moves against the groove on the back of the pendant, a soft spot worn from so many years of worrying at it, just like this. Your lips form words you do not speak.

You think you might be dying.

The shadows are closing in, pressing down on all sides, shifting and roiling like the angry boil of water in a cauldron. The darkness roars over you, stealing with it your sight and breath. You are alone in the inky black void of complete and total oblivion, and you think no, this is wrong.

Your slick fingers fumble over the locket latch urgently.

This shade. This unnatural darkness is not death in itself, but it will be if you can’t—

click

Light floods the darkness with overwhelming radiance. The stolen heart of one hundred suns pulses under your fingers.

The shadows tear away, screaming and wailing in a furor of anguished fury.

A deafening silence follows, barely broken by the soft click of your locket closing and the rasping breaths you take. You try to focus on the gentle, even, in and out.

Sword. Dagger. Crossbow. Arrows. Shield.

Like a count. Like a song. Like a prayer.

Gloves. Mail. Boots. Cape. Locket.

There’s a heavy scraping noise coming from across the room, but your head is so heavy. You try to get your legs underneath you, but you feel wobbly as a colt, so the going is rather slow.

The scraping noise is followed by the heavy clank of metal striking metal.

Then—

“Sparrow!”

A body drops down next to you, purple hands scrambling desperately at your armor.

“Hells,” The same voice says, strained, “gods, Larkspur hurry!”

There’s a gentle ringing in your ears, much lighter than the roar of darkness, almost a lullaby.

Death, you think, a siren song.

You grasp at one of the hands touching you, holding it firm.

“Enoch,” You say.

She looks at you, and all you can see are the tears in her eyes. The fierce determination and anguish on her face.

“Not yet,” She says, “you’re not going to die today.”

There’s murmuring near them, an incantation steadily rising, and then a bright burst of pain when two pale hands press against your side.

You grit your teeth.

The ringing seems to die out all at once. You’re exhausted but alive.

“Easy,” Enoch says, helping you sit.

Larkspur assists from the other side. Their face, normally so placid and jovial, is stern, almost stony.

Once you’re upright Larkspur jerks their hands away.

“Right,” they say, clipped, “let’s not do this again.”

You snort. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it, bard.”

They level you with a glare before wiping their hands on their pants and standing. “Yes, well, as lovely as this whole dungeon is, I think I’m quite ready for a bit of sun.”

“I’ve got her.” Enoch presses a bottle into your hand, “Here, that should take the edge off. We’re camped nearby and you can rest.”

“Thank you.”

You take the potion and feel a little better. Enough to get yourself to your feet. There’s quite a lot of blood around where you’d lain.

Enoch grips your elbow to steady you, but quickly lets go. You find yourself missing the warmth of her touch.

“The others?” You ask.

“Safe. They were outside when the Swarming Dark fell.”

“Thank the gods for that.”

Enoch hums an agreement, almost distracted. She stops abruptly and you turn to look at her in question. Her face is drawn tight, mouth drawn low in an almost fearful expression. “You can’t do that again,” She says, “you can’t just run off and leave us behind without a word, Sparrow. If we hadn’t followed. If we hadn’t found you—“ She brings her hand up to cover her mouth. She makes a pained noise, closing her eyes. “You’re too important.”

You reach for her and then the two of you are embracing. She presses her face into your shoulder, and the blunt edge of a horn digs into your neck, but you just hold her closer. Her clawed hands dig into your armor and cling there. You hum something soft and indistinct, a half memory of your mother on your lips.

“I am sorry, little shadow,” You say, pulling away enough to kiss the crown of her head.

She hiccups wetly and drops her arms, stepping back. “I mean it,” She says, and a wobbly smile forms, “no more gallivanting off into strange dark tunnels without us.”

“I swear.” You say, and you’re smiling too.

Enoch takes your hand and squeezes. “Come on then, everyone is waiting.” She says, and pulls.

You follow her, stumbling blindly, happily, back into the light.

[thisisnotacampaign]

[thisisnotacampaign]

Sparrow: I'm not doing too well.

Lyra: What's wrong?

Sparrow: I have this headache that comes and goes.

*Larkspur enters the room*

Sparrow: There it is again.

[thisisnotacampaign]

Sparrow: Well Enoch, I have to say, I'm really disappointed.

Enoch: Well, you didn't HAVE to say it. You could've just thought it.

[thisisnotacampaign]

Sparrow: Almost a summer ago we slew our greatest enemy in this very spot.

Cael: Quit telling people I’m dead.

Sparrow: Sometimes I can still hear his voice.

[thisisnotacampaign]

Larkspur: 🥺

Lyra: What’s wrong?

Larkspur: They hate my pussy.

Lyra: What?

Larkspur: They hate 🥺 my pussy 🥺

Lyra: …

Lyra: No one hates your pussy.

Wren & Sparrow: BOO! WE HATE YOUR PUSSY!

[thisisnotacampaign]

Backstory notes for Sparrow-

- Sparrow is a former knight of Hawk’s Rest, released from duty after a severe back injury that led to the possibility of her never walking again. She regained her ability to walk but lives with chronic pain from the injury. She believes her healing was the work of the gods and subsequently swore a paladin oath to serve the light

- Sparrow has an unerring moral compass that she follows without question. This leaves very little room for nuance when it comes to her core belief of right and wrong.

- Sparrow is a chosen name that she took after being knighted. Her given name is not your concern, don’t even bother asking.

- She is by far the best cook of the group

- She was given a locket by her mother when she was very young, and instructed not to open it unless under the most dire of circumstances. She came to learn the locket was a gift to her ancestor from Lathander himself and contained within it the light of a thousand dawns.