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Dorian skids around the corner of the street, just in time to see Fy'ra's flaming hair disappear into the night.
Shit. The city is in chaos. People run screaming in all directions - fleeing the assassins in purple, fleeing the growling direwolf and the monk riding on her back. Dorian can't even tell which direction Fy'ra and Fearne are headed, let alone where Dariax and Orym have gone. Every building looks identical at this time of the evening. Even if he were to try and strike up a pursuit, he'd only make matters worse for the rest of the group.
I'm abandoned. They've all abandoned me again.
The thought is selfish, slightly out of place. It's tinged with memories of something he hasn't yet experienced - or perhaps experienced long ago, in another life like this. He knows, logically, that he's being self-centered - Opal's been kidnapped, after all. They have to get her back, before she's killed, before something happens to her that's worse than death.
But still, the uneasy fear persists, gnawing relentlessly at the edges of his mind.
They've all left. They've all gone. It's just me now.
It's ridiculous to be afraid, really - especially when his friends are in much more danger than he is. But Dorian's grown complacent over these past weeks of traveling, used to companionship, and now he's stuck in an unknown city, far from home and very much alone. He skirts close to the walls as he walks back towards the main street, staying flush to the buildings for fear of being seen by someone evil. Or something.
I'll be fine. Opal will be rescued, and we'll all be fine.
It's a lie, but at least it's a comforting one. Dorian's good at telling himself those, when push comes to shove.
When he steps out into the square, the world is eerily silent all around him. Fearne's growls and Fy'ra Rai's cries of pursuit have long since faded into the distance, and a faint breeze blows hollowly across the cobblestones. Two gigantic statues, triple-headed and ferocious, stand frozen at either end of the intersection. It might just be Dorian's imagination, but if he didn't know better, he'd swear their stony eyes are fixed on him.
A tiny rustle breaks the silence - the slight crackle of a leaf, somewhere behind the central marble fountain.
Dorian's axe is gone, and his scimitar glows too much to be properly stealthy. He takes a deep breath and pulses a spell through his hands, charging up Dissonant Whispers just in case he needs it.
Carefully, he takes one step towards the fountain. Then a second. A third. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth, until he is standing at the edge of the empty basin, weeds and leaves choking the metal drain in its base.
Dorian looks around intently, biting at his lip, eyes flicking across the shuttered windows on every side. But no matter how much he looks, no one else is in the square with him.
Just me. Like always.
A piercing pain explodes through his back, right between his shoulder blades.
Dorian gasps, but it comes out as a whimper, the sound forced from his lungs by his body without his permission. His knees give way. As he collapses against the edge of the fountain, his head knocks sharply into the marble rim. Dazed, he glances down to see a spike of residuum protruding from his heart, blood dripping from its tip.
That's going to stain my cloak, he thinks numbly. Muscles in his chest spasm and jerk. He can feel his body curling around the spike - a feeble attempt to assimilate it, embrace it, make it a part of him.
Fingers brush his cheek. Dorian's chin is lifted upwards, bringing him eye to eye with Myr'atta Niselor. His heart's blood is splashed wetly across her teeth as she grins at him. Her eyes are two wild and purple lights, shining like a knife amidst the shadows.
"One down, five to go," she whispers. Blackness swirls over Dorian's vision, darkness finally claiming him whole.
***
It takes a long, long time for the assassin to die. Opal keeps her blades sunk into the flesh of his throat, twisting them so that he'll bleed to death slow. The sounds he makes as he writhes and gasps should be distressing enough to make her stop - but the edges of Opal's vision are blurred, and the only thought pounding through her brain is end him, end him, end him on an endless loop.
So Opal keeps twisting the blades - twisting until the assassin stops moving, and the world finally goes snow-white and silent.
A few minutes later, she realizes she is sitting crosslegged beside the body, daggers still in hand. Clumps of congealed blood stain the rainbow-colored metal, and when Opal dully glances down at herself, her jacket and crop top are a mess, splattered with redness and bits of bone and hair. Strangely, her pendant is unblemished, the metal hand free of any specks of gore. No civilians are present in the street; they must have all fled inside when the chase began. Smart of them, probably. It would have been nice to be able to do the same.
I want to sleep.
There are probably other thoughts she should be thinking, really, instead of that one. Revulsion and terror and rage are churning in her stomach like a weird, weird soup, and come to think of it, Opal's pretty sure she never even imagined killing someone before, let alone doing it so violently. But at the moment, the only feeling truly registering in her body is total, bone-deep exhaustion.
