“That could have gone a -little- bit better,” Gale suggests, mopping some blood from his beard. “Although it’s quite educational to observe our capabilities as a ‘group of adventurers’ first hand.”

“We’re all alive, at least,” Shadowheart says weakly.

“Now, anyway,” Astarion grumbles. “No thanks to our silver-tongued bard here.”

“Look,” Tavscarf says plaintively. “I said we were just looking! JUST. LOOKING. AROUND. Who could object to that!?”

“Apparently not everyone around here is a gullible idiot,” Astarion replies. “You must be so homesick.”

“NOW can we camp, at least?” Tavscarf huffs. “I think we’re all a little hungry and cranky and could do with some rest.”

At least at this, the others seem to be in agreement. Tavscarf putters about happily making fish chowder with roasted potatoes, ale and wine and cheese and apple tart for dessert, and then realizes his companions have all sulked off to their individual tents, instead of joining for a singsong round the campfire. Well, maybe except Gale; the wizard is staring moodily into the flames. Tavscarf perks up hopefully and approaches, and is greeted with–

“Go to Hell.”

It’s just as well Gale’s back is turned. The expression that crosses Tavscarf’s face almost begs a Sarah McLachlan song to play, as his bright eyes cloud over with hurt and dismay, his smile melts like a dying snowman, and his whole body slumps with the weight of rejection.

“And good evening to you too,” he mutters apologetically, as he goes to slink away.

But apparently Gale is just being awkward too. “Hell. Dragons. Mind flayers… it’s all just words and pictures on paper, until it’s in your face and in your brain, trying to kill you. That's … not abstract.” He finally turns from the flames and meets Tavscarf’s gaze, and the lost, frightened look there is familiar– hells, Tavscarf sees it in the mirror, when he has one.

“Oh! You… you’ve never seen a dragon before?” Tavscarf asks cautiously. “Or, you know, had people and things trying to kill you…?”

“I’ve spent my time in more high-level pursuits,” Gale says, with a wry smile. “I’ve faced many a thesis defense and even some critical debate with worthy peers. But…. it’s a bit different, down here on the ground, ‘mucking in’ with you chaps, as it were. Putting the theory into practical applications.” He sighs. “I think I rather prefer mind flayers and so forth to be safely in books that one can return to the shelf, instead of….”

“Impregnating your brain?” Tavscarf says cheerfully, and Gale shudders.

“Yes, rather. I’m rather fond of my brain, you know. I use it. A lot. A lot more than most, to be honest. It is, after all, the main tool of a wizard. Which I am.”

Gale has been so preoccupied with his own concerns that he hasn’t even noticed the sticker of Mystra’s holy symbol Tavscarf was wearing on his armor, before it became soaked with blood and then burnt off by acid and charred with fire.

“I understand,” Tavscarf says, with a nod and a warm smile. “Look– I may be a bit daft but one thing I do know about, is traveling. And the first night at camp, well, that’s always the hardest. Unless you’re so exhausted you can’t even keep awake, you’ll be on edge, and questioning everything. Not only whether you can go on, but where you’ve been and how you got here. You think about the road behind, and know how hard it was, and see only the hardness in the road ahead, and you’ll wonder if you can keep going. But you’re not alone, and the road ahead will look better in the dawn. Trust me– we’ll find a way through.” He gives the wizard a friendly pat on the shoulder.

Gale finds himself cheered slightly; perhaps it’s a touch of Mystra. “That’s the spirit. Up with the lark!”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Absolutely! Um… did you want to take a watch or–?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I need my full rest and sleep to restore my spells. I’ll trust you physical types to see us safely through the night. Goodnight!” Gale heads back to his tent, and Tavscarf can’t help but wonder how he manages to carry a telescope and so forth along when he can’t even jump up a short ledge. He shakes his head, and wanders over to where Shadowheart is glaring at him.

“What were you two talking about?” she demands, as soon as he reaches her. He blinks, puzzled at her tone.

“What?”

“With Gale.” She gives a flick of her head that makes her braid lash like an angry cat’s tail.

