“Still out cold,” I murmured, adjusting the pouch so it rested securely against my hip.
Karlach snorted beside me, her tail flicking with amusement. “Lightweight,” she said, her voice a low rumble. “Not even one pastry, and she’s done for.”
The Forest, however, cared little for Sylvie’s nap or our banter. Space here was a trickster, a kaleidoscope of warped perceptions that mocked mortal logic. The path ahead shimmered and bent, stretching into an endless tunnel one moment, then snapping back to a mere handful of steps the next. The distant roar of music—wild, intoxicating, and threaded with laughter—taunted us, its source shifting with every breath. It echoed from the left, then the right, then above, as if the trees themselves were playing a game of misdirection. Straight lines curved without warning; landmarks—a gnarled oak, a cluster of glowing mushrooms—reappeared behind us as often as ahead.
“This place is a bloody maze,” Karlach growled, her clawed hands flexing as if itching to punch through the illusion.
It seems Sylvie was right to offer her help as a guide -- no ordinary mortal could navigate these twisting paths. A good thing, then, that I could cheat my way through.
Closing my eyes, I summoned the familiar pull of Clairvoyance, letting it coil through my mind like a silver thread. A luminous filament sparked into existence, visible only to me—a shimmering guide that snaked through the air, weaving between trees and over roots. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal glow, tugging me toward the revelry’s heart through the most efficient possible path; penetrating the forest's illusory tricks with contemptible ease. “Follow me,” I said, stepping forward -- then carefully hoping twice to the left before doubling back, -- "and step exactly where I do. If we get separated out here, finding everyone again will be a real pain."
The thread in my mind led us onward efficiently, but progress seemed anything but linear. The forest toyed with us, forcing sharp turns where the path seemed straight, doubling us back through thickets we’d seemingly already passed. At one point, we circled the same pond three times—before the thread veered sharply left, pulling us through a curtain of vines. Karlach cursed under her breath as brambles snagged her armor, while Astarion sidestepped with feline grace, smirking at her plight. Gale muttered theories about dimensional folds, his voice fading into the hum of the forest as I focused on the spell’s guidance. The thread was our lifeline, a beacon in this shifting labyrinth, and I clung to it as the music grew louder, its rhythm sinking into my bones.
Gradually, the forest itself began to transform as we pressed deeper. Trees stretched every skyward, their bark twisting into sinuous shapes—here a lithe figure frozen mid-dance, there a face locked in a silent moan. Vines draped like silken curtains, studded with blossoms that pulsed faintly, petals unfurling to release a scent of honeyed wine and musk. The air thickened, heavy with promise, and every breath carried the tang of overripe fruit, the bite of spice, the primal undertone of sweat and desire. It was a sensory assault, intoxicating and disorienting, and I felt my pulse quicken despite myself.
Through gaps in the foliage, the revelry teased us with fleeting glimpses. Beside a sunlit pool, a cluster of nymphs bathed, their laughter a cascade of silver bells. Water sheeted off their supple bodies, glistening over skin that shimmered like polished opal—pale blues, soft pinks, and deep golds blending in the water-reflected light. One reclined against the bank,
her legs parted as rivulets traced the contours of her thighs, pooling in the hollows of her hips. Her breasts rose with each breath, full and taut, nipples pebbled from the chill as she tipped her head back, letting a companion pour a stream of water from a shell onto her chest. The liquid ran in glistening trails, and she sighed—a sound so rich with pleasure it seemed to stroke the air itself—while her hands slid lazily over her curves, inviting every gaze to follow. (Which Gale's gaze most definitely did -- before he put that legendary Wizard's concentration to use and forcibly re-focused on following me.)
Further on, a satyr lounged against a tree, his furred legs sprawled as he coaxed a haunting melody from a bone flute. His chest gleamed with sweat, dark curls matting against bronzed skin, and his eyes—half-lidded with mischief—tracked the fey drawn to his song. A dryad swayed before him, her body a tapestry of smooth bark and tender flesh, her hair a cascade of ivy that brushed his thighs as she leaned closer. Her fingers danced along his jaw, then lower, tugging at the scrap of cloth slung low on his hips. He grinned, teeth flashing, and shifted to give her better access, the flute’s tune unbroken even as she pressed her lips to his throat, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. The music wove a spell, a thread of sound that wrapped around my senses, tugging at something deep and primal.