She glances around for the rest of the party, looking left, then right, and then down and up for good measure. The street seems to be entirely deserted. Fy'ra's hair doesn't shine in the shadows. Fearne's flute music is nowhere to be heard. There isn't a single glint of spear, shield, or scimitar to be seen, no matter how closely Opal squints at the alleyways.
"Dorian?" she shouts into the air, hoping for a snarky comeback or a cutting retort about how many times has that worked, Opal?
Silence.
"Dariax?" she tries. When it gets no response, she scrambles to her feet, tilting her head back and cupping her hands around her mouth. "Fy'ra? Orym? Fearne?"
Silence.
"If this is a joke, it isn't very funny!"
A soft breeze blows down the street, ruffling the hair of the dead man at Opal's side. She shivers at the wetness of his blood on her skin, wrapping her jacket tighter around herself in an attempt at warmth.
Off in the distance, something eventually catches her eye - a glint of metal, right in the middle of the square they just ran through. Opal trudges towards it wearily, watching her breath fog in front of her in the cold night air. The square is deserted when she steps into it, save for the source of the light. A crystalline spike is stabbed into the space between two cobblestones, right in front of the central fountain. Streaks of residuum run up its sides like blood vessels, gleaming visibly with magic.
A folded piece of paper is pinned between the spike and the dirt. Opal wrests it free, heart thrumming in her chest, and as she opens it, a small piece of metal tumbles into her hand with a faint clink.
She opens her palm to reveal Dariax's compass rose. The chain is snapped carefully in half, and the northmost point of the compass is stained with a dark red smear of blood. The note that accompanies it is written in glistening purple ink, accentuated with a few more bloodstains for good measure.
IF WE CAN'T TAKE YOU, WE'LL TAKE THEM INSTEAD.
Opal stares dully at the words, blinking at them in the faint hope that they'll say something different when she opens her eyes. The breeze picks up, biting at her exposed skin. Her jacket slips off her shoulders and falls to the ground behind her, blowing away in a distant blur of pink.
I want to sleep.
The thought repeats itself on a constant loop. Maybe if she goes to sleep, she'll wake up in a good dream where nothing ever went wrong.
***
"Dariax! Dariax, what the hell were you thinking?"
The words float down to Dariax from somewhere far above him - though that's an assumption in itself, as there isn't really an up or a down anymore. He's floating, weightless, in a soothing grey fog. Everything feels warm - warm and tingly, like a really hot bath, or a really good food coma.
Maybe I ate too many pies again? Like in Byroden?
But the explanation doesn't quite ring true. Something else was going on, just a minute ago. There had been something important he was trying to do, right before he wound up here, in....nothing-nonsense-nowhere-land.
A hand cups his cheek, brushing strands of hair away from his mouth and forehead. An arm wraps around his shoulders, lifting his body forward- which is good, really, because Dariax doesn't quite have the strength to sit up for some reason.
"You....you idiot, you can't just do that!" the voice says breathlessly. "You can't just jump into combat and....gods, your chest. It's..."
The voice is lyrical. A little familiar. No, wait, a lot familiar. Dariax is pretty sure that voice could wake him up from the grave, if it had a mind to.
"Dorian?" he mumbles, watching with vague fascination as the grey haze sharpens a little and the bard's face comes into focus. From this angle, as Dariax looks up at him, Dorian Storm is all shadows and cheekbones and lips. Real nice lips -though Dariax would never admit that, unless someone specifically dared him to do so. "You're...upset. M'sorry. Didn't mean to make you mad."
"No, no. Stop that," Dorian says hoarsely. "You don't...you don't need to apologize to me."
It's Dorian's hand on his cheek, Dariax realizes. It's Dorian who is supporting him under the shoulders, keeping his body upright; that's good, because he's lying in a pool of something wet and sticky, and he's not quite sure what the substance could be. When he tries to sit up further, his muscles don't properly respond. Panic and worry begin to creep in around the edges of the fogginess, but Dariax tries to shake it off, and decides to concentrate on Dorian's arms around him instead. The bard seems like a good point of focus, when worst comes to worst. A grounding point. A stable place. A place to rest.
"What....what happened?" he chokes out. Wetness is welling beneath his throat now, bubbling in his lungs. That definitely feels like something to be concerned about. "Last I remember, you were in battle. M'pretty sure you were in danger. Wasn't nice to watch."
"Something like that."
Dorian's voice cracks at the edges as he talks. His thumb brushes softly across Dariax's cheekbone, and if the world wasn't so hazy, Dariax would definitely have more feelings about that gesture, but now doesn't really seem to be the correct time. "I was about to get really fucked up by one of those statues, Dariax. But you put yourself right in front of me, and..."
Ah.
