Marlfox1017

"We're closed."

The third hour of Shadowheart's post-ritual brooding was interrupted by a knock on her office door. Mirie, the House of Grief attendant, has come in person to inform her of a new patron, for her Sendings were left unanswered.

It's the last thing she needs, listening to the petty woes of another lost soul in this godsforsaken city. The mirror dined well on her congregation today; it will forgive her for denying it a single meal.

Shadowheart sits reclined with an elbow on her desk, propping her head up by the temple. Her other hand flexes absent-mindedly, pulling on each knuckle with her thumb until it cracks. Her eyes have not lifted from their trance, fixed on the embers of a lit thurible.

"Actually, it is still an hour until nightfall, my Lady. But if you would prefer I dismiss them until the morning, that can be done."

Shadowheart lets out a sigh just this side of exasperated. She weighs her options and words wearily, tugging harder on each knuckle with her thumb.

Mirie drums her fingers against the door and speaks carefully. "She was rather insistent and brandished a heavy coin purse. Something eats at her. I wager the effort would be minimal and most fruitful."

Shadowheart doesn't move but flicks her eyes to Mirie in the doorway.

This is an opportunity Shadowheart would normally jump at, but the last threads of Mother Superior's patience are frayed shreds at best. Her jaw clenches and rests. A few seconds more and Mirie will know to excuse herself without comment.

The cold melancholy of this office is quickly losing its luster. She could don the Inquirer garb, be someone else for a little while.

Perhaps that's exactly what she needs in this moment. Someone else.

Shadowheart drops her arm with a thud on the desk. "Go. I will be up shortly."

Layer by layer Shadowheart goes through the motions. The Inquirer's gown is intentionally modest, obscuring the wearer's form in indistinct shadowy layers to leave everything to the imagination.

Donning the garb has become a ritual in itself. Just like old infiltration lessons, she is playing a part, and each piece of the attire dulls the woman underneath to make the facade more convincing. She never minded that part — the novelty of being another.

Sadly, her repertoire has been reduced to just this one guise. Performing the Inquirer role has its challenges, but she embraces the change in scenery where she can get it.

"Enter."

She snaps, and the door to the mapping room opens.

Shadowheart hears the woman enter and sit behind her on the stone bench. No greeting. She goes through her spiel, the timbre of her voice both soothing and seductive.

"So tell me. What last caused you to—"

She is interrupted by the rattle of coins dropped on the bench between them. Shadowheart smirks, eyeing the indeed heavy coin purse, until a recognition hits her at its shape.

Shadowheart turns abruptly just as the woman's illusion drops. "Cypress?"

Her hireling glances back. Cypress' eyebrows are raised in surprise, as if she is more shocked than Shadowheart is to find herself here.

Calling her a sight for sore eyes would be a gross understatement after the day she's had. Shadowheart nearly entertains the impulse to leap into the arms of a friendly face.

Nearly. She glances at the coin purse dropped between them — her purse — and that old sting zaps her back into place.

"What is this?" Shadowheart nods to the purse. "And why didn't you give the passphrase?"

"Sorry, perhaps I should have. I didn't want to give you the impression I was here on business."

Shadowheart waits for her to explain. She doesn't.

"Well?" Shadowheart snaps, pulling back her hood. "I invite you to expound."

Cypress hesitates, then sighs. "I wanted to negotiate my previous payment." She answers slowly, as if rehearsed.

Shadowheart processes the response in slow motion, still reeling from being caught wildly off guard by this episode of déjà vu.

"Is your pay insufficient?"

"No, it's not that. I—"

"Are you backing out of the assignment?"

"What? No, of course not. I am—"

"Then why are you here?"

"Gods, Shadowheart, would you let me speak?!" Cypress exclaims. She takes a quick, steadying breath. "I chose in haste last time. I came to correct that mistake."

"Correct...?" Shadowheart scoffs. Her impatience bleeds profusely into her words. "And what do you believe there is to correct, exactly?"

"I wanted to return this," she gestures to the pouch, "and I was hoping to—"

"To buy your way back into my bed? Is that what this is?" Shadowheart prickles at the implication. A light thrumming returns to her ears.