The path twisted again, and we brushed past a procession of Eladrin Elves bearing lanterns—orbs of glass that flickered with flames in hues of violet and amber. Their faces were flushed with ecstasy, lips parted as they chanted in a lilting tongue that shivered down my spine. One, a lithe figure with hair like spun copper, caught my eye. Her toga clung to her like a second skin, sheer silk outlining the swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the shadowed cleft between her thighs. She stepped closer, her scent—jasmine and smoke—washing over me as she purred, “Come and dance with us, mortal! Lose yourself until the world forgets you.” Her voice was a caress, her fingers grazing my arm, and for a fleeting moment, I considered it. But the Clairvoyance thread pulsed, sharp and insistent, and I shook my head. “Sorry love, maybe next time!” I said, stepping back. She laughed, a sound that lingered like perfume as we moved on.
At last, the forest relented, parting to reveal the revelry’s core—an expanse so vast it defied the space we’d crossed to reach it. The clearing sprawled beneath a bright, rainbow-clouded sky, its edges lost to a haze of color and motion. The ground was a lush carpet of emerald grass, slick with dew that mirrored the heavens above in countless tiny prisms. Flowers erupted in wild abandon—roses with petals that wept crimson tears, lilies veined with molten gold, orchids unfurling to expose cores that glistened with nectar, their fragrance a heady mix of sweetness and sin. The aroma curled into my lungs, a drug that sparked heat in my veins, urging my heart to match the drums’ relentless beat.
Fey of all shapes and sizes filled the glade, a swirling tide of unnatural beauty and excess that dazzled and overwhelmed. Satyrs with curling horns and sinewed legs chased nymphs through the throng, their hooves pounding the earth in a rhythm that shook the ground. One caught his prey—a nymph with skin like burnished copper—and pinned her against a tree with a growl that rumbled through the air. Her hair streamed like liquid flame, garlands of ivy slipping from her shoulders as he pressed against her, his hands tearing away what little covered her. Her breasts heaved as she arched into him, full and flushed, and her thighs parted to cradle his hips. Their kiss was a clash of hunger, lips bruising, tongues tangling, and his fingers dug into her flesh, leaving faint marks as he thrust against her -- not at all mindful of his audience -- the tree groaning under their fervor.
Nearby, three dryads entwined in a dance of limbs and sighs, their bodies a symphony of texture—bark smooth as satin, skin warm and yielding. Two flanked a third, their hands roaming with deliberate grace: one traced the arch of her spine, nails grazing the swell of her ass, while the other slipped between her thighs, coaxing a gasp that trembled on the air. Their lips met in a slow, sensual collision, tongues sliding together as sap glistened on their skin, dripping in amber beads to the grass below. Pixies—tiny, glowing kin to Sylvie—darted above, laughing and showering them with dust that shimmered like starlight. The dryads collectively shuddered, their bodies writhing in a pulsing rhythm only they could hear.
All around us, the gathering was a banquet of indulgence, not just of flesh but of every sense. Tables sprouted from the earth, their wood alive and twisting, laden with platters of luminous fruit—grapes swollen to bursting, strawberries that stained fingers red, peaches splitting to spill nectar that glowed like molten silver. Fey tore into them with abandon, juice cascading down chins, pooling on bare chests, soaking into silks that clung like wet paint. A silver-haired elf reclined atop a table, his tunic discarded as he bit into a peach, letting the liquid drip onto the nymph sprawled beneath him.
Wine flowed in torrents, poured from decanters that sang with crystalline voices—ruby, sapphire, gold—splashing into goblets, over hands, across bodies locked in embrace. A satyr tipped a horn to his lips, the excess streaming down his chest as he stumbled into a ring of dancers. They spun around a bonfire that roared with unnatural flames—emerald and indigo tongues licking the sky, fed by herbs that thickened the air with a smoky, euphoric haze. A fey with antlers and skin painted in glowing runes stripped bare, her curves glistening as she leapt into the fire. The flames parted, cradling her, licking her thighs and breasts without harm, and she danced within them, her ecstatic cries piercing the chaos as the blaze worshiped her flesh.
The crowd surged and parted as we neared the center, revealing a dais of living wood, its surface a lattice of roses and ivy that pulsed with faint light. Atop it stood a crescent table, its edges aglow with golden fire, and five figures presided—beings of such potency that the air noticeably bent around them, their presence a siren call that silenced my thoughts. These were the architects of this madness, the judges of the Grand Revel, and their sheer presence was a force that demanded reverence.