Disjointed memories seep back into Dariax's brain. Opal's kidnapping. The chase, the combat, the living statues, the deadly fight. He blinks at the shadows and angles of Dorian's face above his, and a wave of relief washes through him at the realization. Dorian's fine now - safe and unbloodied and out of danger. So Dariax must have done something right, in the end.
"Why did you do that?" Dorian whispers. His eyes are shiny with tears, and his cheekbones really are striking, and he's holding onto Dariax so tightly, almost too tightly, as if he never wants to let go. "Why did you do that for me?"
"Couldn't let your pretty face get broken, could I?" Dariax mumbles. His mouth doesn't respond when he tries to flash a grin at the bard - which is a shame, all things considered. "Really pretty face."
The world starts to mist apart, fading once again into foggy grey. Dorian's face blurs. Dariax tries to cling onto the memory of its appearance, its identity, but his limbs feel all warm and floaty, and a gentle buzzing is starting to consume his senses one by one.
"Hey. Hey. Don't fall asleep on me," the lyrical voice pleads, from somewhere far away. "I'm out of spells, and I don't know when Fearne's going to get here, but you....you have to stay awake, Dariax. You can't...I can't...."
"M'fine," Dariax tries to say, but his vocal cords aren't responding any more. All he's able to muster up is a gentle sigh, a soft hum of relief that the sweet voice speaking to him is finally safe.
Slowly, the feeling of arms around him fade into mist and static and grey. Eventually, there isn't even greyness, just nothingness- no sound or sight or sensation, and no Dariax, really, not any more.
***
Fearne finally runs out of wildshapes, three hours after she started chasing Opal through the city of Niirdal-Poc. She skids to a stop in a grove of trees, tumbling head over heels with a cry as her wolf paws elongate into faun legs and her center of gravity shifts upwards all in an instant. A rock scores a cut across her cheek as she collapses against the dirt, chest heaving for air, thoughts racing even faster than her heartbeat.
Opal. Opal. Opal.
The warlock must be somewhere nearby.
That evil man can’t be faster than Fearne; it’s simply not possible. She’s a druid, she’s an adventurer, she has friends now, for the very first time - and that means she can do anything, right? Surely if she keeps running, she’ll eventually catch up to Opal. And if she catches up to Opal, everything will be okay again. This heartache and horrible worry in Fearne's chest will find a way to fix itself.
Far above through the canopy of trees, the sky is tinted a sickly shade of green. Storm clouds scurry across it like frightened animals, their mist glowing with every colorful shade of the rainbow. Leaves whisper and rustle, and as Fearne's heart rate finally slows, she realizes she understands the words the trees are speaking. They're talking in Sylvan - light and airy, vowel sounds blurring into each other like a trickling stream. She hasn't heard Sylvan spoken for a while, really not since she was back home in...
....oh no.
Fearne frantically brushes off her dress and scrambles to her feet, heedless of the splinters biting into her fingers, drawing out fat drops of blood. Her heart rate starts to accelerate again as she glances wildly around, realizing much too late the implication of trees where there was supposed to be a city.
Niirdal-Poc is gone. Instead, Fearne Calloway stands within the Feywild, divorced and endlessly separate from the mortal plane. Trees and plants and vines are tangled around each other as far as the eye can see. Tendrils of fae magic crackle and lance on the distant horizon as the rainclouds draw closer. The soft Sylvan whisper of the trees continues all around, cutting into Fearne's heart like a lightning strike.
How did I...
But deep down inside, some part of her already knows. Forgetful, silly Fearne - forgetful and careless and stupid, never looking where she is going until it is much too late. Somewhere in her desperate wolf-dash after Opal, she must have stumbled through another Feywild gate and just kept running. Running and running, leaving her friends behind, leaving them in danger...
Fearne sinks to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees as she sobs helplessly. Her tears trickle onto the dirt, eventually puddling and mingling with the multicolored rain.
I'm sorry, she thinks desperately - imagining Opal's face and voice and smile, wishing more than anything to find her, rescue her, bring her safely home. I'm sorry, Opal...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry...
***
Fy'ra stalks through the darkened streets of Niirdal-Poc with tears on her cheeks. Fearne's body, still in wolf form, is lying in one of the back alleys, a poisoned dart sunk deep into the black fur of her neck. Opal is gone, vanished into the dark towards a fate Fy'ra can only imagine.
I failed them again.
One might think it would get easier, watching these people die time after time. Selfishly, Fy'ra had hoped it would be easier, after the first few times, if only for her own peace of mind. But it is not. It is never easy. Few things in life are easy, Fy'ra knows, but this surely has to be one of the cruelest twists of all.
