The Bard's Tale

Taken aback by her compliment, Illindriel blinked his breathtaking eyes and regarded her curiously. Was that a remark spoken in flirtation or bold defiance? Although he would never mention it aloud, the necromancer found himself enjoying this game more than he let on. An elaborate dance with words - a dangerous contest to hold with a bard. A dangerous contest to hold with Ophelia.

“Dear little bird with a silken voice,” he addressed the bard, a smirk growing on his pale lips. He deigned to not move an inch from where he stood. “I am not going anywhere. Take what you will from my admission.”

“Oh, good!” the bard answered in turn but her voice was much quieter. “You know…” Even quieter. “It means…” Akin to a whisper.

With a half-lidded gaze, she tilted her head and her mouth hovered against his, just as if she was about to steal a kiss.

“…you haven’t got me yet,” she whispered against his mouth.

And then, with a step to the back and a swish of her blonde braid, she was away from him.

“So much for discussing philosophy! I am therefore leaving you to your…” she casted a glance in the direction of the animated undead, “friends.” The voice she said that word betrayed satisfaction. “I have places to go and people to meet. Namaarie… istar.” Farewell, wizard.

With a hand over her heart, she took a bow, as theatrical as they made them. She twirled on her foot and proceed to walk away.

Opheliablinked. “Now, that is a spell Ihaven’t heard about in a while.”

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“I managed to travel so far. To see so much. Always restless, always on the road. I am not the type to let the grass grow under my feet but to be able to… realize that desire of wanderlust. To taste so many exotic things, to meet all kinds of creatures…”

To be trapped in Sigil.

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“Does your experience as a ranger qualify? Because I still remember how you stopped me from walking right into that’s covered hole with spikes.”

Ophelia giggled to herself at the memory. Then, her green eyes covered a glassy myst.

“You would accept all of that heartache and suffering for the sake of the choice of loyalty, rather than the guaranteed compulsion to fight alongside you? Your companions betray you. Your friends abandon you. Your enemies are still here. I am still here. What does this tell you, my dear?”

He tilted his head, squinting into her eyes. Her breath could have warmed his face, he was so close - and yet… and yet, so far. They could not seem to bridge an understanding. Ophelia had always been infuriating that way, but he burned with challenge when no other sensation could touch him. She made him feel this way. Almost as if…

“What does this say about myself?” Illindriel’s voice, once again, a murmur. “Am I your ‘loyal’ demise? Or am I the tolerable thorn lodged incessantly in your side?”

“I do not fear heartache or suffering. Although…”

Ophelia’s eyes widened a bit, her green irises lit up. He was inches from her face.

“I wanted to defend my friends, the ones who chose me, from your unfair, dramatic generalization. But it’s fascinating how persisting you are.” Her tone was laced with amusement, as if she had caught him doing something embarrassing. “You tell me that I am abandoned by friends and in the same breath you put yourself in the role of my enemy. As if you were thrilled about the prospect of staying around.

Scorto blinks, he smiled a bit more. Tea sounds really good. 

“Plain please. I like my black nothing in it. Thank you very much.”

He’s not sure if it’s the tune she did but he feels a lot better. He doesn’t fall into a deep sleep but dose fall into a light sleep. He smiled and mummers a sleepy.

“Love you Mal be careful..”

Ophelia nods in understanding but as she gets up, her ears catch the soft murmur. Oh? Mal?

She throws a curious look at Scorto but he seems to have slipped into a slumber by then. Oh well. Maybe it is a memory. Or maybe someone I’ll have a chance to meet, if I hang out with him for long enough.

Ophelia walks up to the bar counter and after catching the keeper’s attention, she orders two black teas and pays upfront. When she comes back with  wooden mugs, one in each hand, Scorto is still soundly asleep.  Careful to not startle him, the bard puts one of the mugs in front of him, then she walks around, slips onto her place, sits, wraps both hands around her tea, blows on it and takes a careful slip. Hmm. Strong stuff.

She casts a glance around, content with keeping watch until the drow wakes up. 

“There are little men dangling from your ears.”

“Excuse me?” Ophelia crinkled her nose. “This is Notus,” she gently touched the right skeleton earring, “and this is Boreas,” she touched the other one at the left side. “They can also be quite surprising, look.”