The host sat at the center, a wildfire in fey form. His frame was lean yet taut, draped in a crimson tunic that hung open to reveal a chest dusted with dark, curling hair. Cloven hooves gleamed like obsidian beneath the table, and the braids of his wild hair were strung with bells that chimed with every tilt of his head. His mane of chestnut hair tumbled wild and tangled, woven with feathers and beads, and his eyes burned with a manic green flame, pupils slit like a beast’s. A lute lay across his lap, its strings trembling with unspoken notes, and his grin—sharp-toothed and feral—promised chaos. He leaned forward, laughter rolling from him like thunder, stirring the crowd into a frenzy of cheers and motion.
Beside him lounged a woman whose beauty was a blade, cutting through the haze with radiant precision. Her dress was... literally made of liquid sunlight, a golden sheath that flowed over her like a living thing, shifting to tease the eye—now baring the curve of a breast, now the sweep of a thigh, then veiling it in a flicker of translucent quasi-modesty. Her skin glowed ivory, her hair a cascade of molten gold that shimmered past her hips, and her emerald eyes swept the glade with a queen’s pride. She reclined with effortless grace, her fingers—long and pearl-tipped—tracing the rim of a goblet, her every movement a promise of delight.
To his left loomed a giant of primal might, his bare chest a map of scars and muscle, tanned to deep bronze. A kilt of green leather hung low, fringed with bones that clattered softly, and antlers—broad and branching—crowned his head, laden with trophies of claw and fang. His black hair fell in silver-streaked tangles, his amber eyes glowed with a hunter’s focus, and a wolf-headed staff rested in his grip. At his feet, a dire boar snorted, its tusks gleaming, a mirror to his untamed power.
On the host’s right sat a woman of vibrant chaos, her gown a swirl of silk—scarlet, sapphire, amber—that danced with her every sway. It clung to her curves, sheer enough to outline every line, and her rosy-gold skin sparkled with glitter. Copper curls tumbled free, chiming with tiny bells, and her sky-blue eyes glittered with wild joy. She leaned forward, her crimson lips parted in a warm smile full of gleeful abandon. Her laughter reminded me of a brisk Spring morning.
At the table’s other end perched the last figure, her diminutive form radiating an ethereal beauty that seemed to draw the very light of the surroundings toward her. Standing at around 4’6” tall, she appeared as a demure, slim nymph, her delicate frame cloaked in an aura of quiet enchantment. Her luminous, pale green skin shimmered faintly, reminiscent of dew-kissed leaves, while her deep emerald hair flowed in cascading waves, interwoven with living strands of ivy that rustled softly as they brushed the table’s edge. Her large, luminous eyes—a captivating swirl of violet and gold—gazed out over the revelry with serene detachment, their depths hinting at ancient wisdom and subtle power. A faint, knowing smile played upon her full, unpainted lips, balancing innocence with an enigmatic allure. Her attire was as minimal as it was tantalizing, consisting solely of gossamer garments no larger than handkerchiefs, their sheer fabric offering only the barest nod to modesty. One delicate scrap of what was -- probably -- some sort of spider silk draped loosely across her chest, shifting with each breath to reveal or conceal the gentle curve of her form, while another rested low on her hips, leaving the smooth expanse of her thighs and the graceful dip of her waist fully exposed to the warm, enchanted air. Barefooted, her slender feet rested lightly on the dais, adorned with tiny silver toe rings that caught the light with every subtle movement. A circlet of white roses -- complete with thorns -- adorned her brow, its white blossoms glowing softly, framing her face with a faint halo that enhanced her otherworldly presence.
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The five presided over a table strewn with excess—goblets, glowing fruit, instruments humming with latent song. The host raised a hand, bells jangling, and the crowd roared, a tide of adoration crashing against the dais.
+++
A few minutes later, as we tried to get our bearings, the world continued to pulse around me like a living heartbeat, its magic a relentless tide that flooded my senses and tugged at the edges of my sanity. The Five's presence still loomed at the high table, their presence a weight that pressed against my chest, making every breath feel borrowed. All around us, the Grand Revel unfurled in a riot of sound and color, a spectacle that dwarfed anything I’d ever witnessed, even in the hyper-real VR sims of the 2040s. The air was alive with laughter, but that sound was both joyous and edged with something... feral, something that didn’t care if we lived or died.