Someday, I won't fail you, she promises silently to the corpse of Fearne, to the ghost of Opal. To the memory of Fy'ra Kai, wherever she may be. Someday. Someday.
It is a bloodbath when she reenters the square - or, at least, the aftermath of one. Chunks of great stone statues, ripped to pieces, lie scattered across the street like an upturned and discarded chess board. One massive chunk has crushed Elam's house, and Fy'ra feels sick to her stomach as she stares at the twisted timbers and snapped roof supports, the gouts of flame already hungrily devouring the building from every side.
Someday, she'll be fast enough, smart enough, good enough to break the loop. To save everyone she loves, from the world and from themselves.
Sadly, though, today is not that day.
In the center of the square, a lone figure stands in front of two corpses, facing away from her. Fy'ra does not approach all the way, does not even bother to unholster her staff from its loop on her back. She can already see the cruel crown of darkness hovering above his head, its thorns long and sharp and gleaming. Shadows creep around the edges of the burning buildings, watching her hungrily, waiting for a cue to attack.
When Dorian finally turns around to meet Fy'ra's gaze, his eyes are pupil-less and black. Tears of ichor run down his cheeks. It is impossible to tell if they are a mark of the Spider Queen, or if they simply indicate his grief for the figures lying bloody and broken at his feet.
"You shouldn't have come back," Dorian says.
The words make Fy'ra recoil automatically, burning the surface of her mind like a lightning bolt. Blood drips from her nose and she grimaces, wiping the nosebleed and the tears away with a rough swipe of her fingers across the skin.
"You know what has to happen now," Dorian says. His voice is flat and broken, not a single note of music left in it. Shadows all around the square hiss and snarl in response. Bloody teeth shine within their depths, forming a thousand evil smiles.
Fy'ra kneels down and unholsters her staff, taking it between both hands and extending it to its full and proper length. Her fingers tremble slightly as she grasps the wood, but she swallows down the pain, forces her mind to fill with love and purpose instead of fear.
Someday, I won't fail you.
Fy'ra will come back to moments like this - again and again - until one day, she gets the story right.
"It's all right, little brother," she says evenly, and holds her ground as the shadows start to approach. "Whatever happens, I'll see you soon."
***
It's Orym who finally shepherds everyone into Elam's dwelling. Methodically, he checks every door and window, closing the living room shutters to block any enemy sightlines into the house. He lets Fy'ra explain the situation to the earth genasi and slips back outside, scouting up and down the street for at least fifteen minutes further, just in case.
No further assailants appear - not that that's indicative of anything. The assassins nearly got away with Opal, and he hadn't had a clue until she was already out of sight. Another few minutes, and the warlock would have been dead, or something much worse.
Godsdamned spellcasters.
Invisibility is a wonderfully fun trick - right up until the point when it's used offensively in battle. Orym stares daggers into the night, half-daring the purple-cloaked assassins to come back for a second round. Eventually, he is forced to give up and retreat, his sentry duty completed for the moment. He locks Elam's door behind him when he reenters the dwelling, then drags two desks and a stuffed armchair in front of it just for good measure.
They're safe, he tells himself as he stands in the hallway, finally sparing a second to breathe freely. They're safe. All of them are safe. We didn't lose anyone tonight.
It should be a comforting thought, but Orym isn't comforted in the least.
He sheaths his sword and stands by the living room door, one hand clasped tightly against his wounded ribs to staunch the pain. Elam is partially visible in the kitchen, bustling around and putting together six hot drinks with copious amount of added alcohol. Fy'ra is sitting with Dorian in the far corner. Their foreheads are pressed together; Fy'ra is looking dead into the bard's eyes, talking to him with utmost intensity as he slowly nods in response.
Opal, for her part, is perched on the edge of Elam's velvety couch. Dariax's cloak is wrapped around her shoulders, and the sorcerer himself sits by her side, entirely quiet for the first time in their journeys. When Orym looks closer, he sees that Opal's fingers are threaded through Dariax's in a desperate handhold. Her knuckles are white with pressure; her shoulders tremble as she stares blankly into the empty space before her. Fearne sits on Opal's other side with a wet rag, slowly sponging blood from the warlock's skin and iridescent hair.
After a long moment, Orym pushes away from the door, slowly sitting down in front of the couch by Opal's feet. He reaches a hand up to her - a question, an offer, a tired promise of sorts - and Opal slowly takes it, squeezing his fingers so tightly that they ache.
We're fine, he tells himself desperately. Opal's been rescued, and everyone's absolutely fine.
It's not comforting, not in the slightest, but at least for the moment, it's true.