Cypress blinks, finally rattled. "That... That is not how I would have put it—"

A light snap of thaumaturgy cracks open the door to the mapping room. Her client enters with soft footfalls and takes seat on the opposite side of the bench from Shadowheart. Sounds of shuffling precede a faint clink of silver on the stone bench. Shadowheart takes the patriar's ring and confirms it is the real deal – confirmation of a successfully neutralized mark.

Shadowheart sets two satchels of gold between them signaling a wordless question: coin, or company? Cypress, as always, takes only one.

Shadowheart smirks and pulls back her hood to welcome her former travelling companion. It's only proper to greet another hero of Baldur's Gate face to face. The lithe half-drow woman turns to meet her gaze. She looks well, an impish twinkle belying the hunger in her eyes. The touch of purple in her charcoal hair is dulled slightly by the amber candlelight.

"Paying you properly is going to make me miss tonight's Nightfall feast," Shadowheart says with a touch of put-on annoyance. She regards her guest with an obvious, drawn out once over.

"I'm flattered to be the priority of the two," Cypress dons a roguish smile. She swivels to the other side of the bench next to Shadowheart, hooking a finger through one of the decorative chains on her gown. "If it makes you feel better, I think I can make this count for both at once."

It's almost a shame they were never involved on the road five years ago. Their trysts since, while strictly business, have been a rare gem that Shadowheart is more than happy to oblige. But it's well that they were not. A fling in that time would have been a fleeting distraction to her reaching the rank of Dark Justiciar. Her heart belongs to Shar, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Cypress is discreet, effective, punctual, and has shown no unwanted affections that would be unbecoming of the Mother Superior to entertain. An uncommonly well-suited match for this sort of arrangement. As an added bonus, the most agreeable exchange of services feels like anything but a chore. Most nights end with Shadowheart well pleased with herself for constructing an arrangement that serves her in more ways that one. Cypress leaves promptly, never overstaying her welcome but always making the most of their time together.

Shortly after her company's exit, a knock raps at Shadowheart's door. Sentry Baxta has returned, delivering a metal case holding the artifact sans hand.

"Very good. Send Nocturne here, and tell her to bring the agreed texts. She'll know what I mean."

The artifact appears dull and inert in the iron box. Underneath, Shadowheart finds the accompanying report penned by the leader of the artifact mission.

The abandoned Lathanderian temple resides exactly as informed – a day's travel North, one way, from Baldur's Gate. It lies in great stages of disrepair. We encountered resistance from an adventuring party spelunking the ruins. Most fell quickly, but the cleric persisted, barricading himself in a collapsed hallway with the artifact. We extracted him with three satchels of smokepowder.  

In lieu of slaying him on sight, we hope the esteemed Mother Superior accepts the offering of this sun sheep for slaughter. It seemed appropriate as we return the morning of a Nightfall Feast, artifact most literally 'in hand.'

In addition, below is an inscription carved into the plinth that held the artifact. Likely Morningfool drivel. Lamona insisted on its inclusion below.

Siphoned unbidden from the setting sun

From its veins a new dawn shall rise

A soul unchained

A favor gained

The worthy may claim their prize

Haughty gods and their riddles. Shadowheart turns her focus back to the artifact and dwells in the irony. A successful artifact retrieval mission. One that was truly divined by the Nightsinger herself. Rumors had been spreading of a powerful artifact lying in the catacombs of an abandoned temple to the sun god. What better way to undermine hopeful heretics than to snatch the prize from under their noses? Hide the Morningfool's sacred trinket forever in shadow where the sun will never see it again.

Mirthful approval from her Lady rings in her ears.

Perhaps, however, it could be corrupted. Just as a Moonlantern could be reversed to harness the shadow weave, so too could a... what even is this? Carved ruby wings emerging from a golden crest of the sun. She turns the artifact over in her hands but it refuses to reveal its secrets. No inscriptions, no compartments. A gaudy paperweight. One that bathed her Nightfall ritual in uninvited sunbeams.

If a lowly cleric could channel his own divine power through it, what should happen if she did this herself? Surely if anyone can bring to heel an artifact of supposed legendary power, it is a god's Chosen.

Shadowheart grasps the crest as the cleric did and channels the divinity of the Nightsinger.