Beside me, Gale shifted uneasily, his scholarly poise cracking like thin ice. His hands fidgeted with the collar of his robe, and his dark eyes flicked from one judge to the next, wide with a mix of awe and dread. “By the Weave,” he muttered, his voice nearly lost in the revel’s cacophony.
“They’re all here. All of them.”
“Who?” I asked, forcing my tone to stay level despite the knot tightening in my gut. In the words of Doc. Brown, Gale was someone who has "seen some serious shit," having a sexual relationship with a Greater Deity included — and if he was this shaken, we were in deeper trouble than I’d thought.
Gale swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded toward the figure at the table’s center. “That right there has to be Hyrsam, the Prince of Fools. An archfey---ancient beyond measure, far older than recorded history. Chaotic, unpredictable, and very, very dangerous. They call him the oldest of all fey, the very incarnation of Music itself. His voice, his laughter—it’s said to shape reality, Harald. He’s a primal force, a storm given flesh and sound.”
My senses concurred with Gale's assessment -- although I've never met him, our host -- Hyrsam -- gave me the most dangerous feeling of the five beings at the High Table. Now that I thought about it, was it his realm we were currently in? That would certainly explain a number of things.
Gale’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, urgent and strained. “To his right: that’s Titania, Queen of the Summer Court. The mightiest of the Seelie fey—legends say she emerged when the first light kissed the Feywild’s soil.
Titania was a vision that hit me like a physical blow. Her dress -- if one could call it that -- flowed over her like liquid sunlight, a cascade of gold that shimmered and shifted with every movement. Her golden hair spilled down her back in waves that caught the light like a halo, and her emerald eyes swept the crowd with a regal calm that belied the power coiled within her. She was beauty made manifest, but her gaze held an unnatural, unyielding edge—a promise that her grace could turn to ruin in an instant.
“Beside her,” Gale went on, “is surely Oberon, the Green Lord. Titania's consort. A primal warrior, master of the Feywild’s beasts -- of all beasts, even. His strength is unmatched—some say he’s wrestled dragons and won. Some Druidic Circles worship him as a God.”
Oberon’s sheer presence dominated his seat. He indeed looked like he could uproot the glade with a flick of his wrist. Was he stronger then myself? Perhaps this... wasn't the most productive of questions to ask at the moment.
Gale’s whisper grew fainter, as if the act of naming them sapped his strength. “There, to Hyrsam’s left, that’s Lliira -- you know, the Goddess of Joy? She's not a fey, but a deity from Faer?n. I actually met her Avatar once, when... well, never mind that now. She’s celebration incarnate—a peaceful and kind Goddess, but one that's strictly against violence. Her blessing of this Revel... is truly something significant.”
I knew who Lliira was, of course -- genuinely kind, joyful, and honorable to a fault, she was, by far, my favorite goddess of the Dungeons and Dragons pantheon -- and one of the few divines I actually respected in this shithole of a multiverse.
“Finally,” Gale said, nodding to the table’s end, “Verenestra, the Oak Grove Nymph. Titania's daughter and an archfey of beauty and nature. A mistress of all kinds of illusions, her charm’s said to be able to bend even the strongest of minds.”
Verenestra was... really attractive, I suppose, I one was into short women -- but she, for all her... cuteness... didn't quite have either Titania's unnatural allure, nor Lliira's pure-hearted charm. Besides, she looked almost comical next to my 6'4 frame. I suspected a lot of her supposed attractiveness was due to her skills with illusions more than anything else. Did she develop those skills due to feeling self-conscious next to Titania? I supposed it was quite likely.
I let out a slow breath, the realization of the depth of the shit that was our situation beginning to sink in like a sewer maintenance worker into an uncleaned pipe. Four archfey—Hyrsam, Titania, Oberon, Verenestra—each wielding the power of a god, plus Lliira, an actual deity. Here, in the heart of their strength, the distinction between Lesser and Greater Deity was a meaningless semantic quibble when the very air twisted to their desires. To be frank, violence simply wasn’t an option—first, from a purely practical standpoint, it’d be like challenging a hurricane.... Well, five hurricanes, each with its own brand of devastation. Yes, I still had a few "aces" up my sleeves, but, even if I were confident of winning the resulting fight (or, at least, escaping from it alive) -- which I definitely wasn't -- I would never willingly risk harm to any of my companions. Nor would I want to hurt Lliira -- the sweet and pure goddess definitely didn't deserve such harsh treatment.
No. There would be no forcing our way through this mess. Our only hope -- other than a possible stealth route -- was to navigate our hosts' rules, and pray they found us amusing enough to let us go.