“... I forget,” Tavscarf admits, sheepishly. “Probably just the usual. Mind flayers, next steps, so forth.”

“Next step is to find a healer,” Shadowheart informs him. And at least on this he can agree.

“Yes, absolutely. First thing.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to feel the larva– he can’t bring himself to call it anything as friendly as ‘tadpole’-- but it seems quiet at the moment.

“Good. Get some rest.”

He gives her a quick glance– she’s holding together surprisingly well. There’s a certain ironclad power in the life of someone with nothing left to lose, and he’s glad she’s on his side, even though he worries what it might cost her.

“Fair enough…” He putters over to where Astarion has been reading the same page in the same book for several minutes, and strikes up a conversation.

“The night usually means busy streets, bustling taverns… curling up in the dirt and ‘resting’ is… a little novel,” the pale elf admits with a faint smile, and Tavscarf finds himself matching it.

“You’re a city lad, I take it?”

Astarion tries not to let the contempt show in his gaze as he looks at this mongrel bumpkin who has not a fraction of his age or experience, calling him ‘lad’. “What gave it away? The fancy clothes? The refined manner? Do tell, oh insightful little minstrel.”

“I was a city lad myself once,” Tavscarf confides, flopping himself down on one of the cushions in Astarion’s campsite and knocking over a glass of sticky red fluid. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? All those lives, packed so close, thousands of souls thrumming together like a great beehive, singing the song of civilization. A great pulsing of life, rich and warm, bright and bitter, flowing through the streets like veins–”

Astarion swallows hard. “Yes. Lovely. Did you have something you wanted to discuss, or–?”

“Just checking in,” Tavscarf replies cheerfully, sitting up. “The first night on the road can be tough. You haven’t been out of the city in a while, have you?”

“... Not in a while, no,” Astarion admits, looking away coldly. “...Business… has kept me rather firmly chained down to certain commitments in the city, you understand.”

“Judicial work is a valuable part of the city’s functioning, though,” Tavscarf reassures him. “You’re a civil servant, although you’re also a high status one, of course,” he adds hastily as Astarion shoots him a glance that could do 1d6 Sneak Attack. “But trust me, a vacation can do you a world of good!”

“How so?” Astarion’s elegant mouth lifts in a sneer not quite strong enough to show his fangs. “Perhaps my tastes are too sophisticated, but I don’t see the appeal in random violence and disgusting parasites latching on to my daily life.” The look he gives Tavscarf is lost in the bard/cleric’s jovial attitude, like a thrown dagger in a cloud of confetti.

“Well, think about it! You’re free!” Tavscarf enthuses, flinging his arms wide for emphasis, and Astarion flinches as the word hits home.

Free. Free of the fear of the sun. Free of the voice, the commands. Free of the rules…? Perhaps…

“Astarion! You’re out away from the commitments, the laws and rules and schedules and demands that your city life puts on you. You’ve been kidnapped by mind flayers– you’re probably already written off as dead– you could go anywhere, do anything! I mean, until you turn into a squid or whatever, but still. That’s the blessing of travel, my friend. The open road, the Way, before you. You can make your own Way… you just have to have the courage to take that first step. Now, someone’s taken it for you, and you can run back, or run ahead. In fact, there’s a little song I’d like to share with you–”

“Oh gods please no,” Astarion whimpers, as Tavscarf brings his flute out, and Tavscarf, who is not a cruel man by nature, relents.

“Look, I’m just saying, it’ll be… it won’t be like you think. That, I can promise you. It may be better, but it may be worse. But what you’re thinking? It won’t happen exactly like that. So why linger on it? Get some sleep.”

“I’m not much of a sleeper,” smirks Astarion, and Tavscarf’s memory dimly recalls this about elves. “I’ll keep watch, though, while you sleep.”

“Oh, gosh, that’s kind of you,” Tavscarf says, smiling warmly. “I’d appreciate that. I think you’re the only one of us that doesn’t need to restore spell slots. If you wouldn’t mind… thanks. I’m glad you’re here.”

Astarion’s cool predatory smirk is lost on the gullible Waywalker. “Of course. Sleep tight, darling.”