No pressure.
My mind spun back to the VR games I’d sunk countless hours into during the 2040s—sims like Godslayer: Rift, where I’d faced down deities and titans with a sword in one hand and a spell in the other. Back then, I’d thrived on the thrill of it: the rush of outsmarting an AI god with a perfectly timed dodge, the satisfaction of a combo that shattered a boss’s health bar. Throughout the years, I’d been the Dragonborn, the Nerevarine, the Chosen One, and many other variations on that Main Character theme—titles earned through blood and cunning, all within the safe confines of a headset and haptic suit. But this? This was no sim. There was no logout option, no save file to fall back on if I screwed up. The Fey magic was real, visceral—I could feel it in the way the ground vibrated under my boots, in the way the music wormed into my skull and tugged at my thoughts. One wrong move here, and I wouldn’t just lose a life; I’d lose everything—my freedom, my companions, maybe even my soul.
And yet, despite everything, that old gamer instinct in the back of my mind still reared up, stubborn and reckless. A part of me—the part forged in Skyrim’s frozen wastes, where every dragon was a challenge to be met head-on—itched to draw my blade and fight anyway. Even now, I could almost hear the roar of my Dragonborn shout, Fus Ro Dah, echoing through the glade, scattering pixies and toppling tables. In those games, violence wasn't just the answer: it was the question, and the answer was usually an enthusiastic YES. Hit hard. Hit fast. Keep swinging until the enemy fell.
Come on, you can take 'em!
I... forcibly pushed my fighting spirit down and got my mind back on track. Discretion and Diplomacy, not violence, were called for here. No matter; I’d adapt—play their game, abuse the hell out of their rules, and find a way out. That’s what a Gamer did, after all: improvise, survive, win.
“Gale,” I said, keeping my voice low, “tell me there’s a way out of this that doesn’t end with us licking their boots.”
He grimaced, tugging at his beard with nervous fingers. “If there is, I can’t see it. We’re guests in their domain. Our best shot is to play along and hope they don’t decide we'd serve better as decorations—or worse.”
Before I could argue, the Revel lurched into a new phase. Hyrsam leapt to the bells in his hair jangling like a mad chorus, and flung his arms wide.
“Revelers!” His voice cut through the din, bright and jagged, a blade of sound that silenced the crowd. “Behold—two who dared scorn our sacred laws!”
The ground shuddered, and the crowd parted like a tide. Vines erupted from the earth, writhing and twisting with a life of their own, their tips glistening with green sap that smelled of pine and iron. They coiled into two wooden cages, bars pulsing as if alive, and inside them, bound and defiant.... were Lae’zel and Shadowheart.
Lae’zel thrashed against her bonds like a cornered beast—the living wood around her tightened with every struggle, creaking ominously. Her armor was scuffed and dented, her sword nowhere in sight, and her yellow-green eyes blazed with a fury that could’ve melted steel.
Beside her, Shadowheart knelt, thorny cords lashed around her wrists, drawing her arms backwards in a painful-looking strappado, the thorns digging cruelly into the skin, her dark hair spilling over her face like a shroud. She looked... drained, her skin pale against the black of her cleric’s garb, but her jaw was set, her defiance unbroken.
The crowd jeered, a mix of glee and mock indignation rippling through them—satyrs stomping their hooves, pixies buzzing with shrill laughter.
Hyrsam’s grin sharpened, predatory and gleeful. “This gith dared to enter our glade armed, her blade bared—a grievous insult to our hospitality!” He swept a hand toward Shadowheart, his tone dripping with exaggerated sorrow. “And this one—a disciple of Shar, the Lady of Loss herself—slunk among us as a spy, forbidden in our realms by ancient decree!”
Murmurs and gasps swept the fey. Some shrank back, clutching their goblets as if Shadowheart’s mere presence might taint them; others leaned closer, eyes glinting with curiosity.
My chest tightened. Lae’zel’s warrior nature, or maybe pride, have kept her weapon drawn—because of course they did. And Shadowheart’s current devotion to Shar, the primordial goddess of darkness, marked her as an intruder in this realm of light and revelry.
And yet, I would never leave them to their fate -- in fact, my body was already stepping forward before I even consciously made the decision.
The judges’ gazes quickly focused on me, their scrutiny a physical weight that sank into my bones. The crowd fell silent, and I squared my shoulders, facing the high table with as much courage as I could muster -- preparing to put that Speechcraft skill to good use.
Predictably, Hyrsam beat me to the punch.
His eyes flared with delight, and he clapped his hands like a child unwrapping a gift. “Oh, a Little Godling graces our gathering! Welcome, new friend—to what do we owe this pleasure?” He leaned forward, his grin widening into something feral. “Oh, but do mine eyes deceive me—you’re not here to spectate, but... to compete? How deliciously… unexpected!”
The word compete slammed into me like a brick, confirming Gale's hypothesis. Still, maybe I could still salvage the situation with a little diplomacy?
“Great hosts,” I said, my voice steady but laced with respect, “I am Harald, drawn here after accidentally encountering and touching a certain enchanted lute on the material plane. These..." I sweep theatrically towards the two caged ladies "are my dear friends and companions, and they are equally here by chance. Although they can be foolish, stubborn, and lack diplomatic tact, they are not malicious. I'm quite certain they did not mean to needlessly offend our esteemed hosts. Please, allow me to negotiate for their release -- I trust that we could agree on a suitable compensation for any harm they have caused, after which we all, perhaps... could humbly take our leave?”
Hyrsam tilted his head, exchanging a knowing glance with Titania. The latter's sunlight-dress shifted, revealing a fleeting glimpse of her perfect form as she leaned forward, her voice a purr of silk over steel. “Oh, Little Godling, we sympathize with your plight, truly. But there are rules in play here that even we must obey. The old ways decree that Elion the Bard—or his designated successor—must compete. The invitation was accepted when you knowingly touched his lute and crossed our threshold. One of your number must perform.”
I took a moment to consider her assertion, but, in my heart, I already knew there was no dodging this. We were ensnared, and the only way out was through.
“Very well,” I said, meeting the Five's gazes head-on. “I accept. I’ll take part in your contest.”
Hyrsam’s happy laughter erupted, sharp and wild, a sound that shivered through the glade like breaking glass. “Marvelous! Oh, this is simply delightful! You’re just in time for the final round, too! It's tomorrow night, beneath the full moon. Mingle with our guests, partake of the festivities, sleep where you please—you’re perfectly safe here while the Grand Revel lasts. An attendant shall notify you when your turn comes!”
Relief flickered through me, brittle and fleeting, overshadowed by the weight of what I’d committed to. But, Lae’zel and Shadowheart were still trapped. “Great hosts,” I said, dipping into a respectful bow, “As these ones are a part of my group, I humbly ask that they be released into my care. I’ll ensure they abide by your rules and shall accept full responsibility for their actions.”
Hyrsam waved a hand, almost dismissive. The vines unraveled with a wet, slithering sound, retreating into the earth like snakes fleeing light. Lae’zel stumbled free, catching herself with a warrior’s grace, her fists clenched. Shadowheart slumped, her strength sapped, and I lunged forward, catching her as she fell into my arms.
Her eyes met mine, an exhausted delirium shadowed by a glint of dark humor. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this,” she murmured, remembering a faint echo of our first meeting on the Nautiloid when I’d freed her from that pod.
I grinned, gently cradling her while sending forth waves of restoration magic.
“I always expected you would fall for me, Shadowheart. I just didn't expect it would be quite so soon -- or quite so often!” I quipped while helping her up.
She rolled her eyes at my silliness, but I was sure I could spot a faint hint of a smile. "At least those big arms of yours seem good at catching me."
She opened her mouth to say something else, but the moment was broken by the approaching Hurricane Lae'zel, her expression a tempest of both gratitude and fury.
“You’ve freed us, but at what cost? I heard what they said about this being a Bardic contest. In case you've forgotten, none of us are bards. Can you even play an instrument? Tsk, it would have been more prudent to leave us to our fates than to risk a rescue against such odds."
The crowd’s focus drifted back to the revel, music swelling anew, as I considered Lae'zel's statement. "Perhaps you're right -- but remember this: I don't abandon friends in need, no matter what "the odds" might be.... and don't write those odds off just yet -- my musical skills might just surprise you!" I added with a wink.
Astarion sauntered up, smirking. “Well, it’ll be a spectacle, at least. I simply adore a good performance.”
Karlach cracked her knuckles, grinning wide. “I’ll be your loudest cheerleader, Soldier. Might even dance!”
I shook my head, a faint smile breaking through. Karlach's positive attitude was infectious. I would find a way to get us through this.
After all, this was just another game.
And I... was THE Gamer.